Bushwhacking, Peakbaggin, and Wilderness: Sullivan Creek to Mt Howe, August snow

As time goes by, my friends' health deteriorates or they seem to be increasingly busy with work or other distractions. And so I do more and more solo trips, especially when it comes to backpacking and peak bagging. At age 55, I'm glad I can still do this. Though I joke with Mrs Rover that someday I'll probably end up in a grizzly bear turd, she doesn't seem to find that a bit funny. I suppose I should advertise:
      TEACHER seeks pupil. Must have an earnest desire to
      become one with the natural world. Apply in person.
You know, something like the philosophical gorilla's want ad from Daniel Quinn's novel Ishmael.

For what might be my last (and only the second) backpacking trip of the season, I chose Sullivan Creek to Mt Howe. It's part a chain of mountain peaks that stands along the Continental Divide just west of my home in Walkerville/Butte Montana. Getting an early start, dewy spider webs caught the rising sun:

Sullivan Basin is a lovely, seldom visited spot at the edge of the Pintler Wilderness. Seldom visited because: it's 11.5 miles of bad road to get there; there is no trailhead; and there is no formal trail. I'm not sure why so many otherwise seasoned hikers and confident outdoorspeople only consider the trails on a map when they plan a trip, but that's how it is. The harsh and dry climate make for open woods, particularly as you approach the Alpine Zone. Having read notes in the peak jar on Mt Howe, it seems that virtually every other peak bagger has come up the west side from Seymour Creek or along the ridge from Mt Evans.

Yet it would be a petty conceit to think I'm the only person that visits this place. Therefore it was no surprise to find a recently established campsite near the old logging road that marks my private "trailhead:"

Years ago, outfitters with horses built what has become a faint trail into Sullivan Basin, and each year the old blazes that marked the trail fade a bit more:

But what's this? Some pilgrim has marked new blazes:

And freshened up that old trail by using a chainsaw to cut away deadfall:

A few miles up the drainage (about half-way to my destination in the cirque), they have established a very nice campsite with a most impressive woodpile. My guess is that some hopeful pilgrim plans to hunt elk during the archery season and perhaps kill one of the trophy bulls that inhabit this place:

Passing above this pilgrim's camp, I broke out into the lush open meadows that define the upper basin:

Mountain goat fur, shed from the heavy winter coat they wear nine months of the year, decorated the little alpine larch trees:

And provided a good scent for MollyTheDog (MTD):

It's a harsh area where geological and biological forces strike a precarious balance. Sometimes life loses ground as torrents of snow melt erode gullies in the mountainside:

At other times, avalanches tear down the slopes, snapping trees (the lower six feet or so of their trunks held rigid by snowpack) like toothpicks:

Trees that stand too high above their neighbors become a target for and are often killed by lightning:

If they're lucky, the lightning merely prunes away the higher branches while the trunk grows ever stouter (sounds like a lesson in the Yin-Yang of Tao):

My campsite was at 9,000 feet in elevation at the base of Mount Howe (I'm not sure who it was named after; shown center left in this photo, the ridge capped with snow):

Tent up, a bit of wood gathering, and it was tea time (Underground Blogger will be happy to note I am wearing a heavy wool shirt and long pants on an August afternoon!):

Did I mention there was a chill in the air? Sure enough, next morning, we woke to a little snow squall (view from the tent door):

After a bit of effort to start the breakfast fire with wet wood and gusting winds, I decided to hike around the basin playing wait & see with the weather. If it cleared, I would hike to the peak of Mt Howe. If it didn't, I'd pack for home. It did clear a bit. The mountain goats came out to feed on a slope high above me:

Hoary marmots (well camouflaged!) scrambled over the scree:

And in this veritable rock garden wildflowers bloomed galore, including Mountain Penstemon (Penstemon montanus):

Mountain Townsendia (Townsendia montana):

Elk Thistle (Cirsium scariosum):

Arctic Gentian (Gentiana algida):

an Alpine species of Harebell (Campanula sp):

Weakstem Stonecrop (Sedum debile):

and a ubiquitous flower in this region, the tiny blooms of Moss Campion (Silene acaulis):

The sky began to clear in fits & starts, with occasional glimpses of the peak. We were mid-way up the slope anyway, so it was time to get into scree-hopping mode. This was made a bit treacherous by the black lichen, which is VERY slick when wet. Luckily it tends to grow in the more-or-less level areas, and not on the steeper rocks:

With the exhuberance of youth, MTD gets a little TOO frisky sliding down the snowfields, somtimes clawing her way to a stop just before the rocky scree:

After a moment, her tracks in the old snow turned pink from the "watermelon snow" algae:

As we reached the summit, I took a moment to make a note in the peak jar (no one else has left a note this year), eat a snack, and take a quick snapshot of MTD with Saddle Mountain (East & West Goat Peaks) in the background:

The sky began to close in again and it was getting difficult to see the route down. Time to go:

 A bit of sleet followed me to camp but after a sound nap I woke to sunny skies. I took a walk around the meadow while MTD guarded the pudding pot (instant pudding with powdered milk):

A humble bee ventured out to gather nectar from the Pink Mountain Heather (Phyllodoce empetriformus):

The Pink Heather overshadowed the low growing and somewhat scarcer Four-angled Mountain Heather (Cassiope tetragona):

Coiled Lousewort (Pedicularis contorta) grew in large patches:

And the Whitebark Pines (Pinus albicaulis) looked ready for Christmas with their brilliant red blossoms:

While lounging and eating supper, I was amazed to see a Long-toed Salamander (Ambystoma macrodactylum) crawl under a rotting log (probably looking for tasty ants). One just doesn't expect to see an amphibian in this environment:

A good night's rest and it was time to head home. Were it not for An Ri Ra, Butte's Irish music festival, I would have been tempted to stay another night.