Howling at the Moon: A Night Out in the Big Hole

[Note: photos follow this essay, unlike my usual style of interspersing them with the text.]

The clamor of voices in my head was getting a little loud, so I followed Thoreau's advice, "In wildness is the preservation of the world." Or of my sanity, at least. To Thoreau's dictum, Leopold added, "Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf..." Or of the coyote, at least.

And so I went a camping on the Big Hole River side of the pass over the Continental Divide formed by Mill Creek (a Clark Fork River tributary) and Deep Creek. It is a special place, with the steep West Slope contrasting with the gentle East Slope. It was a traditional route for Native Peoples between the summer hunting grounds of the Big Hole and the pleasant wintering grounds (and warm springs) of the Deer Lodge Valley.

Walking this ground, you feel the footsteps of people long ago. Tipi rings, hunting trails, a jasper mine, tremendous views to both sides of the valley. Before I know it I sense it: I am standing in the center of a tipi ring. At my feet, a large milky quartz pebble that fits perfectly the palm of my hand. A hammerstone. And on the frost heaved ground, flakes of red jasper.

Walking this ground, you feel the eternal beauty of things long dead and forever coming to life. Petrified wood from a forest long ago, spring blossoming of wild flowers, elk on their calving grounds, meadows lush and wet and greening, cycles ancient and repeated since the Pleistocene.

The sun set into the mountains, the moon rose through a bank of clouds, the coyotes howled. They woke me up. RTD is even deafer than I am, these days. She slept soundly until I crawled past her to step out of the tent, take a piss, and join the song dogs for the chorus. A bull elk joined in with a long, lilting whistle (yes, they do whistle in the spring, maybe in response to all those new calves?). We even stirred a sandhill crane, though from its cries I think it was telling us to shut the hell up and let it sleep.

A chill dawn, hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee, a long hike up the valley, catch a mess of trout for lunch, I'm ready to go home. Well, not ready. But it's time to go home. Time.

Thankfully this holy ground has become public land, and not fallen into the hands of developers and McMansionites like the piece just down the valley. Here, a failed ranch built up by pioneering homesteaders, our white forefathers who seemed to know only how to take from the land and not how to live sustainably with it. Like the new trophy homes down the valley that will rot away with time and the high price of fossil fuels, this old homestead was a mere flash in time's pan.

What am I saying, "this old homestead?" It was established barely a hundred years ago and is now long gone. Four generations from rags to riches to rust. And in the brief time they were here, they were hard as hell on the land.

The Native Peoples walked this ground for ten thousand years. Four hundred generations, maybe longer. They didn't leave things so bad. What will our children, ten thousand years hence, say about us?

What a view from camp! Pintler peaks from Saddle Mountain (East/West Goat) on the left to Mt Haggin on the right:

Elk on calving grounds:


Curious antelope come over to check out our camp:


Big mosquitoes, first of the spring:


Sunset into the Pintler peaks:


Petrified wood (this specimen is chalky, unlike the usual glassy specimens found here--must be like the transformation of chalk to chert/flint):

Mountain buttercup (Ranunculus nivalis):

Pretty shooting star aka "Roosterheads" (Dodecathon pulchellum, though this could be the related desert species), purple:

And white:

Spring beauty (Claytonia spp.):

Wyoming kittentails (Besseya wyomingensis):

Biscuitroot (Lomatium cous), and important food of Native Peoples:

Milky quartz hammerstone, from a tipi ring with a views to both sides of the broad valley:

Red jasper flakes from tool making/sharpening:

A mess of brook trout for lunch:

RTD cooling her belly while I fish:

Remnant of a not-so-old homestead:

Sunset behind the Anaconda smelter stack on the way home:

Crossing Divides: Of the Continent & the Imagination

Springtime is working its way up the high valleys of the northern Rockies. Trout are rising to midges and early stoneflies on the Big Hole and Jefferson Rivers. The snow in our yard is gradually giving way to grass and mummified dog turds.

Spring skiing: Andrea Stierle emailed early last week suggesting a cross country trek from Deep Creek on the Big Hole (east slope) side to German Gulch on the Silver Bow Cr/Clark Fork (west slope) of the Continental Divide. It's not a trivial tour: 11 miles total with a 900 foot climb in the first 4 miles and a 2,000 foot drop in the second 7 miles. Of course, I did not figure this out until after the tour when we posed the curious question: "How far was that?" Here's the route, marked by the blue dog leash, and of course it unwinds along the corners of four separate topographic maps:

Before the trip, the questions floated around: How is the snow up along the Divide (i.e. is the surface set up, is it icy wind pack)? No one knew. Does anyone have this plotted out on a GPS? Nope. Does anyone know the exact route? Ah, no. But everyone had made some version of the trek before, and we have a lot of collective hiking experience (and, in my case, elk hunting time) along most of the route.

So, let's go! First drop Mike's truck on the German Gulch Rd above Fairmount Hot Springs ("Oh yeah--the front end is out, so no 4WD. We can't drive in quite to the gate..."). Starting out from the Mill Creek highway near Sugarloaf Mountain are (from left) Mike Stickney, Andrea and Don Stierle, Chukah the Dog, Larry Smith, and Chuck the Dog:

Perfect weather--sunny and in the 20s deg F starting out, several inches of fresh snow a few days ago. Afternoons have been warm (40s deg F) and so the snow is generally firm. Everyone was on lightweight touring equipment: traditional length, waxable (mine with Swix purple the full lenghth), "back country" skis with leather boots. Mike, Larry, and Don are superb telemark skiers. Andrea has logged a lot of backcountry miles. Yikes, what was I getting into?

We paused a few minutes after the steep climb from Sugarloaf on a rolling high flank of the Divide. Sadly, Andrea had knee surgery recently, and decided (before the steep climb) to turn back, have a ski on the Little California loop at the nearby groomed cross country trails, and then go for a soak and meet us at Fairmount Hot Springs. Here's the group with a look back to the Pintler mountains (Sugarloaf is the round-top on the right):

And here they go across the top of the world (you can tell that Chukah is the young dog, out in front):

Up and across the Divide, we then found a ridge running east toward Butte. The skiing here was fantastic, and I wish I had captured Mike's graceful tele-turns on video. And I'm glad no one captured my occasional face plant.The route did get a little confusing. After some deliberation (which actually involved getting out the maps!) we thought we were on a Forest Service road leading down Beaver/Beefstraight Creeks, tributaries of German Gulch Creek. Time for a quick lunch:

Then some more confusion as the ridge twisted and turned and split. But we found a narrow trail (unsullied by snowmachines) running in more-or-less the right direction. And, as Mike pointed out, "It'll lead somplace." Good enough. And what a great ski down! Here's Larry with Chuck on his heels:

By some fine stroke of luck ("No, no. It was superior map reading skills and the inherently correct male sense of direction.") we had found the Whitepine Creek pack trail (which, even though I frequently hunt that area, did not know existed). This led us to the German Gulch Rd, not a mile from where we were parked, and just 5 hours after we began. You can tell by the happy faces just how good that long downhill run was:

Yesterday, walking around campus and looking west to the Divide where we had skied over, I thought, "We should do this every weekend." As Don pointed out, however, we really did luck out with perfect snow and weather conditions. On an average winter day, the wind is blasting along the Divide hard enough to knock you down. A week earlier and the snow might have had no bottom. A week later and it might be treacherous icy crust. Allah be praised, life is good, we hit it just right.

The Continental Divide is just a line on a map. It's how we think about it that makes it significant as a boundary, as a symbolic barrier to be crossed heroically. But no, that's not fully true either: it's not merely a thought-construction. It's a genuine barrier to many kinds of flora and fauna, the weather and climate vary, and -- as geologists Mike and Larry can explain -- there are other, very real, differences.

And so it is with life. It is full of diverse kinds of Divides. Many, perhaps, are merely psychologically or socially constructed. But many also have deeply real qualities that may transcends our limited grasp. Some people play it safe, and try never to cross. One thing is for certain: you don't get the exhilirating run down without the hard climb up.

The Moulton Journal: A Winter's Tale

This morning, our world of sin is blanketed with the most amazing snowfall--light, feathery little bundles of interlocked flakes; four inches deep on the front sidewalk, but easily swept away with a broom. There is not a breath of wind, and walking along the flanks of Big Butte I was mesmerized watching this fluff fall from the sky, drifting down at less than a meter per second.

Yesterday dawned cold and clear. Here's the view west, with the sun just beginning to light the higher peaks of the Pintler:

The -14 deg F temperature at The Moulton made for slow skiing, but on such a day it is a joy to be outside. I warmed quickly skiing up the main access road from the parking lot, and it felt good to linger here and there where the sun lit up an opening in the trees. Breath, perspiration, and snot freeze on contact with the frigid air; cold fingers pry into the lingering soul:

The cow moose that has been hanging out in the willow bottom near the parking lot moved down the valley. Did even she feel the cold last night, or has she some intuition of deeper snow to come? Poor man that would presume to know the mind of a moose. Here she is, just a mile or so above Walkerville:

On a cold morning such as this, warm vapors rise from the Berkeley Pit (the world's largest toxic lake) and form the notorious "Pit Fog." Here it is, like brute matter brought to life, towering over the town:

Endangered Species Act listing for American Pika?

Pika are the spirit of the high country. Especially in the "ice cream cone" (high, rocky, icy) wilderness areas of Montana, they are the very essence of wilderness. Here's a pic of one from the Pintler:

The Center for Biological Diversity (CBD) calls the American pika (Ochotona princeps) a "canary in the coal mine" when it comes to global warming. Typically found on scree and talus slopes in alpine areas above treeline, this little (Guinea pig size) tail-less Lagomorph (member of the rabbit family) is often called the rock rabbit, cony, and mouse hare.

Anyone who has spent a little time hiking or backpacking in the Rockies knows the pika. They dart in and out of the boulders, cut grasses and forbs in the meadows and carry it back to their haypiles, and chirp out their alarm call when you come too close. If you sit down and remain quiet for 15 minutes or so, they will resume their business and come within a few feet of you.

The CBD has sued the US Fish & Wildlife Service to list the pika under the Endangered Species Act. This is a new legal approach, and would force the government to deal with the challenge of global warming. Global warming harms pika in several ways: (1) they are very temperature sensitive, and cannot survive at temperatures above 75 to 80 deg F; (2) on a warm day in the high country, they must retreat into their dens, and have less time to gather food; (3) the heavy snows of winter insulate them from harsh, cold temperatures; (4) the forbs and grasses they eat are very sensitive to hot, dry weather.

Over the past decade or so, many populations of pika have already winked out, and the survivors have moved higher and higher up the mountain slopes. Because pika live as island populations in high peaks areas, they also seem to have evolved into a large number of genetically distinct subspecies (map from CBD):


Sources:
Center for Biological Diversity press releases, http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/swcbd/press/american-pika-08-21-2007.html and http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/swcbd/search.html.
Denver Post article, http://www.denverpost.com/breakingnews/ci_7963405 .
Entry for American Pika on Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Pika .

The Moulton Journal: Last Ski at Mill Creek?

The Moulton area just north of Butte/Walkerville has picked up some snow the past fewe days, so my every-other-day trek over to the "Mount Haggin Skiing Area" near the Mill Creek pass might be over. It will be good to get back to the challenging and varied Moulton trails, and why drive 25 miles when you can drive 5?

The snow in the Mill Creek pass area is very good, and though it's about the same elevation as Walkerville it is typically about 10 deg F cooler. Typically, green Swix kick wax (0 to 10 deg F) is about right for an early morning ski, but here's Roly-the-Dog (RTD) posing on a recent "extra blue" morning:

The cooler weather on the Big Hole side of the Continental Divide has not deterred the pine beetle invasion. Entomologists tell us that it takes a week or so of c. -30 deg F weather to suppress the pine beetle population. These cold spells were common up until the late 1990s, however since then Global Warming has really kicked in. Our annual precipiation is about the same as the longterm historical average, but overall temperatures average consideralby warmer, and extreme cold spells just don't seem to occur at all. Here's a view of dying lodgepole pines along the flanks of Sugarloaf Mountain. Given the rapid spread of the beetles, probably the trees that are still green will be dead within a few years:

Wednesday of this week was downright balmy. The Mill Cr pass area received several inches of fresh snow, early morning temperatures were near freezing, and RTD & I paused while I corked some purple wax into the kickpockets of my skis. This also gave me a chance to photograph a tiny "snow spider"--they are common in the winter when it warms to near or above freezing, and must have antifreeze for blood:

Here's RTD posing for a "first tracks" pic on our way up the Little California loop:

Up along the level, top-most portion of the trail, a big cow moose dashed across the trail just a hundred feet or so ahead of us, making me glad that RTD is well behaved about such things. Moose can get downright pissed over dogs that chase them, as Dave & I found out when my little hound, Nellie, chased a big bull moose in the Highlands. It turned on her, and luckily we were not far from Dave's truck.

Going Elkless (Almost): Elk Hunting near Butte, Montana

There I was, combing the hills several miles from the road on the last day of elk season. I had grown entirely too smug about elk hunting, having shot bull elk four-out-of-five years that I hunted them, and having shot several cows within a mile or so of the highway. Not this year.

Season began with me at a conference in Washington, DC. Of course, conditions were perfect with cold weather and eight inches of fresh snow. The second week, I was complacent. My friend Don was coming to hunt the following week, and so I roamed the hills and even passed up a shot at a cow. Well, it wasn't a good shot, and as my friend and now-retired colleague Dennis Haley counseled, "Hunting elk in timber is a percentage thing. If you are patient and get into them six or seven times, then you will get the good shot you want. There's no need to take those "iffy" shots."

Here's AJ, crashed for a nap in the warm noonday sun after we climbed into a remote (and elkless) Pintler basin:

Meanwhile, I ate my lunch and waited for the tea to boil:

Don Kieffer arrived from upstate New York the first week of November. The weather was beautiful: warm, sunny, and lousy for elk hunting. Up high, the old snow metamorphosed, turning icy and crunchy. Down low, the snow melted away. But we had a great time hiking the hills:

Visiting some of my favorite elk haunts:

And of course enjoying a hot cup of tea come noontime:

As my old friend BAT (aka Bob Thomas) likes to remind me, hunting is a lot more than killing. Especially on those blue sky days when the weather is just too damned good for serious elk hunting, you can lie back and listen to the serenade of migrating flocks of snow geese:

And swans:

Don & I also saw a peregrine falcon, and visited the spot where indigenous peoples mined jasper for tools:

After Don left, I tried to get more serious about elk hunting, but still the weather was not conducive to it. Hunting at such times becomes a good excuse for hiking into spots that need to be visited from time to time, such as these logging-era cabins, probably built to feed the flume that sluiced cord wood from the Big Hole valley to the Anaconda smelter:

And when the elk are hard to find, there is the occasional moose; here, a cow and calf on a remote, windswept ridge along the Continental Divide (folks don't think of moose as mountain animals, but they are in Montana!):

And the occasional fool hen (this one, felled with a rock, made a welcome and savory supper that night):

Finally, though, right at the end of season, conditions turned favorable with new, quiet snow and consistently cold temperatures. I spent a day or two hunting a spot that I had hunted many times over the years with Brent Patch and Dave Carter. In those years, I had not learned the lessons of a good "black timber" hunter, and wasted a lot of time peeking into parks and coursing through open stands of lodge pole pine.

In the timber, you keep your nose to the wind, move slowly and quietly, and check out all those stumps and rocks that look very much like elk:

Two Butte boys, hunting a park along the ridge line, flushed a bunch of elk from the north-side timber just below the ridge. I smelled them out ahead of me, found their tracks, began repeating my mantra ("I will honor your spirit and use your flesh well."), and began still hunting. One mile into the chase, they passed through a stand of dense Douglas fir, meandered about, and I thought sure they would bed down. It took me an hour to track them slowly and carefully through a half-mile wide thicket, sometimes crawling on my hands & knees to be quiet and stay below the branches. I could smell them and knew they were not far ahead. They continued through and fed in a small park. This told me they were relaxed and not worried about a predator on their heels. Very encouraging.

And then there they were, heads tilting and ears twitching, bedded in some thick, snow-covered firs at the park's edge. In timber, one seldom sees a whole elk. Because of the roll of the slope, I could not see any elk shoulders or ribs, my preferred shot. I usually avoid neck shots, since if you don't hit the spine there is not a quick death. But the elk were just seventy yards or so away, and I had a good rest on a tree limb. She never moved from her bed:

An hour or so later, I had the carcass split into two halves, dragged well away from the gut pile where the coyotes and ravens would be less likely to feed on it, and covered with pine branches until I could return:

The heart, liver, tenderloins, back straps, and tongue I laid out on the snow to cool:

Together, they made a forty pound load in my little rucksack. By the time I reached the road, three miles distant, the load felt like one hundred and forty pounds.

At the Check Station, I learned from the nice biologist that there was a Forest Service road within a half-mile of where I killed the cow. The next morning AJ came along to help me, and his good company and a sled made for a pleasant down-hill drag:

"I will honor your spirit and use your flesh well." This promise began with a supper of elk liver and onions last night, the heart is ready for pickling, and there are already plans for barbecued ribs, grilled tenderloin, back strap schnitzel, and roasted tongue with huckleberry glaze. Elk are great animals, and deserve the honor of a great (and arduous) hunt.

Dr. Anaconda Lake Campout 2007

Everyone in Butte-Anaconda has their favorite family campground. There are many fine places for car-camping in our backyard, and it probably does not matter where you go. Lakes tend to be favorite spots, and Brown's, Pintler, Lower Seymour, Lower Bowman, Lower Miner, the Twins, and on and on and on--all have their vocal (well, most people probably think "their" lake is a best-kept secret) adherents. For my friends and family, it's "Dr. Anaconda" Lake in the North Big Hole. Typical of lower elevation (c. 7,000 feet) lakes, the fishing is fair-to-middling, the views are good, there are numerous hikes to nearby points of interest, and it's 80 miles of bad road to get there.

This year, Butte ex-patriots Brent & Karina & their two kids arrived early and held down some choice spots. The rest of the gang rolled in throughout the day Friday, and -- bless Brent & Karina -- sat down to a supper of shrimp in alfredo sauce over noodles.

Usually, we plan this campout for Labor Day, but what with daughter Emily heading back to college before then and complications in other folk's schedules, we moved things up a bit.

There were lots of smoke plumes from various local forest fires visible on the drive to the lake, so we did not expect the air to be very clear (smoke from the fire is at the vanishing perspective point for the road):

We were suprised when we got to the lake and found sunny skies at the finest sandy beach in Montana:

What would a group campout be without a one-canoe "Polish" (Ouch. Sorry, Schahczenskis!) paddling contest among the teenage girls?:

Or a rainstorm that forces Brent & Karina to scramble their plans for a lake tour?:

Those girls might not know how to paddle a canoe, but they do know how to create art. Here are artists Katy (an exchange student from the Czech Republic) and Michelle (of YouTube video fame--see "President Bush Grills an Endangered Species" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wASzy-ikmYA):

And what a beautiful sand sculpture horse, waiting for wind and waves to teach us all a humble lesson in the empheral nature of our own existence:

The local bald eagle, too, had something to teach us about patience (and catching fish). "America's symbol," someone told Katy. "Do they eat Iraqis?," someone else asked. Or Bushes?

The "men's hike" (well, we did invite the women folk) took us over by Frog Pond. That's AJ striking a contemplative pose along the shore:

It's an apt name:

Well, maybe we should begin calling it "Lee's UV-Bar Lake?" Someone must have thought a lot of old Lee, and I hope his spirit is still around. Brent, Don, Dave, and AJ agree:

Celia brought this great birthday cake:

And here are the two birthday girls, Emily and Kenia, with brother Adler (the famous crackshot with a Red Ryder BB gun) on the right:

Appropriately enough, the weather turned cold and rainy as we pulled up to the house in Walkerville and began unloading the camping gear. It feels like the end of summer, and it would be nice to cool the fires. Whatever happens, we all have great memories to carry us over to next year's rendezvous: