Spring Roadtrip: Makoshika State Park

Dave Carter and I were itching for a spring break getaway. No, we're not talking Vegas or Ft Lauderdale, but rather some good hiking and camping spot with weather a bit warmer than Butte's. We threw a dart at a map of Montana and decided on Makoshika State Park--a mere 450 miles or so (six hours for slow drivers like us)to the east near Glendive. At an elevation of just 2,000 feet or so (compared with Butte's 6,000 feet), we hoped for warmer weather.

Makoshika, a Lakota Sioux word for "land of bad spirits." This usually translates simply to "badlands" in English. The weather was not warmer than Butte and less sunny, though we did miss the spring blizzard that swept through our hometown on the divide. The campites are crowded close together, but that mattered little since we saw only two other camping parties in three nights:

The landscape is spectacular, much like the badlands of the Dakotas or Utah:

At the macro level there are columns:

Castle domes:

And other formations created by the forces of erosion on strata of various durability with caprock protecting softer strata:

At the micro level there are iron nodules that form within sandstone:

"Slickens" formed by the erosion and water-sorting/deposition of fine sediments:

And other weird formations such as this natural bridge:

Makoshika and the Glendive area are also rich in fossils, with more than ten species of saurians from the Cretaceous Period c. 65 million years ago, including Triceratops and Tyrannosaurus Rex, as well as Miocence to late Pleistocene finds such as mammoths. Trails in the park will lead you to well interpreted sites such as the "Hadrosaur (duck billed dinosaur) Vertebrae Site:"



Off trail hiking is encouragaged, and by following the coulees you will come upon fossils like this plant assemblage:

And rocks that ought to be fossils even if they aren't:

Bring your rifles and pistols, should you wish. This state park has a premier shooting range (only in Montana!).

On the drive home, we stopped at Forsyth to see the Rosebud County Courthouse. Designed by architects Link and Haire along Neoclassical lines, it was built c. 1913 at a cost of less than $200,000:

It proved to be a good stop. We got that pesky leaking trailer tire fixed at Forsyth Tire Repair (quick service, good work). Better yet, we met "Iron Mike." He trucks his portable barbecue around, and we were lucky to find him hanging out the "open" sing in a parking lot. Best BBQ sandwich this side of Texas.

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For more information:

Bob Biek, "Concretions and Nodules in North Dakota" (2002) at https://www.dmr.nd.gov/ndgs/ndnotes/concretions/concretions.asp.

Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks site for Makoshika at http://fwp.mt.gov/lands/site_283890.aspx.

The Moulton Journal: Being Close to Nature on Montana's Finest Cross Country Ski Trails

My daughter, Emily Munday, looks forward to a ski outing or two when she is home from college in the winter. I can see why. In part, it is the physical experience of aerobic exercise in fresh, cold air. There is also a chance to commune with nature through quiet, muscle-powered locomotion--observing various tracks, laughing with the chattering pine squirrels, flushing the occasional grouse, watching the big cow moose that lives in the meadow below the parking lot, and knowing the niches where lodgepole pine, Engelmann spruce, and Douglas-fir make their home. The Moulton ski trails greatly enhance this experience. They are narrow, winding, and vary constantly in grade. "Attention must be payed."

Here's Emily on Little Nipper:

Like all trails at Moulton, it takes its name from a mine or mining term. Nippers were the guys (often boys or young men) who sharpened tools and brought them to miners in locations throughout the mine. Because of their travels, they were also the "newspaper" of the mine. At The Moulton, Little Nipper is a delightful, intermediate loop for classical or skate skiing.

Here's Emily preparing to descend Widow Maker on the Big Nipper trail:

"Widow maker" had at least two meanings. It was a loose plate of rock on the roof of a drift or stope that might fall and crush a miner; and the term was also used for the pneumatic (compressed air-powered) drills that created clouds of dust that caused "miner's lung" or silicosis (also known as a Buzzy--the name for another Moulton trail). At The Moulton, it's part of the challenging Big Nipper loop--as indicated by the trail signs.

Snowshoe hares (Lepus americanus) seem to prefer the spruce and willow habitat of Big Nipper. All but the ear tips and eyes turn white in winter, they are largely nocturnal, and so they are seldom seen. But their tracks are very distinctive, and the big feet help them travel over snow and elude predators such as coyotes whose feet punch through the snow:

One of the joys of hiking or skiing with Emily is that she notices things that most of us speed past or take for granted. Here, she pointed out the mouse that had been coming & going from its den beneath a rock:

Good luck back at college, Em. And bring back a few new bumper stickers for the Land Rover. The ones you decorated it with in high school are wearing a little thin:

West Goat Peak: Peak Bagging in the Pintler Wilderness

West Goat Peak is my very favorite regular summer trek. At about 10,800 feet, it's the tallest peak in the Pintler Wilderness and plainly visible due west of Butte. All year long, even on my worst days, I can look over to West Goat from my home in Walkerville or from the Montana Tech campus, recall sweet moments, and affirm all that makes life worth living.

This year, I was fortunate to make the hike with my Tech colleague Don Stierle. A chem prof, he also assists his Renaissance wife Andrea is pursuits such as finding cures for cancer from fungi that grow on yew trees or from microbes in Butte's infamous Berkeley Pit. With Don came Chooka The Dog, a 4-month old Golden Retriever:

Though the weather has been seasonal of late with 80 deg F days and 40 deg F nights at 6,000 feet elevation in Butte, we still opted for an early morning start. It's not a long (c. 8 miles) nor especially steep (c. 2500 foot elevation gain) hike, but it is nice to travel in the cool of the day. While stashing a few beers in the creek near the Fishtrap Creek trailhead for the ride home, I discovered this Pine Marten set constructed by some fur trapper:
Mornings are also active critter time, and we busted some elk from where the trail crosses a big wet meadow, and the dogs nosed into several spruce grouse (aka fool hens, for their habit of sitting in a tree just a few feet away). The grouse were feeding on grouse whortleberry and grasshoppers--both are numerous this year:We also came across a lot of "doodlebug" or antlion pits, including this exceptional colony:
If I were an ant living in this area, I'd want to be named Daniel. Even in the wilderness, there are some historical tracks of a working landscape, such as this irrigation ditch that moves water many miles from the headwater diversion:Our first day in, we rested through the heat of the afternoon and then hiked above treeline to Lost Lakes where Don spotted a group of 6 or 7 goats working their way along the ridge to the left of the lower lake, and we took in the fantastic view:
The area's height and location help in capturing a lot of snow. Even in the driest and hottest of summers, the big snow cornice along Saddle Ridge lasts all summer long, as does the glacier along the upper lake. Yes, it is a true glacier, and the only one in the Pintler, according to Don Nyquist, a National Weather Service observer, meteorologist, and Anaconda resident. Don says a key characteristic that makes this a glacier is the formation of firn--"the metamorphic layer of dense, granular snow between the accumulation area (new snow) and glacial land ice." Here's a photo of the upper lake and its glacier (West Goat Peak is on the far right of the snow cornice just below the ridge):The approach to West Goat Peak is very pleasant with very little scree (as Pintler peak bagging goes). Here's Don picking his way along the ridge, with the fantastic vertical goat cliffs on his right:
Chooka and RTD did a lot of goat- & pika-sniffing on the way up, and once on the summit they were content to rest. Here's the pup, with Warren Peak in the background (easily bagged from Edith Lake):The morning haze from our numerous local forest fires thickened throughout the day. With clear air, the distant views from W Goat are tremendous, but even the "close" view of the alpine meadow leading down to Lost Lakes is pretty sweet:Just as we finished supper that evening, a big thunderstorm swept through. This is why I prefer to camp down in the timber, and not on the barren ground around Lost Lakes. As RTD and I lay in the tent watching through the vestibule door as lightning flashed and crashed, I took a moment to appreciate the difference between Pink Mountain Heath (Phyllodoce empetriformis):
And Merten's Mountain Heather (Cassiope mertensiana):
These lovely evergreen species carpet much of the Pintler high country, along with other familiar species such as Alpine Gentians (Gentiana calycosa), the leaves of which make a tasty and mildly psychotropic tonic:
Though the flowers have faded, I also like the Elk Thistle (Cirsium foliosum):

Don and Andrea (or "DnA") are naturlists, too. For years, I have simply taken Sky Pilot (Polemonium viscosum) as another pretty alpine flower. Don demonstrated why it has the nickname "Skunkweed," and explained how he and Andrea once tried to extract the essential oil that gives it this odor:

From home today, I took a morning walk to Big Butte before spending a few hours laying rock on the new retaining wall in the backyard. The smoke was not too bad, and I could just make out East Goat Peak, Saddle Mountain, and West Goat Peak through the fire haze. Already, the good memory of West Goat Peak is getting me through another year.

Note: You will hear some folks refer to the "Anaconda-Pintler." This is sure way to mark yourself as one from "away." For locals, it's simply "The Pintler." Even this name mystifies me, as the area's namesake -- the rancher/homesteader Charles Pintler -- lived in the area just one winter, and moved because he and his family found the climate too harsh.

Successful Elk Hunt

I hunted elk hard this year, but it just did not seem to be happening. So the other night I took stock of myself and decided to just be the predator and quit thinking about it so much. I thought about my little .308 Sako, the rifle Dad bought in the early 1960s, and boasted he would give to me if I shot a buck the year I turned 12. I don't believe he thought I would do it. It shot out of its first stock and is cracking the replacement (no nearly 20 years old) at the rear of the receiver. It eroded around the muzzle (don't leave the muzzle taped between hunts) and had to be shortened a bit and recrowned. But it's a wonderful, lightweight woods rifle and it shoots true.

Well, early morning next day found me walking up a low ridge along a small valley tight to the Continental Divide, six inches of heavy wet snow on the ground and more coming by the moment. I repeated my simple mantra "Elk, I will use you well and honor your memory."

Passing along the familiar path of Allen's flume (a 14-mile long conduit to float logs from the east to the west slope of the Continental Divide c. 1900 for the Anaconda smelter), I came upon one of the few braces left standing (see pic).

Just past sunup I cut the track of a young wolf (or, at least, a small one). A lone track, unlike a hunt along a ridge further down the valley earlier this week when I cut the tracks of big wolf and pup. I was tracking a big band of elk moving from open park to northside bedding grounds when the wolves cut in on my hunt. The tracks told the story: just as the elk were starting to bed, the pup rushed headlong into them. The wolf just ambled along at some distance, letting the pup have its head. The pup was of course no threat to the elk (and I doubt the lone adult wolf was, either) but it certainly made them scatter. I tracked another two miles but gave up when they headed through a valley and toward another ridge.

So this morning I let the wolf go its way, loping toward the open parks along the ridge top where the elk might still be feeding. Toward the place I intended to go. Perhaps the wolf would move the elk down to me if I stayed between the parks and thicker bedding grounds. And perhaps it did, for shortly after two elk passed just below me. I did not see them in the small, thickly growing trees and tag alders but heard their heavy hooves as they passed behind me, caught my scent, and fled. From the way that they passed through the low hanging branches without knocking much snow away, I was sure they were cows. And where there are two there are often more.

Swinging a wide circle from where the two cows had bolted I could feel that familiar tapping in my chest and kneeling down saw elk. Everywhere. All around. Several below me were already moving away, probably having cut my track or picked up my scent. A big cow just above me was bedded in a treewell. Though just 40 yards distant, I could barely make out her form. When she stood I shot her (just above and behind the heart, as it turned out). She ran down the hillside 100 or 200 yards, slumped into the snow, and I approached and shot once again. Before I had knelt to thank her and the mountain, the whiskey jacks (gray jays) were squawking for their share.

I field dressed the cow and hung some belly meat in an aspen for the hungry whiskey jacks. I like to keep on the good side of them, since occasionally they tell me where the elk are. After removing the tenderloins, I rolled the cow over, split along the spine, removed the backstraps, snicker-snacked the ribs with my vorpal hatchet, removed the spine, and finished splitting the elk. I dragged the two halves a hundred yards or so from the butchering site, covered each half with branches, pissed to marke the area and fend off coyotes (or this young wolf), and packed out the tenderloins and backstraps and heart and liver.

It was less than two miles in, and I hoped to return home, fetch the game sled, and have both halves out by dark. By the time I patched up the game sled (AJ's elk took its toll) and returned, it was nearly 3 pm. After setting a path with the first half, I was bushed and the sun was touching the Pintler ridges. I'll return today for the second half.

Thank you, Elk. I will use you well, and honor your memory.