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Autumn ride in the Bitterroots

 

I knew it was morning as my nose poked out of my sleeping bag like a mole.  I just wasn’t quite ready to peel my knitted beanie off over my eyes and deal with what was outside my tent in the daylight.

I could hear the crackle of the fire and the horses shuffling where we had left them, tied in a highline in the cover of thick pines the night before as a light rain fell. My toes – triple-socked in thick merino wool – searched out the large rock that had been heated in the embers of our fire and pushed to the bottom of my bag before I had wormed my way down in the darkness nine hours before. I had zipped myself up tight, wearing every dry layer I had brought, thinking that it was going to be one long and miserably cold night, even with two horse blankets between me and the ground.

At some point in the early hours I woke up and realized that despite the seemingly sub zero temps when I went to bed, I was, at 3 a.m., oddly snug.  Now, as I scooted to the front and slowly zipped it open in a half moon this morning, the flap fell back, revealing why.

It wasn’t the muddy mess of a camp I had expected. Instead, a layer of snow blanketed everything in white. The light tuffs had nearly doused our fire, but had insulated us in our fabric huts through the night.

This was disorienting for me in the first week of October. The flip flops I had brought as camp shoes, leaving them just outside the tent if I had to get up in the middle of the night, were now barely visible under the snow. I heard the crunch of boots and Chelsea, the wrangler in charge of the horses that got us out here in the heart of the Bitterroot National Forest, grins when she sees me surveying our camp.

“Merry Christmas,” she calls out cheerily, heading to the fire to revive it for coffee and a breakfast of elk sausage and potato hash.

There are three of us on this overnight trip with the sole purpose of cooking up and dishing out a stellar feast in the middle of nowhere, warmed only by fire coals: Jason, the chef, myself, the server, and Chelsea are all paid to be here, having been sent out a day ahead to prepare this lunch for a small group of Triple Creek Ranch guests on a day ride into the backcountry. But this morning, as two inches of snow covered the landscape, we wondered if the ride would be called off and this excursion would be nothing but our own adventure into a winter weather warning. Without radio or cell contact, we had no way of knowing if they would show up. Our job was to build it, keep the fire stoked, and hope they would come.

None of us were complaining that this was all on the clock the previous morning. We loaded up four horses and a mule named Cricket, and headed for the Little Blue Joint Creek trailhead with tents, sleeping bags, and food for our meals as well as a lunch of roasted butternut squash, pan seared halibut, foccacia bread, and berry nut crumble that Jason had spent that morning prepping and packing up in the Triple Creek kitchen as I loaded up coffee and sliced lemons for the guests. While we spent the winding truck drive on Highway 93 along the West Fork to our starting point above Painted Rocks Lake sharing how we had each come to live in Montana, before unloading the horses, measuring out supplies and figuring out what horse was best suited to each weighed-down soft pack, the ride itself was quiet as we fell into line on the trail. Both Chelsea and Jason ponied a pack horse behind them; I took the rear, as the least experienced packer of the three, riding a big, calm grey gelding named Opus, and watched for anything that might come loose and slip off as we headed north.

The clouds gathered and darkened above the trees and the rain came and went. The temperature through the afternoon warmed a few degrees and hats were pulled off and shoved into coat pockets. We started off navigating a trail through a dense forest that gave way to clearing after clearing as our horses plodded on, picking their way over rocks on narrow paths that overlooked Little Blue Joint Creek down below. Across from the ledge we rode carefully along, trees shone yellow and gold, a line of them climbing up towards peaks that had already been dusted in snow, a foreshadowing of the elements headed our way.

This was my first time on a horse in nearly three years – maybe the longest I’d ever gone without being in a saddle since I was 8, after buying my first pony for $75 with Christmas and birthday money I had saved up, moving on to leasing a feisty Arabian named Nissana when I was 11. The last time I’d spent any time in the saddle was on a two-day ride in the Catlins coast, on the South Island of New Zealand in 2013, when I’d borrowed a horse to cover the event for the Southland Times newspaper, a camera slung around my shoulder and waist as we galloped down Tautuku Beach. All through that summer leading up to that I had ridden a neighbor’s horse on the beach and through the dunes when I’d get home in the evening, grabbing apples and a handful of cookies as I went out the door for dinner like I was 10 again.

After a few hard falls over the years, I wasn’t as fearless as I used to be. But I knew that I had missed being on and just around horses – and  maybe I hadn’t realized how much, I thought, as we rode on, with lots of time to let our minds wander and probe the direction we were going in.

We only had about two good hours of daylight by the time we arrived at the small meadow where the guests would meet us the following day. Instead of hobbling the horses, I gave Chelsea a leg up so she could balance herself on Cricket’s back and set up the highline that wound through the trees above them, where they were each tied and could graze. We took turns leading each of them to the creek, where their muzzles touched the water to test the temperature before either plunging in or lumbering back to the bank to join the others.  Jason had gone to work cracking thick limbs into pieces for firewood, working steadily with an axe to fell small trees that landed with a satisfying thud as we stood back and watched. Each of us was in our element here, in our own, unique way to our ability.  And each equally awed by where we were. The beauty and isolation of the evening settling into the mountains, the crackling of the fire, the satisfaction of setting up our tents and laying out our gear, of having the saddles lined up neatly on a log behind us as dinner simmered and the light began to fade, of warm socks and headlamps turning on – all of this was a reminder of why we had chosen this place to build, or even rebuild our lives. It was evenings like this that people like Chelsea and I had longed for when we lived in cities, bound to a metropolis by our careers, yet longing for something wilder. For Jason, who was a Montanan native, it may have been a reminder of why he had come home.

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I went to sleep that night, listening them talk around the fire about horses they had loved in their lifetime and how they had been altered by that friendship, learning how to trust a creature far more powerful and headstrong, and in turn, earning that trust back.  It struck me that I hadn’t had that kind of connection to a horse since I was young – and how as I was getting older, getting slower and maybe more cautious, I wanted not so much the adrenaline of racing down a beach on a horse I didn’t know, as much as that quiet bond, earned and tested every time you greeted each other with a bucket of grain and a halter in the morning.

As I finally climb out of my tent, pulling my boots and another thick layer of socks with me, I see the clear skies sparkle over snow and hear the horses nicker to each other in the cedars. The fire flares up again as Chelsea throws a moss-covered branch on, and cowboy coffee gurgles away on the coals, the scene before us does actually have a Christmas morning feel to it.

Our guests did arrive in the end, riding into camp just as the weather turned for the worse again. Hands reached out from the long sleeves of oilskin jackets to grasp hot tea and cider; the hanging table the three of us had proudly worked on the evening before, complete with Yuletide-like branches woven through the tree limbs we had tied together with spare rope and suspended from hefty branches above, had steaming plates of penne pasta and halibut, bread warmed in foil by the fire along with the butternut squash. Despite the drizzle that came and went in the quick hour they were there, the mood was ebullient. They mounted up and rode out and we went to work to load up leftovers along with gear.

Our packing was haphazard in the rush to get to the truck and trailer before dark. Cricket, carrying a black plastic bag our sleeping bags that we had thrown on her and wrapped tight with rope, then freed to go lead-less, soon had a lopsided load as she stopped to graze, then trotted freely along to catch up. We stopped a few times to readjust, and at one point to collect the sleeping bags when they tumbled out, then finally gave the it one last tie-down and hoped it would be enough to get us back to base as the light lowered over the peaks. The horses were even more eager to be back, and we sliced an hour off our time from the previous day, unloading fast, and lowering the trailer door as Chelsea started the truck and turned the heater on. Cricket, without any prompting, hustled in, before anyone had a chance to take her pack off, looking back at us like I’m outta here.

It was twilight by the time we hit Highway 93 after a bumpy gravel road drive from the trailhead. We reeked of campfire smoke, our hair was matted and our boots were covered in mud and the cold had begun to seep into our toes. I was saddle sore and exhausted, but happy in that way that only 24 hours in the mountains can induce, with that lovely anticipation of a beer and a hot shower just ahead.

A few miles from the ranch we braked for a herd of elk crossing, then just stopped to watch them move across our headlights on the road. We were quiet as they leapt over a fence, one by one, and into a field. Then they disappeared into the darkenss.  There was a sense of reverence as the stars began to come out above us and the night came out in full.

None of us had to say it as we sat there and took this in, before the truck was put into drive and we carried on: At that moment there was no better place to be.

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One long drive for a bear claw

WordPress Image Gallery PluginI’ve been wanting to visit Polebridge, Montana since I was in my early 20s, when I first heard about this off-grid utopia on the fringe of Glacier National Park, at the end of a long gravel road; an electricity-free place cupped by mountains where people drove from North Dakota for the views and the town’s huckleberry bear claws from the Polebridge Mercantile Bakery.

Eighteen years later, John and I were finally planning a quick trip to Glacier – a place that both of us have only brushed the edges of – and Polebridge stuck out as a place to base ourselves within a five minute drive of the park entrance, without being at the heart of the tourism storm that was bound to hit as summer came to an end. We’re not marathon sight-seers to start with – and we didn’t feel like we were under the gun to absorb the entire 1,583 square mile park stretching into Canada in 48 hours. We were happy to start with a small patch and take it from there.

This patch ended up being a tepee in a front yard of the North Fork Hostel that we rolled into just before 10 p.m., after a slow, starlit drive from Columbia Falls, with pines reaching up on either side of the road. Fall had barely started to touch the trees in northern Montana but it was still a warm night. With the windows down, that pine-baked smell of forest and soil was everywhere. If we went slow enough we could hear the waters of the North Fork on our right, but the landscape outside the truck  was still a half mystery to us.

Our headlights found the turnoff sign to Polebridge. The truck crept slowly towards a cluster of buildings and cabins that were nearly all pitch black. If we had aimed to find a place that was in the middle of nowhere, we had gotten it just about right on the town’s main street. Above us, the stars were crazy.

Thirty minutes later, drinking Yaak Attack IPA out of mason jars at the Northern Lights Saloon, having found our tepee by headlamp just down the street, we got more of a feel for where we were as a generator hummed somewhere in the back. The dimly-lit bar we had stumbled into was built in 1912 as a cabin where early homesteader William Adair and his family lived while setting up shop at the Polebridge Mercantile next door. The store has been a social hub for the families that homesteaded the area for more than a century; the cabin was converted into the town’s one drinking establishment in 1976 and continues to pull in locals and tourists, who can sit shoulder to shoulder at the bar or sprawl outside on picnic tables to watch the sunset with a whiskey and a meal of grilled trout, mashed potatoes and a slice of huckleberry pie to finish.

The next morning we opened the flap of the tepee to the sound of the creek and watched the morning come up over the mountains while we made cowboy coffee on our camp stove. John grilled up bacon for breakfast burritos and I lazily chopped up avocado on a cutting board in my lap thinking that the smell of coffee percolating and bacon frying in the middle of this kind of scenery should be how every weekend should start, forever.

The tepee I had just climbed out of was one of two on the front lawn of the hostel which was once part of a homestead established in 1918 by a Canadian pioneer named Charlie Wise, who famously trekked for two days to Columbia Falls in the dead of winter with his baby after the baby swallowed button, only to have his child die en route. Adding to the tragedy, Wise found that his wife had died of influenza by the time he returned to the homestead. Stories like this abound in this part of the state. While life for the roughly 70 year-round Polebridge residents is considerably less harsh than it was a century ago – the 35 miles of highway to Columbia Falls is kept ploughed in the winter – it definitely requires a hardier breed to find this refreshing in all four seasons.

Later that day, armed with fishing rods, beer, and leftover cinnamon rolls and bear claws from the “Merc,” we stopped an hour into the trail that winds along Bowman Lake – a recommendation from  saloon owner Will Hammerquistthe night before – to scramble down a clearing to the lake beach to get a feel for the fishing. We had passed three or four couples since we started out, a surprisingly small number considering the beauty of the place, less than an hour from the park entrance. The water was cold and lucid, calm enough in the late afternoon to reflect the peaks above us. I soaked my feet and the beer and watched the mountains. John waded in to check the depth. A lone yip and howl went out from forest across the water. Moments later, from another part of the mountains, a chilling response. We sat there for a long time listening to the wolves talk to each other, and then just took in the silence, as the day began its downturn.

We took our time on the winding gravel road through the park and back to Polebridge; John explored a few fishing spots along the river just outside the entrance before we made it back, pulling into the saloon as other travellers were also wrapping up their day on the lawn. We ate trout and steak with salads and homemade bread, followed by huckleberry and pecan pie, then drank with a couple from Iowa who were also exploring the park for the first time, moving inside to the barstools when the mosquitoes became too thick in the darkness. Tomorrow we will get one last gooey cinnamon roll from the bakery, grab a strong coffee to go, and drive towards Glacier’s more touristy areas like Lake McDonald and Going-to-the-Sun Road; RVs and selfie sticks. But tonight is for enjoying this remoteness.

As the saloon door is held open, and the warm glow of the bar begs for a night of more history-telling and lively conversation, I get that one last glimpse of the mountains’ silhouette as the day is done for good. It’s reminder that we are still on the periphery of a great wilderness.

If you go

From Columbia Falls, take Montana 486 – or North Fork Road – for 35 miles. The road turns to gravel a few miles outside town, about the same time you start to lose cell phone reception. Make sure you gas up and stock up on essentials before leaving. While the Polebridge Mercantile stocks last-minute necessities, it’s a limited selection – you will want to do the bulk of your grocery shopping ahead of time, especially if you are travelling further into Glacier National Park. The entrance to the park is about a mile from Polebridge.

Where to stay

We loved our tepee stay for $60 a night at the North Fork Hostel and Square Peg Ranch – but that kind of accommodation isn’t everyone’s style. There was a full-size bed and a cot, as well as a fire pit in the center of the tepee for a fire if we had wanted to start one, though guests are asked to bring their own firewood. When it rained in the middle of the night, I felt a few drops from the tepee opening at the top –  a surprisingly nice sensation to wake up to, actually –  but otherwise it fell on the fire pit and we stayed dry. Toilets are long drops with eclectic decorations and band posters at the back of the property and were kept very clean while we were there. We had access to the kitchen, but chose to cook on our own grill for breakfast in the morning outside the tepee. Other intriguing options on the property included the Goat Cabin and the tiny Green Zuccinni caravan/cabin “for the financially challenged.”  Polebridge options on nearby properties can be found on VRBO – there is quite a range.

Where to eat

A night out at the Northern Lights Saloon is worth the drive in itself. The food is better than your average bar meal – but it was the scenery, the company and the evening dinner crowd vibe that really made it a memorable dining experience that made us want to linger until closing time. In a landscape of huckleberry desserts, the pecan pie chased with a local whiskey may have been the best thing I tasted all weekend. Just down the road, the Home Ranch Bottoms at Glacier Park is known for its Texas style barbecue ribs and barbecue and boasts “the coldest beer in the North Fork” – it also has a campground and cabin rentals. And obviously, hit up the Polebridge Merc’s famous bakery in the morning. The earlier the better to get the freshest pastries.

What to explore

Where to start? You are at the edge of one of the wildest areas of the state and trailheads are everywhere. At the saloon on our first night, we were told about Bowman Lake and Kintla Lake as great day hikes. We opted for a rather stroll-like hike along Bowman Lake that didn’t require too much energy and allowed for plenty of time for photography and fishing on the way back.  When we return with more time and ambition, the 38-mile horseshoe hike starting at Bowman and ending at Kintla would be my pick.

 

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Two years

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So the last two years: Snow shoeing with jacket pockets crammed with elk jerky, summer thunderstorms, learning to cast into rivers to keep up with a guy I liked, rodeos, sleeping in the back of a truck, documenting life in a Montana ranching town as a weekly newspaper editor, more adventure, winter, more winter; distilling long, long-held opposing views that have nothing to do with what I initially thought I was writing about; long nights chewing on a pen and looking at a blank screen, late meetings, early mornings, a single lamp light on in an office to get a paper out the next day; falling in love, sunrises that make my heart burst, walking to work in the snow with a cup of coffee, huckleberry margaritas and spa music in a clawfoot bathtub after town council meetings; crying of stress, crying of happiness; homecoming football games at dusk, lines of yellow school buses going to prom; plunging into lakes in the dead of winter, more love, more snow.

In 2010 I started a blog I called Homefires, based on the lifting of this one line in a song by the Canadian band, The Acorn – Not looking behind to ensure the homefires aren’t shrinking – because those words seemed to bring together everything I wanted to write about at that time in my early 30s. About going between New Zealand and California. About leaving places when leaves started to golden. And mostly that sense of being torn between mountain towns and coastal communities that I had come to love, of forever being an interloper where everyone else seems to have a cemented role. Of leaving pieces of myself all over both sides of the equator. Of balancing restlessness, with an acute longing to just belong somewhere and have a garden and a dog and a slow-cooker.

Homefires morphed into a weekly blog for stuff.co.nz  – Sweet Home California – when I came back to the States in 2013 and wrote about adjusting to life in my homeland and travels through the northwest and east to an island in Michigan  before moving to Montana for the winter. That next summer I took at job as the editor of the Philipsburg Mail in the southwest corner of the state and moved into an 1890s house once owned by the town midwife, Mary Morrison who, I’m told, helped more than 30 babies be born in my living room a century ago. Homefires became the title of a regular column I would bash out on deadline mornings in a poetic fit, about adjusting to seasons, the beauty of autumn in cattle country, that old, unsettled longing for a 13-hour plane trip somewhere with crashing waves; assembling a lawn mower for the first time in my life and the ache of love I have felt for this tiny house with peeling paint when I wash dishes and look out past snow-covered roofs to the Pintler ranges.

There’s too much to tell about the last two years. But maybe the highlights of all these seasons in a small, Montana town – that has been just enough of a safe harbor, balanced with a dying, old west wildness that I have come to respect and grip onto myself a little bit – are just better in photos.

Here are a few.

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