Beartooth Trip
One of the best things about August in Montana is backpacking in the Beartooth Mountains. Wylie, Tom, Phil & Max Battle, and I took an 8-day trip, mostly off-trail, described below. Thus, this post has nothing to do with the Skookum Cabin, but everything to do with why we live here.
Above is a picture of our first camp at Breakneck Meadow on the West Fork of the Stillwater River. Tom arranged for Troy Wilcox (Paintbrush Adventures) to haul up most of the weight on mules for the first two days. Breakneck is an old friend, plus steaks hauled by mules made for a perfect start to the trip. Following tradition, I include no pictures of mules or horses despite more appreciation than I like to admit.
We camped on Lake Plateau the 2nd night, our last night with the pack train and thus our last night with a great food. A heavy rain rolled in late that night to send us scurrying to our tents. Wylie caught his first Greyling (right photo) and then several more.
Off Trail
From our third day until the last few miles of our eighth day, every step was off-trail. The left photo shows the crew, except me, with full packs in a classic Lake Plateau meadow. The right photo shows the view as we passed one of Tom’s favorite camp sites, an old sheepherder’s camp.
Off-trail hiking is synonomous with “wrong way(s)” and we demonstrated that old memories don’t necessarily lead to the best routes. Just part of the adventure. By the end of the third day we found another old sheepherder’s camp, with names carved into a tree and rusted tin cans as evidence, situated in a pleasant meadow with a pretty creek flowing through. Tom’s foot gave him trouble during the hike, but a long soak in the cold stream helped (left photo above). He said his foot wouldn’t hurt the fishing since there were no fish in this stream anyway, so Wylie quickly proved him wrong by catching his first Golden Trout (right photo).
Old Sheepherder's Route
Part of our plan was to find and follow a portion of an old sheepherder’s trail that traversed across a high plateau and then dropped down onto Lake Plateau, seen in the background of the photo above. Tom and I had both spent hours pouring over maps and studying the terrain on Google Earth. I identified what was clearly the route down from the high plateau and Tom, knowing my genetics I suppose, identified a different route. We split up so we could each check. After following my route, I concluded beyond a reasonable doubt that I was wrong and Tom was correct. Painful of course. However, Tom still managed to get lost, possibly due to sharing half my genetic heritage (likely) or to make me feel better about my wrong choice (less likely). The above photo shows the crew topped out on the high plateau during our fourth day.
Once onto the high plateau just below 11,000 feet altitude, we crossed tundra meadows and followed occational rock carins along the old sheepherder’s trail through rock bands. We were tired from the climb, and Wylie showed signs of altitude sickness with a headache and puking. Normally there are numerous spings flowing across the tundra, but not this year. We trudged until late in the day to get down to just above tree-line, where we set up camp. Fortunately, ranging from camp, we found a small spring and evaded a dry camp.
On Down
The left photo above shows the crew shortly after leaving our camp just above tree-line on the fifth day. Our goal for the day was to drop down to a lake following a route I had traversed over 40 years ago with a former girlfriend. Surprisingly, my memory of the route may have been slightly off. In the right photo above, if you look closely, you can see Wylie and Tom picking their way down the way I chose. Perhaps it should be noted that my former girlfriend dumped me after that trip over 40 years ago, although I suspect my route finding was only a small portion of the cause.
Smiles were easy to come by at the bottom of the drop. Wylie (left), Phil (center), and Max (right), with Tom (in the background above), soon to join in.
We reached an un-named lake (as far as we know) with a rock and snow formation above it that — with slight imagination — resembles a smiling cat. Wylie was quick to check whether or not there were fish in the lake. There are.
That night we had a warm fire, plenty of water, fresh trout, and a great campsite. The world was spinning in greased grooves.
Memories, Goldens, and a Painting
Well over a half century ago, before this region was designated as a Wilderness area, my grandfather contracted a helicopter to drop his grandchildren, their fathers, and him next to a remote lake that’s now famous for its golden trout. Hiking to this lake is notoriously difficult, but we were close enough that I figured we could get there and back on a dayhike on the sixth day. Being a slow learner helped, at least in terms of making the plan. Above, Phil maintains his smile despite a rocky route over another high plateau.
Our grandfather established a camp between the upper famous lake and a smaller lower lake, next to the creek where the goldens spawn. Meanwhile, as children will do, we searched for adventure and mischief. A logjam had formed at the outlet of the upper lake, and it proved irresistable to us kids. I don’t know how many inches we lowered the upper lake by removing the log jam, but it was a few. And enough to flood our camp, to our grandfather’s ire.
Tom painted the logjam last winter from an ancient photograph that predated our childhood visit, left photo above. The right photo shows me standing on the central rock in the outlet, the scene of our over half-century old crime. The snowbanks are greatly reduced; the lake is now popular despite its difficult access; the magic and memories remain.
The camp my grandfather made was just across the lower lake from where Wylie is fishing in the photo above. I like to think we pick better campsites now, but it was great to see, likely for the last time, where I caught my first golden trout when I was about Wylies age. Wylie caught several of the beautiful trout in just a few minutes.
A Day of Rest
The dogs, Agapae (left above) and Tilly (right above), were getting tired with traveling every day, so we thought it best to take a rest day on the seventh day of the trip. Its possible we humans on the trip didn’t mind too much.
Max gave Tom a lesson in chess.
Wylie gave Tom a lesson on fishing.
The Big Ugly
I had warned everyone that the last day, day eight, involved ugly going, decents on steep slideroack and then crashing through thick timber with numerous downed logs. The morning was gray, cool, and a cold drizzel of rain began as we packed up, guaranteeing that the lichen on the sliderock would be slick as grease. The route and weather portended a bad day. Phil, with his snazzy pink poncho seemed oblivious of the pain to follow.
As adverised, the route was ugly. Moreover, I emulated my father by choosing bad route after bad route, heading up large sections of slick sliderock when we didn’t need to, and then down again. The left photo shows a section of our route that was totally unnecessary, and the right photo shows Phil coming down a section that was inevitable. The lichen on the rocks was so slippery we often crawled onto the larger rocks, scootched across on our butts, then slid off onto the next rock to repeat the process.
The photo above shows Wylie, well soaked, heading down one of the nicer portions of the route. We were fortunate to be on this section because just above this point we were debating which direction to go when we heard a dog barking. Soon a group of three backpackers and a dog huffed up the slope, one of them looking at me and saying, “Is that Rand?” Except for two people we saw far away on the opposite side of a lake, these were the only people we saw who were not part of our group during the entire trip, and one of them recognized me. Small world.
More importantly, they pointed us to the right route whereas I was about to advocate for the wrong route (again). The routes should more accurately be called “lousy” and “less lousy,” but it was an improvement. Sometimes you get lucky. Additionally, Max and Phil took over the route finding, a very good thing. Eleven hours after we started, we arrived at the trailhead and the end of this trip.
Not counting the dogs, who are shown above and certainly should be counted, the crew, going from left to right above, consisted of Wylie, Phil, Max, Tom, and Rand (the not-so-humble author).
Final note: Wylie wanted to note that he caught 88 fish, including Brown trout, Rainbow trout, Greyling, Cutthroat trout, and Golden trout. I, on the other hand, caught more trout than I can count… so figure some number north of eleven.
Good read. Glad I stayed home. 🙂
wowww you guys, What a neat trip. To always be. In. Wiley ‘s. Blood to. Continue with traditions. I am so jealous that. I didn’t get to try the trout. And I’ll have to agree with Scott. I don’t know how you could breathe up that high. Thank you for the pictures. Brenda