I never quite know what to write about my time in trail towns. When my shoes are off, clothes are clean, and food is in my belly, it’s rare for me to want anything more than put my feet up and enjoy whatever mediocre action movie TNT happens to be showing; ideally with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a crisp IPA. The 24 hours .3 and I spent in the town of Helena were pleasant, efficient, and restful.
I’ve now spent almost half my time on the trail with .3, an Englishman in his early thirties with a dry sense of humor and a love for Haribo gummy bears. We are a good team when decisions need to be made and I appreciate his independence when our preferences don’t align. It’s comforting to have a hiking companion, someone to double-check my reading of the topo-map, to assess risks, share the burden of route-planning, and laugh at my exceptionally bad jokes.
From the hotel, we walk to a nearby grocer and resupply for the short stretch to Lincoln. As I re-pack the junk food that will fuel the next two days, I make some of my first plans for post-trail life. Canada isn’t much further, and the thought of actually finishing this beast is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. For now, I am trying to focus on being present and enjoying the myriad ways thru-hiking brings me joy. Experience tells me, I’ll soon have plenty of time to worry about ‘after’.
Sweat drips down my forehead at the same rate my ice cream sandwich is melting all over my hand. The sun bakes the air, hazy with wildfire smoke, as .3 and I thumb a ride back to the trail. We are immediately on top of the Continental divide, where shade and water are scarce. Cows lurk around every corner, their manure covering every inch of ground, and I stop to enjoy a snapshot of nature reclaiming an abandoned wooden train trestle.
There isn’t much water on the official CDT, so .3 and I opt for an alternate that will traffic us through farmland and near much-appreciated streams. The walking is easy and a kind man chats us up from his truck. He searches his pockets for something to give us and the palmfulful or Ricola he hands me is a gesture I won’t soon forget. When I bed down for the night, I can feel the creep of cold air pushing into my tent from the valley floor. Morning comes and the sun starts her meandering ascent. Crystals of frozen condensation cling to the inside of my tarp and sluff off, like a molting cicada, as I shake it. My bag is packed with fingers stiff from the cold and I start walking as quickly as possible, hoping to regain feeling in my appendages soon.
Steam rises from my cup of instant coffee. The spring to my right, pumping clear water through the middle of this Wyoming cow pasture, is a welcome sight. Frost-imbuned leaves brings simultaneous joy and panic to my soul. Winter has booked her flight and will be arriving shortly. I eat a stick of elk jerkey, a pop-tart, and some dried fruit, to try and quell the insatiable beast that is my stomach. It feels a bit like trying to douse a forest fire with a squirt gun.
This day of walking feels good. Hot and dry and smokey and free and high and stunning, like so many days before it. I drink from a trough designed for cows and flash back to New Mexico for an instant. The soles of my feel remember every mile but my brain has a hard time conceptualizing the time and distance I have walked. Thinking back on all those miles, I am reminded that simple things are good things: cold water from a mountain-top spring, hot meals that fill your belly, and flat places to pitch a tarp. It is getting late as I near Stemple Pass, my destination for the night. A storm is brewing on the horizon but we find shelter near an outfitter that has set up shop right on the trail.
High Divide Outfitters and proprietor Dave, offer the best selection of ultralight backpacking gear I have ever set eyes on. His place, now tucked onto the hillside above Stemple Pass, was recently relocated from Southern California near the Pacific Crest Trail. I follow a hand written sign to the shop, which doubles as his home, and buy a set of over-mittens and a poncho to help battle the increasingly cold weather. Shopping completed, .3 and I set up our shelters on the flattest swath of rocky ground we can find. The wind picks up just as I’m zipping the door of my terp-tent closed. Thoughts of soft cotton sheets and down-filled pillows rock me to sleep.
My alarm rings and I have no desire to leave the cocoon of my down quilt. Twenty five miles to the town of Lincoln and cold thunderstorms in the forecast eventually convince me to start moving. It takes me 9 hours to cover the distance to Rodgers Pass and when I arrive, my shoulders are grateful to shed the burden of my pack.
A couple on vacation picks us up and sets us down in the middle of downtown Lincoln, Montana. Not exactly a booming metropolis, I can see from one end of main street to the other. Pickup trucks occupy parking spots in front of businesses called, The Montanan, Scapegoat Eatery, and Bushwhackers Steakhouse & Saloon. Point 3 and I check in to a historic log motel, joyfully named ‘The Lincoln Log’, and do our best not to move muscles not directly associated with eating or finding the next movies to watch on Netflix. Guilt momentarily creeps into my psyche as I lounge on my twin-sized bed, pint of Ben & Jerry’s in hand. I could be moving faster. I could be back on the trail tonight. Canada is close, winter is on its way, and sitting in town stuffing my maw isn’t getting me any nearer the end of this trail! Then .3 cracks a joke and I snap back to reality. The reality that people are one of the best parts of this trail, that this adventure will be over far faster than I can fathom, and that I need all the rest I can get for this final stretch of trail. Another spoonful of Chocolate Fudge Brownie hits my palate and I sink deeper into my bed for the night. All is well.