The morning is damp as I pop out and see Austin ‘cowboy camping’ under his headnet and cuddled into a soaking wet bag. He perks up and offers to take down my food, knowing I want to leave early before it gets too hot.
And you know what? It made no difference at all. The sun is baking even in the forest at 7 am. Yet the plants as high as my head – mostly thimble berries – are soaking wet. I’m really unprepared for the heat and humidity, already soaking my sweat mixing in with the dew.
A pileated flies past, a flash of red. Next, a hollow hammer. I have a tendency to assume a day’s trail will continue this way – overgrown, undulating and humid – but I’m soon spit out onto a super path, groomed and wide, and met by clean people carrying small packs.
I soon chat with a guy who asks lots of questions about backpacking and I tell him how our permits work. I wonder where he’s headed and I soon discover it’s for a series of stunning – and explosive – waterfalls.
Saint Mary is an explosion in three parts, turning a corner of stair stepping rock. A family of four is climbing on the rocks, maybe a bit close to the watery edge. They take mine then I get there’s as they all fly up.
We meet again at huge, splashing Virginia Falls, a monstrosity and my final stop before heading back into the overgrown hell, this time with mosquitos on the side.
The trail opens up to the mountains we saw coming off the pass and huge St. Mary Lake, turquoise under a cloud-free sky.
Spiders make webs between the high undergrowth at eye level. The plants give way to a massive landslip and I walk on tinkly slate. I stop at a stream and fill up, having a shake and enjoying the shade. A squirrel chatters at me, scolding with tiny teeth.
I see a way down to the lake, but walking requires so much of me, I skip it and decide to wait for the river – which is a big mistake as I leave at least some shade for a wide open cleared by a forest fire. There’s no shade whatsoever here, huge trunks, dry and gray, still standing in a kind of tall and slender graveyard.
It’s been some years, so the undergrowth is taking over. I quickly try to attach my umbrella, failing to get it just right, so end up holding it with two poles in one hand.
The trail heads up as the sun enervates my body and spirit. How can it be this hot in Northern Montana this early in the year? It’s beautiful, but even the glaciers seem dragged out as a tiny bit of hear haze washes out the mountains.
I head up hill, the umbrella bobbing along on a kind of uplifted bit of land where I wave goodbye to one set of mountains and hello to a whole new set. I try in vain to attach the umbrella, finally shoving it into my chest strap and letting my head hold it on.
That tightens my neck and keeps falling over, and just as I try to adjust it, my foot folds under me and I fall down. OK, that hurt. I feel a bump start to build on my shin. I sit right there on the trail and gather my wits and drink a liter of water.
Have I told you that it’s beastly hot? I remove my gloves and in minutes my hands burn. This is so not fun, but it’s beautiful winding around the burn and seeing the flowers poking out.
The trail takes an odd direction, way south in the direction of Red Eagle Lake, and then right back north on a high, eroding bluff above a spectacular river, the bridge situated way below. I carefully work my way around, knowing a trip could throw me over the edge.
Somehow, I lose the tightening tab on my hat and scramble to find it in the grass. My bottle top too earlier, and I make a note to watch where I place things. Finally I head down to the shifting bridge, swinging in a gentle breeze that’s just started.
For some reason, I pass this spot because the map notes a water source later. Another note to self is to take advantage of the water when you see it because it’s still a half mile in intense heat with the river inaccessible.
Instead, I find a side stream with a wee bit of shade. I crash in the space and make an onion dip with triskets plus drink yet another liter. The birds are loud and expressive in the bushes. I scoop up water in my hat and hump my pack back on to continue, just a few more miles up and over a moraine to a dark blue lake, the mountains rising high behind, the snow cold and inviting.
I plan to swim here but there is absolutely no shade. I wouldn’t dare stay in this site today, though it’s probably lovely in the fall. I walk along the lake and spy big pine trees ahead that escaped the burn.
Our site is also exposed with tiny tent pads, but the beach is under trees and I immediately head there, taking my clothes off and going all the way under. It’s funny how fast I cool down, actually shivering in the shade as the wind kicks up.
A tiny hummingbird visits, sitting above me on a branch. Geese bob in the waves and a family of ducks some with elegant caps take off, cross crossing in the air, then settling across from me in an area full of tall grass. A bald eagle soars in the air before finding a spot to land in a dead tree.
The others arrive one by one and my reverie has ended. Backpacks are opened and food sprawled out everywhere. We wade, stretch, nap and laugh about the day, my half expecting everyone to be just fine and not as challenged as me.
I share my cheese and oil because I brought too much, and finally open the jerky and give most of it away. I’m exhausted, so set up the alicoop 2 and head inside. Tomorrow it’s another pass and I want to start up it early when the air’s a bit cooler – hopefully.
