Beating Around the Bush
A lesson in respect for trail-builders.
We had two options: backpack four miles on an established trail in the Pintlers, or hike five miles on trail, then bushwhack another three to a lake in the Beartooths.
Three miles through some bushes? I could handle that. I’d been itching to get into the Beartooths all summer, so it was an easy choice.
At the trailhead we met up with August, Kurt, and Blake, all experienced hunters who looked like they’d actually obeyed the backpacking handbook. Trekking poles. Freeze-dried meals. A sensible amount of gear.
The first five miles flew by. Then, about 10 minutes into the bushwhack, I had a rude awakening: I was, in fact, a trail princess.
Meanwhile, Adam, Joe, Brian (Adam’s buddy visiting from Chicago), and I had packed more like we were headed to a tailgate. Adam somehow fit a 30-rack of beer in his pack. I had a box of wine. Joe hauled a mini-keg. Looking back, none of us regret those packing decisions. They simply became part of the lore from an eight-mile hike that somehow took me longer to complete than the Ridge Run, or even the Rut.
The first five miles flew by. Then, about 10 minutes into the bushwhack, I had a rude awakening: I was, in fact, a trail princess.
I’d become spoiled by beautifully maintained trails, the kind where you can turn your brain off and settle into a rhythm. Bushwhacking, on the other hand, did not seem so rhythmic.
Every 100 yards brought a new obstacle. Downed trees that were just a little too tall to climb over but too low to limbo under. Snags. Sap. Hidden holes. Thick brush. Instead of hiking, we were climbing, crawling, balancing, and second-guessing every route we’d picked five seconds earlier.
Berry bushes turned the steep hillside into a slip-and-slide, staining my clothes and hands purple. At least they provided the occasional trail snack after falling face first onto the ground. Loose scree slowed us to a crawl, and eventually my pup reached her breaking point. Joe came to the rescue, extracting her from her Rapunzel tower of boulders, while earning a respectable gash on his shin. Brian, who’d come to Montana hoping for a scenic vacation, made it abundantly clear around hour six that this had gone too far. Adam’s patience for his sandbagged city pal was wearing thin. Kurt snapped a trekking pole and rolled an ankle.
August was tired but still smiling, even when he had to announce we’d gotten cliffed out and needed to backtrack. And Blake? He works for the Forest Service and looked like he’d barely broken a sweat. While the rest of us were negotiating with the mountain, he casually strolled through the chaos looking happier by the minute, totally in his element. I suspect years of working in places without trails shifts your definition of “difficult.”
We cruise through the mountains without much thought for the people who have hauled tools, cut logs, built bridges, and made sure the rest of us can simply put one foot in front of the other.
The point of this story isn’t to complain about one particularly humbling backpacking trip. I’d do it again tomorrow (though maybe without the box of wine).
What the tumultuous Type-II trek did give me was a newfound appreciation for something I’d embarrassingly taken for granted: trail work. Well-maintained trails make it easy to forget the work behind them. We cruise through the mountains without much thought for the people who have hauled tools, cut logs, built bridges, and made sure the rest of us can simply put one foot in front of the other. Take away the trail, and suddenly every mile becomes an obstacle course.
Our little adventure also gave me a glimpse into what hunters, wildlife biologists, trail crews, and other backcountry users navigate on a regular basis. I thought trail running was hard. Turns out it’s considerably easier when someone has already done the hard work of building the path beneath your feet.
By the time we stumbled back to civilization and wolfed down some burgers and beers at MontAsia, every scraped shin, bruised thigh, and sap-covered sleeve turned into comedy. Meanwhile, our friends who’d chosen the Pintlers reported that they had a lovely trip on a beautiful trail. “How was yours?” they asked. All I could do was laugh.
If you’re ever looking for a good reminder that nature doesn’t owe you an easy route, throw on a backpack and bushwhack your way to a mountain lake. You’ll probably get your butt kicked.
You may come home with a much deeper appreciation for every mile of trail someone else built long before you arrived. It might even inspire you to trade your trekking poles for a Pulaski every once in a while.
