A tale of two exertions on the Gallatin Crest Trail.
Gallatin Crest, July 1935, Civilian Conservation Corps Trail Crew
“Sarge is comin’!” Willy announces to the crew.
Clark turns to the man next to him. “Keep your mouth shut, Whiner. Don’t give Sarge any backtalk.”
“Name’s not Whiner,” Whiner says, as he kicks dirt from his hoe in the direction of Clark.
“Whiner’s yer name,” Clark says, “and it’ll be yer name till the time you earn another.”
Willy adds in, “If you give Sarge an earful, we gotta hear again ‘bout him making men outta us, like he was made in the Great War. So just shut it, Whiner.”
Sarge approaches in a cart pulled by a mule. The young men on the crew gather around. Sarge works up a glob of tobacco juice and expels a blob at their feet. “Work’s been goin’ too slow, boys. Takes too long fer y’all to get up here and back to camp each day, so ya’s be stayin’ up here till yer finished. I brought food and tents.”
Whiner starts squirming. “You got somethin’ to say, Whiner?”
Clark steps in front of Whiner. “He’s got nothin’ to say, Sarge.” Then he turns and stares at Whiner, until Whiner calms himself.
Sarge continues, “There ain’t a lot of rocks for building cairns for the next few miles south, so I’s dropped posts fer y’all to stand up. Stay up here till ya put in all the posts. When y’all come to the work the next crew south has done, come on down.”
Whiner starts squirming again. “Whiner, you got somethin’ needs sayin’?” Sarge asks as he heaves another glob of spit, then wipes the remains from his grizzled chin and rubs it into his pants, which by now are blacker from tobacco juice than they are khaki from dye.
Clark turns and faces Whiner again; Whiner holds his tongue.
“Okay then. You boys can unload the wagon.”
As Sarge turns to leave, Whiner can’t keep it in any longer. “Why we doin’ this Sarge, why? This ain’t nothin’ but a barren hellscape. Ain’t nobody ever gonna come up here, ain’t nothing gonna come of these trails. Grass is gonna grow back in, cairns gonna fall apart, and now you want us diggin’ rock to raise posts. Why, sir? Why?”
Sarge steps down from the wagon and surveys the group. He heaves another blob of black spittle, wipes his face, colors his khakis. A crazed gleam builds in his eyes. “Why? Why? ‘Cause I got ta make men outta you boys! You don’t know what’s comin’ yer way. You might get trapped in the Argonne Forest for days. Gerry has you pinned down with artillery. Yer own gun has been blasted. Half yer crew is dead. You bury them at night right where they fell.” Sarge’s eyes get glassy; his chin trembles as pain bubbles to the surface. The boys lower their eyes out of respect. Sarge turns away, then has one more thought before he mounts his wagon. “There ain’t no rocks here and I’m outta posts, so put a big arrow right here. Somethin’ that can’t be mistaken. Whiner, that’ll be yer job. Head down into the forest,” Sarge points to the canyon below, “and haul up enough timber to make a giant arrow.” He smiles. “Make me proud, son.”
Whiner waits for Sarge to get out of earshot, then starts grumbling again. “Ain’t nothin’ but a barren hellscape, cairns’ll fall apart, winds’ll drop the posts, and the arrow’ll get buried in the snow and just rot into the ground.”
“No, Whiner, that’s where yer wrong.” Clark starts. “Look where we are. This here ridge is beautiful, and there are ridges comin’ off the main ridge. Looks kinda like a backbone, don’t it?”
“If it’s a backbone, it’s the Devil’s Backbone,” comes the shrill retort. “Ain’t no one live here. Ain’t no one ever comin’ up here ‘cepts maybe some cowboy searchin’ fer lost sheep or cattle, and he don’t need no trail.”
“I see it different, Whiner. I see people comin’ up here to ride horses, people up here to walk our trail, and you knows I love to run, I could even see runners up here someday enjoyin’ all this beauty. All of ’em usin’ your arrow for guidance and followin’ a line of tall posts across the tops of these mountains and rememberin’ us for what we did fer ’em.”
Whiner leans on his hoe and takes a long, hard look at his co-worker. “Clark, you’s a decent guy, but you’s a mo’ron.”
Gallatin Crest, July 2025, Bozeman Trail Runners
I really want to make Hyalite Peak by sunset. My son-in-law, Chris, started the morning at the Hyalite Creek trailhead at 6am, making his way to the Portal Creek trailhead, 25 miles to the south, with all the other Devil’s Backbone ultra runners. He arrived here at 1:20pm. I’m pacing him back north, and after a short break, we set off.
The Devil’s Backbone is a technically difficult and stunningly beautiful course; almost a full marathon’s distance along the crest of the Gallatin Range. We start at just above 8,000 feet and climb to Windy Pass, a broad, grassy, wildflower-speckled meadow. We pick up the post trail here and the climb continues up the Sentinel, where we top out above 9,900 feet; then we stay high, cresting 10,000 feet a few times as the ridge narrows and the highpoints sharpen somewhat, with huge, glacially carved bowls that have cornices still rimming the tops and snowfields tucked into nooks and crevices.
Chris feels strong and so for the first few hours, we move well. We follow the post trail for miles and then come across Whiner’s enormous arrow a short while later: it points us down, away from a gnarly section of ridge. I stop and take photos; it’s finally starting to rot into the ground.
It has, thus far, been a smoke-free summer, so the views are expansive: the Taylor-Hilgards and the Spanish Peaks to the west, the Absarokas clear and sharp to the east. But it’s the immediacy of the Gallatin Range, and how it evolves as we move north, that my camera captures best.
Once we pass the southbound sweepers, we don’t see anyone until mile 14, which is 39 in total for Chris. We’re at the lowest elevation in the run, just shy of 9,000 feet, and the long roller-coaster climb to the top of 10,300-foot Hyalite Peak is about to begin. Chris is now wiped out. Two other ultras catch up with us at the natural spring that serves as an aid station. We’re still ahead of the northbound sweep crew, and both of us are determined to keep it that way for as long as we can.
On the long approach to Hyalite Peak, the ridge narrows to a thin line and undulates. The summit seems close for a long time, but there is no direct route, and no escalator to the top. We slog up every short, steep ascent, jog every set of loose, rocky switchbacks down, and grunt up the final 1,000-foot ascent.
The sweepers catch us on the final part of the climb, and we make the peak just as the sun kisses the horizon. Once we’re all up top and the light is captured, important questions must be answered. A peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in a Ziplock was left on the ground at the peak. Was this left for the sweep crew? “No, we have plenty of food.” Then… do I eat it?
The sight alone, after a day-long diet of energy gels, has me salivating. Nick suggests that a drug mule has perhaps climbed the peak and deposited a fentanyl-laced snack. Which I take to mean that if it doesn’t kill me, it might ease the pain of the downhill. I dig in and offer Chris half. He doesn’t hesitate. It provides a much-needed energy boost—but no fentanyl buzz.
Before we set off for the final downhill push to the finish line, I look south and trace the line of the Devil’s Backbone as it fades into the distance and the encroaching darkness. My thoughts turn to the Sarges, Clarks, Willys, Whiners, and others who made this day possible.
Many thanks to you, fellas, whoever you were. And many thanks to the leaders who had the forethought to put you out here, building trails to be used and appreciated for generations to come.
Author’s note: I first ran the Devil’s Backbone Relay in 2021. At the pre-race meeting, the director told us about a directional arrow and posts on the course. At the time, I envisioned paint stirrers stuck in the ground, possibly with plastic pink ribbons tied at the top. I found tall wooden posts and an arrow made of logs that was at least 30 feet long; they sparked my imagination.
