VIVA LA NINA!

Last week I made it to the summit of Stuart Peak after getting skunked on the mountain the previous two attempts -- once when I came across distressingly fresh grizzly tracks and once when I simply ran out of daylight. Stuart is not the biggest mountain around but is visible from the entire Missoula Valley and is a 16-mile trek. The trail to the summit starts in a leafy neighborhood, is flat for 3 miles, straight up for 3 more, and annoyingly flat for the last 2.

(Snowghosts on Stuart, Dec. 3, 2010)



This time, I was up at 4, hit the snooze a few times (LAZY!), had two espressos, and made it to the trailhead by 6. I hiked for 2 hours by headlamp then enjoyed full sunlight -- and cold temperatures -- the rest of the way. I made it to the summit just before 2 and was back at the car by 4.

The summit ski was made easier this time both due to the predawn start and the snowpack down low. When I attemped the summit last year on Christmas Day the bottom 3 miles of trail had less than a half foot of snow, and even halfway up the mountain there was barely enough snow to turn. This year the trail had perfect coverage the entire way, and the summit had more than 5 feet.

(From the summit, north into the Rattelsnake and Mission.)



The difference? Last year was one of the strongest El Ninos on record, which left Montana high and dry and Montgomery nearly as snowy as Missoula. This year is one of the stronger La Ninas on record; it started snowing the first week of November, things picked up with a Thanksgiving week blizzard, then the temperature went to minus 12, and things have not really let up since.

There's been more good skiing already this year.

Looking down 3,500 vertical on Sheep Mountain on Saturday after a delightful predawn start.



On Thanksgiving Day, Paul Smotherman and I found some surprisingly nice turns on Lolo Pass, that old standby.



Two days later Laura and I made a very important stop here:

(The new Florence Coffee on Brooks.)



Which helped us get here:

(Madison River, Yellowstone National Park.)



More to come!

James Meriwether Patterson

Last Thursday I left work early, rode my bike to the airport, and flew to Atlanta.



Laura had gone on Monday and I was joining her a few days later for the funeral and wake for her dad, who died the previous Thursday. The funeral, held in Stone Mountain, was well attended; there were more than 450 by one count, and in any case the crowd overflowed into the balcony. Well attended, too, was the wake, held at Laura's sister's afterward in Dunwoody, where about 100 came.



Laura's mom had asked me earlier to write an obituary for Jimmy. I like writing obituaries and wrote as many as I could as a reproter. What I wrote was eventually changed quite bit by the family, but I was happy to do it anyway. Here's my version:

James Meriwether Patterson, an engineer, commercial real estate developer and two-term DeKalb County commissioner, died Nov. 4 due to complications from cancer. He was 73.

Frustrated with rising taxes and administrative roadblocks facing developers, Patterson ran for the commission as a Democrat, serving consecutive terms beginning in 1978. He lost a bid for a third seat, but not before working to shrink the county administration, keep taxes low, and add common sense principles to county government.

Patterson’s time as commissioner grew in part from his work as an engineer and developer in the city’s growing east side. On the commission he used his engineering knowledge extensively, especially as the county expanded municipal water and sewer lines.

Patterson was born July 24, 1937 in Hastings-on-Hudson, N.Y. to Mary Elizabeth Montgomery and Howard Meriwether Patterson. He graduated from Decatur High School in 1956 and received an engineering degree from Auburn in 1960. He worked with his father at Patterson and Dewar, an engineering firm still in operation, and after obtaining his professional engineering certificate opened his own firm, Patterson Engineering. Often working with his brother Charlie, Patterson developed residential and commercial properties across DeKalb County.

From a young age, Patterson was a traveler. He hitchhiked to Kentucky when he was 12 and to Mexico when he was in college. A third generation Rotary member, he traveled to Russia on a goodwill trip in the 1980s. He began flying when he was 16 and sailed extensively in the Caribbean. He was active in Stone Mountain tennis leagues.

Patterson is survived by his wife of 43 years, Patricia O’Callaghan Patterson. He is also surived by his: brother Charles Patterson, of Stone Mountain; brother Howard Meriwether Patterson, of Destin, Fla.; sister Catherine Jane Patterson Bath, of Monroe; sons James O’Callaghan Patterson of Telluride, Colo. and William Lee Patterson, of Stone Mountain, and daughters Meri Patterson Miller of Dunwoody and Laura Patterson Schmerker of Missoula, Mont.

By happy coincidence, my parents were in the 'hood, so we had a two-family reunion during this sad event.



We arrived back in Missoula Sunday afternoon to rain and snow, ending the most exhausting 55-hour weekend of my life.

Not yet winter, barely still fall

Time to hike. I leave the house early, before Laura's up and the sun's awake. After a few hours, I get here:




It's sunny in Montana, but cloudy off over Idaho.



Off the alpine, there's not much color left.



Hiking in the Scapegoat, Laura practices her ... her ... something.



Nearby, Heart Lake and its exquisite color.



I got a new light for my bike. Makes the commute to class easier.



I start to like waking up earlier and earlier to hike. Here's Missoula from Blue Mountain.



And when it's rainy or snowy, there's always house projects. This is a glass door handle from secondhand and scavenged parts.



Meanwhile, Laura takes a spin on the new saw.



Snow all up and down the valley this morning.

Ah, it's autumn in Montana.

Ah, yes. It's fall in Montana. The leaves are changing, snow is dusting the high peaks, and grizzly bear are crossing U.S. Highway 93.



I guess in most of the world, they put up signs like this warning of congestion ahead, or construction. In Montana, they are used to announce the presence of megafauna.

Did I say snow in the mountains? Here's the Missions on Sept. 26.



We went to Glacier National Park a few weeks ago, but Logan Pass was closed. You could get little further than this:



So we went to Whitefish Lake instead. This picture has that real end-of-summer feeling.



Then we went up to Big Mountain Ski Area. A few years ago they changed the name to "Whitefish Mountain Resort," but as a friend said, "Only (idiotic people) call it Whitefish Mountain Resort."



We also went here, to the Clearwater Mountains. Never heard of them? Neither had I until about two weeks ago, and they're just 60 miles from downtown Missoula.





Nearby is this lovely Western redcedar forest.



Briefly, the Bitterroot burned:



Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Laura worked on pimping out the doghouse.



Together, we did the front porch. (Technically, yes, not a porch.)



And I got a new job, which we celebrated by opening the 15 year old champagne (lowercase c, yes) which the former tenants forgot in the basement. Good times. And my mom will recognize the old fondue set.



It's weird to not be a newspaper reporter anymore. But three weeks on the new job and I have yet to be lectured to about the Constitution. Good times.

Meanwhile, Missoula slumbers along.



On our many camping trips, Laura has perfected the art of morning camp coffee. Witness:



She's also worked on her lake jumping skills. No, she did not let go this time.



Meanwhile, I've perfected hiking with the plott hound. Not as easy as it sounds.



We're neck deep in the orange-and-tan time of year.



Storm's coming!

Snowfields and Butterflies

The tools of the trade make the truck stand out even on the jumbled assembly of vehicles crossing Kootenay Lake. People en route with us take photos of the mountains -- and the kayaks.



The other tools we use are less photogenic. They take us to great places, too, but leave us hobbled at the end of the day.



And so where do we go? With the Perception we cross Slocan Lake to enter Valhalla Provincial Park. Anywhere else we'd be in a national park; here in southeast British Columbia the main entry to this little-known park is by boat.



The next day we do find a road to the Valhalla; it's narrow, steep and in horrible condition. Laura walks part of the route ahead of the truck to guide the wheels and roll boulders out of the way. I think of ourselves as pioneers up until when we reach the trailhead, which is full of vehicles, even a Ford Taurus. Some pioneers we are. A short hike, however, regains the feeling. No footprints mark the rock ledge overlooking Mulvey Lakes, still frozen in late August.



Of course others have been here. I counted six climbers on nearby Gimli.



There's more spectacle to this corner of British Columbia than I imagined. Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park is a short steep drive from Nelson. It smelled like bears but the trail was marked with people of all ages. Gibson Lake hid below; after the hike we kayaked the lake in alpine twilight.



We crossed out of the Selkirks and Purcells and into the Rockies. Immediately the country opened, vistas deepened and narrow roads spread out into broad valleys. Why are there horses on this dead-end road? We saw them both ways.



Elk Lake Provincial Park must be the most boring name for a park ever invented. Elk? Lake? Who cares in this elk and lake studded country. We saw no elk, but the lakes were mere backdrops for the alpine beyond.



We hiked to box canyon ringed with glaciers spilling torrents of water into a small bowl. A party was just packing up. Again we wondered who could possibly have trod before us from a barely-marked trailhead at the end of a 65-mile dead-end road through grizzly country and a trail washed out by glacial melt? People who had spread out a picnic cloth and who were drinking red wine and who had a 4-year old in tow, that's who.



I hiked to the cirque above. I agreed with Laura I'd be back in 90 minutes, which it turned out was not enough time. I'll have to return, I guess.

We had planned to head down to Glacier from Elk Lake, but Glacier is easy to get to from our house. Waterton Lakes, not so much. We padded into Alberta and into one of Canada's gems. After a week of below-the-radar provincial parks, Waterton Lakes was annoyingly formal. Crowds. RVs. Entry fees. Rules. But also: more lakes, more mountains, more grizzly.



I left Laura alone for a day of photography while I climbed over Carthew Pass to Anderson Lake. August snow is one of the rarest of things; it's always surprising to me how many August snowfields in the alpine are colored by butterflies.

Butterflies aren't the only high-altitude residents, of course. This bighorn followed me for a few minutes while I hiked downhill toward town. I hadn't eaten my lunch yet but I was not about to share.



A storm was bearing down on the Rockies. The wind had been howling for three days, especially along the lakes. We paddled Cameron and put into lower Waterton, but gales and waves made progress uncomfortable. We entered the US and checked our voice mail, stocked up on cheap gas and cheap food, and caught the forecast: freeze warnings as far south as Missoula. We put in at one more lake, Two Glacier on the remote eastern side of the park, and paddled across. Clouds drew and we hugged the shore for protection from the wind. At the far end we pulled up on a beach and changed into hiking shoes; 3 miles beyond was Twin Falls and Upper Two Medicine. We strapped the kayaks back on the truck and drove home.



It rained much of the way.

Summits

Which is an easier way to get up mountains: afoot or aski? On skis you may slog through snow and grapple with weather, but from the top you have a leisurely schuss down. On foot your muscles carry you the entire way, but the days are likely longer, the weather likely more favorable, and the avalanche danger likely nonexistent.

Lolo Peak, June 26



On June 26 I made the last turns of the season from atop Lolo. I made my earliest start yet -- alarm at 3:30, out the door at 4:40 (What in the world do I do for an hour? Well since Laura's been gone I've been using only a stovetop espresso machine for my coffee, which takes 14 minutes from bean grind to coffee pour.) and atop Lolo Peak by 10:30.

Descent to Carlton Lake



Summer on, the snowline had retreated noticeably from the week before, and where there was snow it was often difficult to ski. But where it was not difficult to ski -- well, it was some of the best skiing of the year.

Endless 1,000-foot vertical runs from Lolo Peak's north summit



On July 3 I decided to leave the skis at home and don by new Zamberlan boots -- one of the few manufacturers who still make their boots in Italy. I slept in this time -- until 5 -- and headed up the now snow-free Sweeney Creek Road. I guess I should have brought skis as an hour into the hike it began to snow, and came down nicely for nearly two hours.

A breeze swept across this pond, creating a brief fog



While the sun did come out it stayed cool the entire hike. I was turned around at Holloway Lake by ice and snow.

Holloway Lake, July 3



Sweeney Creek Canyon



Last weekend I bought my first piece of new gear in a while -- Counter Assault bear spray -- for a jaunt into the Mission Mountains. Half of the Mission Mountains is Forest Service wilderness. The other half is in the Salish Kootenai reservation and is not wilderness -- as a management tag, it's nothing at all. There are a few unsigned roads, no trails, no markers and lots and lots of grizzly bears. Bear spray is certainly not a safeguard, but it's proven to stop bear attacks 92 percent of the time. And it's potent. I'm quite fearful of accidentally spraying myself with it; a direct shot to the eye at close range would blind me, or so the cannister says.

Most of the Missions on the Indian side actually close to human entrance from mid July to mid October so the bears can have a person-free summer and fall. The Missions are unique as they are a range not only full of the animals but also one where grizzlies are occasionally seen not just down low in forests and along streams but also crossing high peaks and passes. Surely that must be an incredible sight.

East St. Mary, Mission Mountains, July 10



I was up at 4, hit snooze a few times, and out the door by 6 (yes, another two-espresso breakfast). The trail up East St. Mary gains 4,000 vertical feet in an incredible 2 miles; the last two miles takes you up another 1,000 vertical. It's ridiculous, and nearly a full week later it's painful to descend stairs or even curbs.

Gray Wolf Peak, Mission Mountains



I made it to the summit by 11.20 a.m. It's an incredible experience to be atop a great mountain in fine conditions, and atop East St. Mary it was clear, calm and cool.

Glacier lilies



I could have brought my skis here, too, as the sprawling bowl between East St. Mary and Gray Wolf and northward holds an incredible amount of snow. The descent took two hours, and luckily I did not see a bear. After having seen one in Glacier a few weeks back I can say confidently this is one animal I never want to see again.

West St. Mary from the summit of East St. Mary -- I did not climb it. It looks hard!



Summit, East St. Mary, Mission Mountains, 9,500 feet, 11.20 a.m. July 10, bear spray at the ready