Urban Wilderness

One of the great things about Missoula is that I can wake up on a Saturday, have breakfast and coffee, and make plans for a day in the mountains.

(This is the view my boots have all day long)



One of the main factors that finally won me over to the Smokies and life in Waynesville was that I could drive 30 miles from my house and been in deep wilderness. Some of my best days there were on the Smokies' long trails -- 17 or more miles with 3,000 vertical feet of gain and a bike shuttle or hitchhike to round the day out, plus an evening's worth of limping around in pain from the exertion.

(Bass Lake)



There's that same kind of challenge in western Montana, only you don't have to go looking for it, like you do in North Carolina, and purposefully set yourself on to a punishing mountain. Here, you have to make a conscious decision not to overexert yourself.

(The remote headwall of South Fork Lolo Creek)



With three major ranges converging on the Missoula Valley, it's almost hard to narrow down your options.

(Tom pushing off from Little St. Joe, the Bitterroot Valley more than 5,000 vertical feet below)



Two Saturdays ago I drove to the Bass Creek Trailhead and set out on skis up Bass Creek. Eight miles and five hours later I was at the mouth of Bass Creek Lake. I skinned across the lake and climbed the east face of Bass Creek Peak, turning around short of the summit when I experienced signs of snow instability. I made it back to the truck at 6 p.m. exhausted and limping.

(View into the Great Beyond)



On that trip I saw exactly one other skier -- Tom, a recent transplant from Maine, who told me he got to the trailhead at 6 a.m. This, I figured, was someone I needed to get to know.

Last week I picked Tom up and we went back to Bass Creek Trailhead, but this time bushwhacked up a steep ridge until we found a trail and put our skis on. Six hours later we traversed across the summit of Little St. Joe, 9,033 feet, and took in the nearly monochromatic expanse of rock, snow and tree that make up the background of the surrounding few thousand square miles. From here, we could see into the heart of the Bitterroot and off into Idaho. The Bitterroot Valley, brown under the effect of a warm winter, slumbered more than 5,000 vertical feet below.

(A phalanx of rock, snow and tree: the view from Little St. Joe south into the central Bitterroot)



We got back to the car at 7 p.m., making for an even 10-hour outing, and I was so sore that Sunday was for the most part a loss.