Express bus to Chinatown.

A few weeks ago, work asked me to go to Seattle for a conference. My first reaction was, But that's right in the middle of ski season!

Seattle is the Big City of Choice for most Missoulians. I've only used it before as a gateway to the Cascades and Canada, but found it was fun in its own right. The city has dense and varied neighborhoods which are great for walking (and walking was about the only thing I could afford to do there). It was fascinating to get on a bus at University Station downtown surrounded by men and women in business suits, and get off three stops later in Chinatown, the only whitey in sight.

The occasion was annual meeting of the Council of Science Editors. The three-day meeting, held at the Sheraton downtown, was the first time in ages I've met with a group of work peers. The industry is primarily concentrated in Washington, D.C. While I did meet attendees from Nigeria, Nepal, Mexico, and Ethiopia, the crowd was decidedly institutional, and held a provincial view of the rest of the world. Coming from Montana, and mixing with such a group -- well, it was interesting to see so many career-focused go-getters, let's put it that way. Most of the people I talked to had, it turns out, heard of Montana, but were quite surprised to learn that there was a science journal there (probably about the reaction I would have if I met someone from Indiana who said they like to climb mountains). Anyway, I was there to learn, and I let people talk about themselves, and mostly when I asked what it was like to live in Baltimore (or Arlington, Alexandria, D.C., etc.) people began by talking about their commutes.

(View from the 21st floor of the Sheraton: not Missoula.)

In three days I estimate I walked 25 miles. I hiked up and around Beacon Hill and Coleman Park. I drank my body weight in coffee. I ate four bánh mì (Vietnamese sandwiches--frikkin awesome). I fended off a homeless person on Capitol Hill. I had an engaging talk with a girl about something besides babies and avalanche conditions. I actually got on a bus and asked the driver, 'Does this go to Chinatown?'. I found that the best mocha latte in Seattle is actually no better than the best mocha latte in Missoula, although in Seattle you drink it in a cool converted warehouse and pay 50 cents more for the 16-ounce size than you do in Montana.

(Looks better, but tastes the same.)

Watching big city traffic puts me in a trance: probably what it's like when Seattlites go camping and stare into the campfire.

Or is it? Is this what people in Seattle think of when they think of Montana? These billboards are everywhere in Seattle.

So ended three days in The Big City. I planned to walk around more downtown and go to Queen Anne, a historic neighborhood. But, of course, it began to rain. I trooped out to the airport on the cool light rail, only to have the sun come out. Anyway, I never get tired of watching departure boards and taxiways.

Up, down, lost.

I reached the first substantial snowdrift on St. Mary Lookout Road at about 6,000 feet early Saturday morning. In my experience it’s easier to park and hike than it is to mess around with shovels, ropes, and low range just on the off chance of driving another half-mile, so I simply geared up and was bushwhacking uphill before 7 am. I summitted St. Mary by 10:45, made two runs by 11:45, and by noon had eaten lunch and was ready for the descent. Plenty of time to get lost.

Before moving to Montana I’d only occasionally worried about becoming “lost”, but something about the dearth of trails and traffic and the extent of thick low-elevation forests here has changed that. I’ve been disoriented and wandering several times the past few years, mostly in the Bitterroot, but also in places like the Scapegoat. Problems with route finding are compounded in the spring when early morning ascents on frozen snow surfaces leave nary a print.

And so it was on Saturday. The descent from St. Mary is tricky because it involves a long, annoying traverse below the main summit ridge. I traversed hard to the skier’s left and wound up on a very steep slope. Looking down I could see a road I assumed was the Lookout Road above where I had parked. I took a visual fix on it before it disappeared into thick forest. The topography bent, however, and fell into narrow ravines, variable snow conditions, and thick downfall. I removed my skis and struggled downhill for more than two hours before finding a slope that had been logged at one point. Knowing that where there is logging there are roads, I followed the logged area straight downhill to the road … which turned out not to have been used in years. I walked the road each way but could only guess on my location. Occasional glimpses to the valley still far below were scenic but of little practical assistance. Not wanting to get more lost, I did what I am sure Lewis and Clark would have done if only they had thought of it: I called the sheriff.

One surprising feature of the mountains here is that you can often ping four bars even on the remotest summit, and since I had been suspecting for several seasons that I would eventually get lost, injured, or otherwise worked, last summer I programmed into my phone the dispatch numbers for various county sheriffs’ offices. Ravalli County dispatch answered after three rings and advised me to call 911. I did, and the same dispatcher answered, but using Enhanced 911 technology was able to pinpoint my location in less than 1 minute. “Well it looks like you are on a road,” the dispatcher said. I was indeed. She gave me rough directions: walk west, then south, then east. I did, and was dumbfounded when after just 35 minutes of power striding I emerged from the forest right at the truck’s passenger door.

I called dispatch back to tell them they would not, after all, need to search for me, peeled off my disgusting ski pants and socks, and drove down the mountain.

And then we celebrated Mother’s Day.

'Objectives'.

There are a few phrases that skiers, hikers, climbers, and others use that bug me. The worst is 'meadow skipping'. This is a phrase used by skiers to describe short, safe, low-angle runs often taken when the avalanche danger is high, but when I hear it I can't help but think that the skiers are a bunch of fairies dressed in renaissance garb. The other is 'objective'. This means 'goal' to everyone else, but when a climber uses it he is generally implying that he is going to climb and ski something most other people only read about in ski magazines. I usually hear this used in forums or at parties and rarely ever do I see that the 'objective' was obtained; I can only use when I'm talking in my head and then only as irony. A much-maligned phrase that I do like, however, is 'dawn patrol'. This means being on the mountain before the sun comes up. I know, it makes me sound like some sort of Israeli commando when I use it, but I do like to wake up early.

Whatever. No one in these parts has been doing any of this lately. Missoulians are notorious late sleepers, for starters, and we are at the time of year when there is not a well-defined sunrise. The sky brightens north of northwest near 5 am and grows brighter further to the south. But that's only if you can actually get a reading on the sun. We're in our usual monsoon season here, where May can have as much snow as February, and clouds and storm have been the rule.

And that has knocked out any sort of 'objective'-making. I'll admit that some hardy souls do it, but it's pretty hard to ski anything big in a raging May snowstorm. So the 'objectives' have been more like, Well, let's see how far we get. Not that far. And the meadows? Melted out. And then of course once I'm off the mountain the sun comes out, and people go to the park.