Alien technology.

On the rare nights that I cannot fall asleep I listen to AM radio. Lately it's been that old racist curmudgeon Michael Savage, who when he is not berating Mexicans, Arabs, and 'Socialists' can actually be kind of eloquent. Years ago I listened to a show whose announcer said he was located in a bunker in the Nevada desert and who discussed government conspiracies and UFO sightings, in that order. For some reason, I have always remembered something that he said about technology: that all of the great advancements of our era -- the cell phone, the fax machine, the GPS -- were courtesy of alien technology pirated from government-captured UFOs.

(June 2: returning to the scene on St. Mary)

Last week, after my stupid and epic afternoon of lost navigation on the side of St. Mary Peak, I went and dropped $170 on a Garmin eTrex 20 GPS. The eTrex 20 is one model up from the most basic GPS, and while I would have been fine with the cheapie the allure of a color screen was just too great. When I got home and opened the box Laura took one look at it and said, Well that looks like it will be a fun new toy. And she's right, sort of: thanks to triangulation from a passel of overhead satellites I am able, with two pushes of a button, to know my average moving speed and elevation profile and determine the exact size of the lot our home sits on.

OK, true. But it's also a fascinating and highly accurate way to plot routes and marks. On Saturday, descending St. Mary (again) in a storm, rather than wonder if I was too high or too low in my traverse, I simply whipped the wallet-sized unit out and saw I was about 100 feet too far east. On Sunday, skiing Lolo Peak, Eric and Greg left their hiking boots in a tree at the snowline; it seemed like an obvious spot on the way up but was simply a tree lost in the forest on the way down. Thinking we had passed them, I turned the GPS on and turned around, bushwacked 50 yards uphill, and walked straight to the shoes. Pretty cool, that alien technology.

(Looking for shoes on Lolo)

It was interesting to get into the mountains after three weeks away and see the changes spring is bringing. The snow level is creeping up, but snowpacks up high are still good and deep. The mountains picked up more than a foot last weekend and some more during the week. We've had a spate of awful weather, which means I turned attention to the backyard:

This time I paid good money for someone to break up and haul away a stupid old sidewalk in the backyard, then made four trips to bring back two tons of cobblestone pavers (matches the driveway!). Two days later: back aching, walk and patio done.

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.

Current conditions.

Winter up high.

Spring down low.

Roche Jaune

As Lewis and Clark passed into what would later be called Montana, they noted in their journals a large tributary on the left which French explorers called Roche Jaune; the name referred to the unusual-colored country from which the river rose. Today we know this country as Yellowstone.

Base camp: Cooke City, Montana. Elev.: 7,500 feet. Pop.: 100. People seen with guns in hip holsters: 2. Gunshots heard on Sunday, April 22, at 2.15 am: 3.

Very close to the spot where David Gaillard died on Dec. 31. Gaillard was an experienced skier and Northern Rockies representative for the Defenders of Wildlife.

Cooke Peak: someone getting after it in the chute.

A dual-sport day: afternoon ride in the very quiet Lamar River Valley.

Funny looking deer.

Wolf!

Abiathar!

Amphitheater Peak

Weekend accomplished: Soda Butte Creek on the run home.

Christenings and consecrations.

So, we took the kid to Texas for Spring Break, and for his dedication in the family church there.

(MSO-SLC-IAH)



The occasion brought together what I suspect to be 95% of the world’s supply of Schmerkers and respectable percentage of Pattersons, too.



The event was followed by a sultry week of cleaning, organizing, shopping, and consuming my body weight in Mexican food, Pakistani food, and Texas food. Pakistani food? For some reason America has approximately 5 million Indian restaurants and about a dozen Pakistani restaurants. The foods are similar, but I think we decided Pakistan wins. (I had hoped to also try Afghan, but that did not work out this time.)

(Resisting the urge to feed the kid lentils just to see what would happen)



The fact that Houston has both Pakistani and Afghan restaurants speaks volumes to its cultural diversity – something in limited supply in Montana. (And good thing Houston has good food, since it lacks mountains and therefore anything else fun to do.) So besides consuming the food I also bought bags and bags of it from grocery stores to cart to the Big Sky State. I think it’s safe to say we’ve now got a year’s worth of achiote.

(First swing ride!)



(First time putting on a dress!)



The week in Texas was sort of like a vacation and was followed by a sort of follow-up vacation, which was sort of not like a vacation: we drove back to Montana. The occasion was the picking-up of a ’new’ car. Cross-country road trips are rare gifts, though to do one with a five-month-old in tow stretched the meaning of the word ‘vacation’, to be sure.

(Hello Fort Worth!)



We drove from Houston through Dallas, Fort Worth, and Wichita Falls to Amarillo (‘yellow’ in Spanish, but the locals say ‘Amarila’, so I guess it doesn’t actually mean a thing) where we slept. An 11-hour day. Then it was to Raton, Trinidad, Colorado Springs, Fort Collins, and Cheyenne to Casper, where we spent the second night. A 12-hour day. Then it was Sheridan, Billings, and Bozeman before our triumphant return to Missoula. A nine-hour day.

(Quanah, Texas, where the high plains take over.)



We drove the 70-mile length of Houston in post-peak rush hour, which was certainly one of the most dangerous things I have ever done. We spent a pointless hour in traffic in Fort Worth. The expanse covering the rest of Texas is useful as it gives meaning to the mountains when they can be seen shortly – almost magically – after leaving Texas. We saw a friend in Fort Collins, lots of antelope near Buffalo, and signs for North Dakota upon entry to Montana. Just-plowed snow enlivened the section from Big Timber to Drummond, and some of the radio stations in Missoula come in clear from 70 miles away. Suddenly you pull up in front of the house and wonder where the three days went.

(Roadside scenery near Livingston, Mont.)



Anyway, time to get back to skiing!

(Helmet-fitting at the Last Run Bar.)