Montana Headwall by Independent Publishing

MONTANA HEADWALL

Volume 1.3

OCT.–DEC. 2010

mtheadwall.com

Your Montana Hunting Headquarters Cold Gear Camo Fleece Jacket $109.99 reg. $129.99

Rivers West Waterproof & Windproof Camo Jacket & Pants Insulating, lightweight, stretchable, ultra-quiet, machine washable.

Camo Vest $79.99 reg. $89.99

WFS Waterproof Breathable Camo Jacket or Pants $29.99 each 3XL, 4XL $35.00 each

Iron Man Jacket $109.99 Iron Man Pant $109.99

Cold Gear Camo 1/4 Zip Pull-Over Shirt $65.00 reg. $109.99

Filson Clothing & Luggage Wool & Oilskin Jackets, Coats, Pants, Shirts, Vests & Hats

Woolrich Malone Wool Pants $79.99

Huge Selection of Boots Work-Sport-Hiking-Hunting by • Danner • Wolverine • Vasque • Red Wing • Georgia • Rhino • Irish Setter

Waterproof Hunting Boots 4 Models to Choose From $99.00 Each FREE Pair of Beartooth Merino Wool Blend Boot Socks with Hunting Boot Purchase

Men’s Irish Setter "Gunﬂint"

Men’s Browning Gore-Tex

Tec's "Trailmaster"

Women's Irish Setter "Lady Hawk"

200 Gram Thinsulate $99.99

Waterproof Boots 200 Gram Insulated or Non-Insulated Early Season Boot $99.99

Allen Sharpshooter Easy Sight Riﬂe Rest $40.00

Non-Insulated Waterproof $99.99

BUCK 110 Folding Hunter Knife with Belt Holster $29.99 reg. $55.00

WIN

this WEATHERBY Vangaurd Hunting Rifle

2315 2315 Brooks Brooks St, St Trempers Shopping Center Missoula 406.721.3992 M-F 8am-9pm • Sat. 8am-7pm • Sun. 9am-5pm

HOME of 12 MONTHS TO PAY SAME AS CASH!

NO Down, NO Interest, NO Service Charges On Approved Credit

Elk hunting draws Hal Herring toward the nature of things

CONTENTS

CASTING FOR FAME Nick Davis quests to land a record-breaker—pronto

BITTERROOT GAMBOL Noël Phillips blitzes 30 rugged miles

INSIDE On Belay

Wild Things 36

A climbing accident hits home

Contributors

The finer points of antlers

Grub 38

Heartfelt advice for rookie hunters

Head Lines 11 Head Trip 44

Seeking “The Moment” Cranky about wilderness Who’s howling now? The Tracker Dick Manning’s West Gutless technique

Visual feasts at Holland Lake

Head Out 48 Your fall recreation calendar

Head Gear 51 Head Light 24

Six sharp knives MazDog RipPod Trail Designs Caldera Keg Velocio courier bag Mystery Ranch Crew Cab

Shelter from the storm

Head Shots 26 Our readers’ best

The Crux 58 An ice-climber’s wife left hanging

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF GENERAL MANAGER MANAGING EDITOR ADVERTISING DIRECTOR PRODUCTION DIRECTOR CIRCULATION MANAGER CONTRIBUTORS COPY EDITOR ART DIRECTOR PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS ADVERTISING REPRESENTATIVES ADVERTISING COORDINATOR FRONT DESK

Please recycle this magazine

Chad Harder

STAFF

Matt Gibson Lynne Foland Chad Harder Peter Kearns Joe Weston Adrian Vatoussis

Matthew Frank, Skylar Browning Amy Linn Kou Moua Jenn Stewart, Jonathan Marquis Carolyn Bartlett, Tami Johnson, Steven Kirst, Chris Melton, Miriam Mick, Scott Woodall Hannah Smith Lorie Rustvold 317 S. Orange St.• Missoula, MT 59801 406-543-6609 • Fax 406-543-4367 www.montanaheadwall.com

Montana Headwall is a registered trademark of Independent Publishing, Inc. Copyright 2009 by Independent Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinting in whole or in part is forbidden except by permission of Independent Publishing, Inc. Views expressed herein are those of the author exclusively. And yeah, we’re having fun. Cover photo by Jack Ballard

www.mtheadwall.com

16 32 40

BLOOD RELATIONS

ON BELAY www.mtheadwall.com

n an otherwise fine Saturday in early August, Montana Headwall’s managing editor, Chad Harder, nearly lost his hand in a horrific climbing accident while on assignment for the magazine. I say climbing, but Chad was actually making a routine scramble, clambering over some boulders on his way to the presumably far more dangerous technical pitches in the Pipestone area near Butte, when a large rock dislodged and rolled onto his right wrist, severing it. An exceptionally effective response from his climbing partners—along with an unprecedentedly successful surgery later that night in Salt Lake City—saved his life and preserved his hand. It remains to be seen how functional it will be, but

Brian Roland

Chad’s going to be all right. We’re relieved. At least sort of. Risk, along with the excitement it creates, provides a key ingredient of a lot of our outdoor fun at Headwall. Fear creates energy and sparks excitement. But the exhilarating scariness of, say, Tyler Bradt’s 186-foot plunge over a waterfall (page 11) is altogether different from the uneasiness that Chad’s accident stirs, which promises no glory and gives no release. Chad’s colleagues at Headwall have taken it hard. Such terrible misfortune, and such a painful reminder of the cosmic crapshoot that dictates so much our lives. The dice roll along with the boulders. Chad knows that nobody gets a guarantee, and Jennifer Savage, the wife of a committed ice climber, knows it too. She shares an unexpectedly relevant perspective on her fear in this

issue’s Crux on page 58. Waiting at home, while the father of her children ascends remote icicles, she endures nagging anxiety that offers none of the euphoria her risk-taking husband presumably enjoys. Is it fair? Of course not. None of this seems fair. Incomprehensible misfortune mops the floor with the best of us. It’s beyond humbling. But there’s nonetheless living to be done—plenty of it, in fact. We imagine Chad will make the best of it. We hope the same for ourselves. —Matt Gibson Editor-In-Chief

We Rent Jeeps ana’s “Premier” Mont Ho t Springs Resort! • Four Hot Springs Pools • Five Story Enclosed Waterslide • 153 Guest Rooms and Suites • Golf and Tennis Courts • Hiking and Biking Trails Nearby • World Class Trout Fishing Nearby • Ski, Family and Golf Packages • Casual and Fine Dining • Live Entertainment • Massage and Spa Services • Fall Specials!

1700 Stephens Ave • Missoula, MT

(406) 529-2011 www.xpressmt.com

Visit us at www.fairmontmontana.com tmontana naa.co com om orr call lll 1.800.332.3272 1 800 332 3272 I-90 Exit 211, 15 miles west of Butte, Montana

Custom Designed & Hand-Made in Montana • Fire Packs • Recreational Packs • Hunting Packs

Boulder Creek Packs 810 N. Fifth St. Hamilton, MT • 406/363-5739

www.bouldercreekpacks.com

www.mtheadwall.com

CONTRIBUTORS

Amy Linn An outdoor lover who’s been known to harbor pet geese in her back yard, Linn spent most of her career as a staff writer at newspapers like the Philadelphia Inquirer, then switched to magazines and worked as an editor at Wired and Outside. Her freelance articles have appeared everywhere from U.S. News & World Report to Parents magazine. She’s grateful to live in Missoula.

Noël Phillips After traveling the world as a military brat, Phillips finally found home when she moved to Montana. When she’s not hiking, running, climbing, road biking, kayaking, dancing or practicing yoga, she’s likely cuddling with her cat while reading a good or not-so-good book.

Jack Ballard Jack Ballard’s articles and photos have appeared in over 25 different regional and national titles, and his writing and photography have won numerous awards from the Outdoor Writers Association of America. A Billings resident, Ballard is the author of two books, Creating a Traditional Elk Camp and Elk Hunting Montana.

Nick Davis Nick Davis is an outdoor-television producer and freelance writer who moved to Montana because it is exactly like the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—only with bigger mountains, more fish, fewer biting insects and less humidity. He and his wife Dawn have a four-year-old son, Finn, who Nick hopes will some day land a state record.

Hal Herring

Cathrine L. Walters

A hunter, fisherman, mountaineer and prairie wanderer, Hal Herring came to Montana in 1988 to attend the Yellow Bay Writers’ Workshop. He returned the next year as a tree planter, and never left. He’s now a contributing editor at Field and Stream, editor-at-large for NewWest.net, and contributes work to High Country News, Bugle, the Economist, Miller-McCune and many other publications.

Walters started her career as a traveling photo assistant with Eddie Bauer. Her photos have appeared in the Missoula Independent and the Great Falls Tribune and have been included in exhibits at the Missoula Art Museum and Gallery Saintonge. She recently completed a black and white portrait project, Faces of the Pov, a traveling exhibit that provides a window into the lives of the homeless and helps raise awareness for Missoula’s Poverello Center.

COME PLAY IN THE HIGH COUNTRY • Lodge open daily for breakfast, lunch & dinner. • 20 cabins/rooms available for rent. • Located just 55 miles SW of Missoula on Hwy 12. • Only 12 miles from Lolo Pass & 10 miles from Jerry Johnson Hot Springs! • Plenty of parking year-round for trailers, campers, snowmobiles, and large groups.

Montana Headwall

Page 8 October–December 2009

HEAD LINES

“The Moment” of impact

Erik Boomer

www.mtheadwall.com

“All right, I’ve got this,” Tyler Bradt said to himself. The 22-year-old Missoula resident floated warily toward the drop, seconds from plunging 186 feet straight down over Palouse Falls into a violent impact that no human had ever dared before. Nobody had even come close to running anything this big. Bradt’s calculations of the acceleration and g-forces told him that if he didn’t nose into the landing he would surely snap his back. He had planned on running Palouse Falls later in the fall, but checking it out on April 20, the conditions were ideal. The river was running at a steady flow of 2,010 cubic feet per second. The landing pool, carved by Ice Age floods released from Glacial Lake Missoula, looked “perfect.” Bradt called his boys—a support crew of nine—and told them to get over to Washington. He was ready to make a bid for the world record the next day. Now, a moment from the edge, Bradt let go of his fear and focused on sticking the drop. He poured over the lip. “Boat angle feels good,” he thought to himself. Visualizing success, he slowly, purposefully reached into his tuck. He’d never felt such acceleration. The freefall lasted three-and-a-half seconds and reached 80 mph. Then he slammed into the pool below. It knocked the wind out of him and stunned his senses. His kayak submerged, then rose slowly back to the surface. He pulled himself together and propelled his boat out of the surge with the remaining half of his broken paddle. “There’s a time,” Bradt says, “when you are floating to the lip of the waterfall. You do think, ‘Okay, was the decision I made the right one?’ You have to box that feeling right there. This is the crux of running a waterfall, turning that feeling into positive energy.” Bradt refers to these seconds and the drop itself as “The Moment.” “The waterfall is creating that moment. It is happening regardless if you are in it or not. You have to take definitive action to create the outcome you want at this point.” No stranger to a bad swim, Bradt says fear is healthy because it helps shape your decisions, but being scared will get you killed. “You can’t run something like that fearful. If you’re scared you shouldn’t be running it.” Or perhaps even looking at the picture. –Josh Mahan

TRAIL ACCESS

www.mtheadwall.com

HEAD LINES

Cranky about wilderness If Sen. Jon Tester’s Forest Jobs and Recreation Act becomes law, mountain bikers stand to lose some 360 miles of Montana singletrack in areas slated to become designated wilderness, forcing the fat tire crowd to choose between two rough roads: either get dropped by the regs, or attack the proposed environmental protections. The mountain biking community isn’t opposed to wilderness, says Bob Allen, co-president of the Montana Mountain Bike Alliance. Riders just don’t like the restrictions on bikes and question the blanket ban that the wilderness designation imposes on mechanized travel. “We feel that as bikers, we should be on the side of permanent protection,” Allen says. “But these wilderness bills that boot us off trails we’ve ridden for 25 years or more without any consideration for our position automatically put us in an adversarial stance.” Steering clear of unseemly self-interest, Allen’s group avoids whining about fairness. Instead, public policy-making

being what it is, they’re playing the economic development card. Allen argues the ban on cycling thwarts any potential for future fat tire tourism. To draw attention to their cause, the Mountain Bike Alliance gathered this

Aaron Teasdale

summer for the Montana Backcountry Bicycle Festival in Lima—a frontier outpost south of Dillon with perhaps 200 residents—where a throng of riders booked lodging, bought gas, ate in cafes, and held a spaghetti feed at the local high school, raising $1,000 for an assist-

ed living center and the local historical society. “Our position is that there are little towns across Montana that have worldclass trail systems, and mountain bike tourism could sustain these little economies,” Allen says. “These towns down there could benefit from the driveby tourism.” To keep prized routes open, the alliance has requested some small concessions, Allen says. “In some cases, we’re literally asking them to move the boundary from one side of the trail to another,” he says. In another case, they’re asking for a mile-and-a-half corridor between two adjacent wilderness areas near Spanish Peaks Primitive Area. Allen admits the process has been frustrating, but the alliance’s most recent meeting with the U.S. Forest Service left him feeling optimistic. Even so, Forest Service Public and Governmental Relations Officer Mike Oliver says he has no knowledge of any specific discussion between his agency and Tester’s office regarding mountain bike access in the proposed wilderness areas. –Jesse Froehling

Endless amounts of untracked POWDER

Backcountry skiing, the Swan Range, Montana Sleeping for 8 • Wood-burning stove • Full kitchen

406.721.1779

www.yurtski.com

permittee of Lolo National Forest, Seeley Lake Ranger District

Montana Headwall

Page 12 October–December 2009

The Tracker

$1.9

million

Projected cost of the new overhead wildlife crossing that will span U.S. Highway 93 near Evaro

Other wildlife crossings along the highway between Evaro and Polson

Confirmed grizzly bears residing in the Rattlesnake Wilderness, for now

ALPHA MALES

In for the kill “I love wolves,” says Mike Lapinski. He says it like a TV evangelist, with the same straight-arrow voice he uses in the hunting movies like Radical Elk Strategies and Sure Fire Bear that have featured him, the sweat dripping from his face, streaking the camo paint to his chin. “I love ’em baked, broiled, boiled, barbecued, any way you want to eat them,” he says. “That’s a joke around here,” he adds. Lapinski, who lives in Superior, Montana, is an award-winning author of 11 books, including Death in the Grizzly Maze: the Timothy Treadwell Story, and The Elk Mystique. But foremost he is a hunter. “I am the number one fan of shooting wolves,” he says. As such, he’s purchased a $19 wolf license, joining the more than 9,000 Montanans who, as of press time, have bought tags for a controversial fall wolf hunt season that kicked off Sept. 15 in backcountry areas and starts Oct. 25 elsewhere.

Montana Headwall

The Montana seasons—and one that began Sept. 1 in Idaho—got a legal green light Sept. 8 by U.S. District Judge Donald Molloy, who denied a request by environmental groups to stop the hunts. Lapinski is delighted by the ruling. He says he’s bagged elk near Lookout Pass every year for more than a decade, but can’t find them there any more. “They live in the brush like whitetail deer down by the freeway,” he says. “Anywhere wolves aren’t.” The last time he bow-hunted in his favorite spot, he lured in four wolves with a call meant for elk. “Two came right in, and two circled around me,” he says. “It was eerie.” This year, what he’d really like to do is put his crosshairs on the beast he blames for driving elk away. When the Montana wolf hunt opens, Lapinski plans to be on a mountain bench with a rifle and a predator call. –Ralph Bartholdt

Page 13 October–December 2009

From

Mild-Mannered Commuter

To Fierce Cyclophiliac

Jeff Ho, the eventual winner of the climbing competition at the Lost Horse Boulder Bash, reaches for a hold on The Rail (V4). The September Bash, organized by the Bitterroot Climbers’ Coalition and the University of Montana Climbing Club, originated last year as an effort to raise awareness and protect recreational opportunities in the Bitterroot’s Lost Horse Canyon. Robin Carlton

LIT DROP

On the Breaks

Helping you ride up, down, and over. M-F 9:30-6 Sat 10-5 Sun 11-4 708 S. Higgins Ave. Missoula, MT

406-721-6525

missoulabicycleworks.com

Missoula writer Richard Manning is an intellectual ecoystem all by himself: zealous historian, dogged reporter, forceful polemicist. With Rewilding the West, he angles to add “seer” to his CV. What the West is really all about, Manning argues, is protein, i.e., consumable animal flesh. Manning sees protein in terms of economy, and in economy he seeks the ecologist’s holy grail: sustainability. The book maps the history of the Rewilding the West: Restoration Great Plains to Montana’s in a Prairie Landscape Missoula Breaks, making an University of California Press intuitively compelling case that 230 pages; $24.95 raising beef on privatized plains makes a poor substitute for that landscape’s historic and hypothetically restorable condition as a wildlife-sustaining commons. Seeking to “reconnect conservation to economy,” Manning highlights the work of the American Prairie Foundation, a Montana-based nonprofit that is chipping away at its goal of creating a 3.5-million-acre model prairie reserve in the Breaks. He just hopes the Foundation isn’t thinking too small. It’s a charge no reader of Rewilding the West is likely to level at Manning. –Brad Tyer

CLEAN CUT If you’re still gutting your elk like a fish, disemboweling it before quartering, you’re doing a lot of unnecessary, unpleasant work—and leaving a disgusting mess behind in the process. There’s a better way illustrated below that will spare your nostrils and your clothes from icky offense. Headwall’s resident bugle boy, Art Director Kou Moua, says he can butcher an elk in 30 minutes using this efficient technique, which leaves the messy guts right where they started—inside the elk.

1. Cut the hide down the back from the skull to the tail. Make another cut behind the shoulder, going all the way around the ribs, then remove the skin.

3. Skin the hindquarter, then remove it by carving along the pelvic bone to the ball-and-socket joint. Protect the meat from contamination by bagging it, then cut through the ligament holding things together.

2. Remove the front leg by pulling it up and cutting it from the rib cage.

4. Remove the remaining meat by cutting along the spine from stem to stern, then peel away the backstrap. To get at the tenderloin, reach under the ribs from behind and pull, using your knife to cut away the ends if necessary. Bag as you go to keep everything tidy. Hang all the meat to cool.

Illustrations by Kou Moua

5. Flip the animal over and repeat. That’s it. Unless you want the antlers or the cape, you’re done.

Montana Headwall

Page 15 October–December 2009

nder a dust-crusted lightbulb in the barn, the backstrap peels away from the ridges of the elk’s spine, helped by careful cuts of a boning knife that’s been sharpened so many times the blade has thinned to only an eighth-inch or so wide. There’s a clean piece of muslin draped over the bottom of the old Coleman canoe, and the other backstrap lies there, rich and purple-black against the white cloth. Deep into November, muted sunlight gently nudges through the barn door, clouds building in the north, a wind rustling the dry leaves on the cottonwoods.

jerked from the waist-high tangle of weeds This time tomorrow it could be 20 below. and made ready. We’d been in Montana a The elk carcass, now so pliable, will be hanglittle over a year, and I had my first resident ing here frozen hard as marble. Fingers will big game license, a piece of paper that ache, feet will be numb, a crude meat saw seemed to glow like radium, a passport to will replace the precise old knife. There is a the great yawning freedom that lay beyond perfect day almost every fall when the season’s elk and deer have been hanging long enough to age the meat perfectly, just before Skiing and climbing, like the gavel of winter falls. Today is it. Clear off the kitchen table are also deep and the counters, turn the satellite radio up high, stock weather and . But a the wood stove. Knife sharpener, freezer paper and tape, a becomes something that only a Sharpie to write on the packages: “ham steaks, grade B,” “shoulder meat, stew,” “backclimbers or skiers ever become or even strap steaks, butterflied, A.” Clean buckets for grinder meat to be: and soup bones, a box for dog scraps. The job will go on into the hayfields, where the Bitterroots rose like the night, and then some. Do not hurry, do the wall of a mysterious kingdom. I grabbed not rest. Cut straight. Don’t mess up the gift a butt pack with some water and ammo for of this mighty creature. my battered old .308 lever gun, and set off In late October of 1990, I was living with walking, stopping to take the last of the Wolf my wife in a cabin on the west side of the Bitterroot Valley near Stevensville, caretaking River apples from a tree that had been nearly destroyed by the nightly visits of black bears. a small ranch owned by an heir to the The ranch wintered a herd of about 80 Pepperidge Farm fortune. The aluminum irrigation pipes that ruled over every hour of elk, but we had moved in at the beginning of haying, so I had never seen them. In fact, I every summer day were stacked in racks had seen only one elk in my life, a young beside the equipment shop. The trucks and bull, horns still in velvet, leaping across the tractors had been winterized, the snowplow

trail on St. Mary’s Peak. I knew that somewhere, high above me, some of those elk that wintered on the ranch must be gathering. A worn game trail with no fresh tracks took me up, and up, through stately groves of ponderosa, across marshy little creek bottoms thick with chokecherry and spruce and up again to a long ridge. A gentle thudding came , from above, a sound I’d never heard before. I stopped and , leaned against a tree to break my outline, as I’d learned as a child hunting squirrels in Alabama. The thudding got louder. I stared upward, almost in disbelief. A huge creature the color of sunburnt grass appeared, horns towering, a kind of shaggy mane, . almost black. I slowly realized this was what had drawn me up the mountain. This was a bull elk. I raised my rifle and shot him, and to my utter amazement he slammed to the ground, careening downhill in a dramatic power slide that carried him past me and into a small patch of young Doug fir and spruce, where he thrashed and then went still. I remained rooted to the earth, hands shaking, as a sense of growing horror at what I had done began to creep over me. It had all happened so fast there had been no time for contemplation. Now, the great beast lay dead.

hunting studies of landscape risk good hunter few

desire

an inhabitant

Around me, the mountain seemed dreadfully empty, the autumn light morose. I went to him and took out my knife, slack-jawed at the immensity of the task before me. I tapped his eyeball to make sure he was dead, jammed one of his giant back hooves behind an uphill sapling, and poked tentatively at his Rocky Mountain-sized belly with the blade, imagining the monstrous coils and organs bound within. Something exploded in my head, a thunderous, white flash. When I opened my eyes, I was face down, tangled in the Doug firs, the smell of the bull heavy in my nose. The hoof that I had stuck behind the sapling had come loose and cut me down like a bolt from Zeus. It took until late the next afternoon to get him out of the woods, taking him apart and lashing the quarters—the shoulders and hams—to an old pack frame I’d found in our cabin that must have once belonged to the Marquis de Sade. The hams were so heavy that I had to prop the pack against a tree, sit down in front of it, jam my arms through the unpadded straps, heave forward to all fours, and then endeavor to stand. I could only stagger downhill, 50 yards or so at a time, the de Sade pack frame sanding away the flesh of my hips and the straps biting into my shoulders like a two-headed snapping turtle—a scene repeated for a couple hours until the dull Montana Headwall

Page 19 October–December 2009

sheen of the tarpaper roof of our cabin appeared through the pines. A couple of weeks later, after a spell of weather warm enough to allow for one last rock climbing trip in Blodgett Canyon, my climbing buddies and I drank beer and grilled backstrap steaks on the front deck of the cabin, the corrals of the ranch spread out below us. The Sapphire Range, with all of its own wild elk country, rose black and tumbled at the far edge of the valley. The steaks were perfect, served with grated horseradish root dug from the unkillable specimen by the steps. “Yeah,” I said, “I just walked up the trail until I ran into him.” Beer in hand, I gestured at the mountains and told them maybe I could show them how to get an elk for themselves some day. It would be some long years before I saw another bull elk in the woods. I hunted hard, climbing high to the bony ridges of the Bitterroots, exploring lost cirques and plateaus, driving the maze of logging roads from the East Fork through to the Big Hole. I obsessed over maps and made long trips into roadless drainages, the Blue Joint, the Overwhich, Two Bear, Jew Mountain, Sleeping Child. Always, there were elk. You could smell them on the wind, hear them

Montana Headwall

Page 20 October–December 2009

crashing away in the lodgepoles, track them through hot afternoons and howling blizzard mornings. I learned something: Elk hunting takes its strongest grip on people like me, the wanderers, the climbers, the true outdoor freaks who are desperate not just to kill elk but also to see what’s over the next ridge, and the next one after that. But just burning up gas or boot leather or, as some call it, “rifle hiking,” is not really the way to put elk in the freezer. The trick is to take that hunger for big country and high

We’d been in Montana a little

50 50

over a year, and I had my first resident big game license, a piece of paper that seemed to

Single-Malt

glow like radium, a passport to the great yawning freedom

Scotches

that lay beyond the hayfields,

Bitterroots rose like the wall of a mysterious kingdom. where the

Craft Beers

places and tweak it from macro to micro. In short, you find a spot where there are some elk, and you stay there, or keep going back there, until you know every inch of the place: where the trails go to water, to grass, to the black timber where you’ll never be able to follow them. What kind of weather makes them move, or causes them to hole up, or leave for higher or lower ground? Where do the mountain lions lie and watch them, leaving their weird, melted-out snow angels behind? Where are the old trails, used when the real snows come, when the danger of predators, like the wolves and the lions and you, are outweighed by the need to move to winter range, and the herds move, in knots and bands, all day long? It is a deep apprenticeship to a landscape. It sounds simple, and it is, just like navigating by the stars, climbing an A4 pitch, or throwing a perfect diamond hitch on a balky pack mule. For me, a person who loves to ski the backcountry, to climb rock and ice, to fish and wander, there is no relationship to landscape that is as profound as elk hunting. And because there are other sentient beings involved—the elk themselves, the other nations of creatures and birds that share the place with us both—the relationship bores deeper yet. Skiing and

On-Tap

One Great Location

Charge in and get your horn wet.

158 Ryman Street Downtown Missoula 406/721-6061

Montana Headwall

Page 21 October–December 2009

climbing, like hunting, are also deep studies of landscape, weather and risk. But a good hunter becomes something that only a few climbers or skiers ever become or even desire to be: an inhabitant. And that is never truer than later, in the relative safety of home or camp, when he or she eats an animal honorably pursued, killed in a place well-loved and well-known. I still love to ski and climb, but to go out every fall and try to kill an elk to feed my family and myself has become one of the most important pursuits of my life. My new country lies at the southern end of the Bob Marshall Wilderness. I’ve only been learning it for five years; most of it still speaks a language I don’t yet understand. The elk here live with the entire spectrum of predators in place: resident and traveling packs of wolves, mountain lions, grizzlies, and a lot of human hunters on horses who reach deep into the backcountry and haunt the choke points of the migration routes to winter range. Even with all those dangers, the herds remain too big for the winter range, so cow tags are readily available, and I try to get one every year. My hunting partners and I all kill for meat now. If we ever dreamed of massive bulls, the dream evaporated with the need to feed our children at a time when America’s commercial food system has become diseased. Even grass-fed and organic cattle are still cattle—slow witted, slow moving, shit-smeared and Continued on page 54 Montana Headwall

Page 22 October–December 2009

Red Barn Bicycles - Your source for Backcountry Mountain Bikes and Gear.

399 McCarthy Loop Hamilton, MT 59840 (406) 363-2662 www.redbarnbicycles.com Montana Headwall

Page 23 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

HEAD LIGHT by Chad Harder

In the bag Forty-eight hours and a dozen deep-woods miles into our hunting trip and we’ve seen no elk—just sopping shrubbery, turbulent skies and endless rain. I’m hunkered down beneath a lodgepole with hopes of shooting a cow elk for the freezer, or at least elk photos for the files. While the mighty wapiti are nowhere in sight, I’m surrounded by fantastic, flaming foliage, and a stunning pool four feet from my hidey-hole is full of brilliant, droplet-covered leaves, begging to be photographed. With little chance of wildlife images, I’m resigned to capturing some true autumn beauty. Problem is, it’s pouring, and everything from my scope to my backpack is soaked. The only thing bone-dry is my camera, but it’s triple-bagged and buried in my pack. Sure, it’s dry and safe, but

Chad Harder

out-of-hand it’s entirely worthless. How to get the picture without drenching my costly camera? Start—before you head out—with a one-gallon plastic baggie with a zipper top. Open it, slide your camera inside, and trace the round front element of the lens with a Sharpie. Cut it out, erring deliberately on the small side. Gently push the opening snugly around the end of the lens, stretching the plastic slightly as you go. Zip the bag closed and you’re set with a rain-resistant camera jacket costing less than a candy bar. The controls are workable through the bag and only your front element—ideally a protective UV filter—is exposed to the elements. Cover your butt by tossing in a small cotton rag. It’ll absorb any water that sneaks inside.

Don't just leave your great outdoors pictures sitting on your computer â&#x20AC;&#x201C; get them published in the next issue of MONTANA HEADWALL! You'll get a prize pack of Headwall goodies, plus a $25 gift card to the Dark Room if your photo gets published.

The criteria are simple: go outside, play hard and take a bunch of pictures. Then send your best to hweditor@mtheadwall.com. Include your name, the location, the names of all people pictured and the technical beta like shutter speed and aperture. We'll take it from there.

Montana Headwall

Page 25 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

HEAD SHOTS www.mtheadwall.com Brian Story hikes for July turns on Gray Wolf Peak in the Mission Mountains. 1/200 sec @ f/8. Colin Chisolm

Professional mountain biker Sam Schultz doing intervals on Mount Jumbo’s US West Trail in Missoula. 1/1000 sec @ f/5.6. Tom Robertson

The staff of Montana Headwall knows you’re out there, having wicked adventures and documenting your exploits photographically. Problem is, even excellent images often get dumped onto a hard drive, never again seeing the light of day. We’re ready to fix this tragedy by dedicating a few pages of every issue to our readers’ best photos. The criteria are simple: go outside, play hard, and take a bunch of pictures. Then send your best to hweditor@mtheadwall.com. Include your name, the location pictured, the names of all people pictured and the technical beta like shutter speed and aperture. We’ll take it from there. Now get outside and start shooting.

HEAD SHOTS www.mtheadwall.com Fusillade Mountain in Glacier National Park. 1/640 sec at f/6.0. Brian Roland

Grand Prismatic Spring in Yellowstone National Park. 1/620 sec @ f/5.6. Dave Chenault

Montana Headwall

Page 29 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

HEAD SHOTS www.mtheadwall.com

Ben Litz leading the last pitch of No Sweat ArĂŞte, Mill Creek Canyon, Bitterroot Mountains. ISO 400, 1/250 sec @ f/4.0. Robin Carleton

Looking for

Peace & Tranquility? Come Stay With Us

Come Play at 8000 Feet

Altoona Ridge Lodge invites you to enjoy the best in outdoor activities, personal exploration, and solitude.

Altoona Ridge Lodge Atop the Flint Creek Mountains 10 miles from the paved road Capture the beauty of the world around you Enjoy the 120-mile view from the deck Savor culinary delights Relax in a warm & comfortable lodge

Altoona Ridge Lodge Takes you away from the day-to-day bustle of everyday life • OPEN YEAR-ROUND • FULLY CATERED • OFF THE GRID • SaunA & Showers • TRAINED GUIDES • HIKING • MOUNTAIN BIKING • CLOUD WATCHING • SNOWSHOEING • NORDIC SKIING Book your exclusive trip today!

406.493.6810

altoonaridgelodge.com a

he storm clouds have built all morning along a ridge of pressure to the northwest, and they’ve finally begun to hunt us down. We’re rocking a bit now, riding waves pushed by the steadily building wind, but the 26-foot aluminum lake cruiser rolls with the punches like a champ. I turn my attention to the skipper’s chair, where Pat Campanella looks at the rain machinegunning the surface of Flathead Lake, and then back at me. “I’m not too worried about this stuff yet,” he says. “You want to keep fishing? You never know. Sometimes a little commotion up top can get the bite going good.” The bite. It’s a term shared by just about all fishermen, and it boils fishing conditions down to their naked essentials: whether the fish, in this place and at this time, are eating or not. I walk out on the rear deck and survey the half-dozen fishing rods twisting akimbo over the stern like busted fingers. I can see the photo now: Against a background bled of all color by the wrath of the storm, I hold the behemoth in both arms, straining to

contain its massive girth. The look in my eyes, which lock the camera lens under a brim dripping rain and lake water, is one of triumph and redemption, powered by the dawning certainty that no one in Montana’s history had ever subdued a leviathan such as this. Hell yes, we’re going to keep fishing. I need the bite.

he laughter coming from the other end of the phone is not quite ominous—it’s mixed with too much pity and disbelief to hold a hard edge—but it sends a cold bolt through my guts nonetheless. This is a public servant, after all, a guy ostensibly committed to the common cause of society in general and, given his position as a fish biologist with Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks, to the cause of fish-chasers in particular. And here I am, a natural-born fishchaser drawing nigh on the most audacious piscine mission of my life, and Ladd Knotek’s bone-chiller of a laugh is telling me all I need to know about my chances of success.

Dream on: Sparkly green squid don’t actually live in Flathead Lake, but they look kind of yummy, don’t they?

“Trying to catch a state record fish on any given day, well, it makes the guy looking for a needle in a haystack look pretty good by comparison,” he says after finally, I can only presume, wiping the tears from his face. The thing that makes Knotek’s laugh truly annoying is that I know he’s right. I’ve been fishing the western part of the state as hard as I can for the better part of 20 years and haven’t come close to All 42.5 inches of the state record lake trout, on display at the Montana Fish Wildlife and Parks even hooking a state record, let office in Kalispell. alone bringing one to hand. That The right boat is one thing, of course; clients he had in June, a father and son who the self-imposed conditions of my task the right time and place is another one managed to hook a laker that surely would include a two-day window in which to subentirely. As it turns out, neither the caphave set a new record. due the ultimate trophy does precious little tain’s tolerance for discomfort nor mine “If you’ve seen enough 50-pound fish, to improve my odds, but make no mistake: extends to holding 8-foot lightning rods in While the physical goal of my quest is a fish you know what they are,” he says, noting an electrical storm and, after getting his extensive experience with the massive that will land me in the state annals, what I’m really trying to catch here is lightning in king salmon of Alaska. “This fish was push- pushed off the lake by late morning lightning (and me, with no bottle in hand), we ing 50 pounds.” a bottle. return for an afternoon jaunt that is as But as Pat prepared to net the beast, The first question is which species to fruitless as it is pleasant. Day One score: the dad handed the rod off to his 7-yeartarget. Fish, Wildlife and Parks (FWP) lists two lake trout, the heaviest of which old, who was quickly overpowered by the records for 61 fish in Montana, ranging in weighs three pounds. creature. size from a minnow called an emerald “Like anybody, I really would like to shiner weighing .01 pounds to a paddlefish break the record,” says Pat, the pained look tipping the scales at 142.5 pounds. I decide in his eyes making it clear he did not et that one hunt, Nick!” says Tim to rule out non-game species, as any such approve of patriarchal gallantry when so Linehan as he watches my big foam victory would be a hollow one (Do you much was at stake. I had found Pat on a bug drift perfectly along the surface of a suppose the owner of the emerald shiner random search of Flathead Lake charter seam that screams “big trout.” It’s early in record ever got laid—or even a free beer— captains, but I think I’m on the right boat. the morning the day after my Flathead Lake for his trouble? Me neither). Twenty-nine of the listed record species are native to the state; being a non-native myself (though one who has burrowed in with the hardiest of invaquestion, so you might be doing FWP a If you’ve got a mind to get your name in the sives), I reckon I’ll stick to my favor to knock off Big Daddy or Big Mama. record books, here are some fish to consider. kind. And to simplify things Bonus: You could nickname yourself even further, I narrow my reach “Cisco Kid.” Species: Peamouth to the species that brought me to State Record: 1.52 pounds Montana in the first place: trout.

“L

Angling for Glory

o this is how I find myself on Flathead Lake on a recent morning, dreams of glory sloshing around my rain-addled head. The state record lake trout—a 42.5-inch, nearly 43-pound brute—was landed here five years ago by Ruth Barber, a 77year-old woman deep-trolling a lure known as a flatfish. Adjusting our rigs—you can bet the flatfish is represented here, though we’re sadly lacking in grandma mojo—as we move from relatively shallow (60 feet) to relatively deep (120 feet) water, Pat tells me about two Montana Headwall

Why: The state record came from the Clark Fork River, near to many of us, so gas money is not a big factor. You’d have bragging rights over the emerald shiner record holder. Species: Brown Trout State Record: 29 pounds Why: Because most any trout fisherman would trade naming rights on their firstborn to experience a take-and-fight—they’re renowned for savage attacks—from a brown trout that big. Species: Cisco State Record: 1.75 pounds Why: Introduced to Fort Peck Reservoir as a forage species, their value as such is now in Page 34 October–December 2009

Species: Walleye State Record: 17.75 pounds Why: Not particularly sexy as a game fish, but a sublime meal. And 18 pounds of walleye = lots of happy stomachs. Species: Paddlefish State Record: 142.5 pounds Why: The chance to hold a prehistoric monster, a living fossil. And they taste good, too.

For more daydream fodder, you can check out all the Montana fish records at http://fwp.mt.gov. –Nick Davis

debacle and I’m feeling charged up despite the recent beat-down. Tim’s my ace in the hole, an old buddy who runs a first-class outfitting operation in the Yaak Valley. His bread-and-butter water for fishing clients is the Kootenai River near Libby, which also happens to be the exact location of the state record rainbow trout catch—a 33-pound monster landed just below the Libby Dam in 1997. We’re in one of Tim’s driftboats, floating just downstream of the massive edifice that gives this river so much of its character. As Tim notes, the average-size trout here is actually a bit smaller than its brethren in some of western Montana’s more famous rivers, but the Kootenai shelters some of the biggest rainbow and bull trout in the state. Under Tim’s watchful eye I had run a big streamer deep through some choice runs below the dam, and though I hadn’t landed anything of consequence, I did have a humongous shadow detach itself from a submerged boulder and make a brief but unrequited run at my fly. I’m feeling good. I’m a fly-fisherman at heart, and in my quiver is an array of

Rainbow water on the Kootenai River below Libby dam. line for dry-fly fishing, an 11-foot “switch” rod (one that can be cast with either one or two hands) for subsurface nymphing, and finally the big artillery: a 9-foot, 6-weight Howitzer of a rod rigged with

designed to put the fly (usually a large baitfish imitation) in deep water where the truly wild things are. To be honest, I’m still jacked up about the events of early that morning. After staying at one of the Linehans’ well-appointed cabins up the Yaak the night before, I’d been heading toward Libby not long after sunrise. Coming down a gentle slope toward a creek bottom, I saw a tan flash on the left side of the road and immediately thought “deer” because of its size and color. Almost as immediately, I realized how wrong I was because the animal moved unlike any hoofed creature alive. In a flash the mountain lion loped across the road in two easy, impossibly smooth strides, towing a flowing tail that must have stretched four feet. After the euphoria subsided I found myself emboldened in a big way. I wouldn’t call myself superstitious, but how could you not feel a bit of extra juju, being on a mission such as mine and having witnessed what I just had? Wasn’t there a moment there when the big cat turned its head slightly, throwing my way a fraternal nod that validated our respective

no mistake: While the physical goal of my quest is a fish that will land me in the state annals, what I’m really trying to catch here is lightning Make

rods and setups that will allow me to deploy any method necessary to hunt down a potential history-maker. There’s a 9-foot, 5-weight spooled with a floating

a 15-foot sink-tip line for fishing streamers. This last one is my best hope for hooking and subduing a record-class fish, as the weighted front end of the line is

in a

bottle.

positions as apex predators free to toy with the rest of the food chain as we saw fit? Yes, I think there was. After the first couple of hours on the Kootenai, though, I’ve begun to realize that my brush with predatory nature was not a sign from above that I possess feral powers or, for that matter, any luck. In short, Mother Nature is kicking my ass. Many fishermen feel that significant weather changes—marked by large barometric swings, which we’d seen in spades over the past couple of days—put fish off the bite until they adjust to the new conditions, and that seems to be what’s happening. After a stretch of mostly fruitless fishing, Tim ties a small, weighted nymph a couple feet below my dry fly and we still can’t raise any fish—not even small ones, the kind you normally can’t keep off a setup like this. ‘That’s telling, pal,” Tim says. “The dinks should be hammering that thing. They’re tight today.” Continued on page 55

by Andy Smetanka

WILD THINGS

Facts on racks Boning up on the finer points of antlers

n Montana, antlers are all over the place. Get up close and you’ll see no two are alike in their polished tips, their small defects and beauty marks, or in their burnished brown grooves—the ossified paths of old arteries in the velvet. There’s a lot to love, and a lot to learn, about antlers. For starters, how to distinguish them from plain old horns: Horns are made of a hair-like substance, and their owners generally do not shed them. Antlers, on the other hand, are pure bone, grown and shed every year. They can grow faster than almost any other animal tissue—as much as half an inch per day—truly the bamboo of the animal world. Bucks start out with incipient antlers in the form of little bony knobs on their heads called pedicels.

(Reindeer and caribou are the only deer species in which both males and females grow racks.) The appearance of proper antlers is governed by the sun. The deer’s brain picks up information about the daylight to determine the proper time for delivering a small blast of testosterone to the pedicels, which triggers growth. To nourish the growing bone, the antlers develop beneath a specialized skin called velvet, rich in blood vessels and up to 6,000 nerves per square inch, each with its own attached trigger-hair. As the initially soft, spongy antlers reach maturity (five to six years of age for a whitetail’s antler-growing prime), the velvet starts to dry up and peel off, and the buck hastens the itchy process by rubbing its new rack on bushes and

trees. This has the added effect of announcing the buck’s new antlers to others in the area. The popular conception of antlers as weapons of rutting dominance misses half the picture. There’s far more friendly sparring among elk than serious combat, and bucks with spankin’ new antlers tend to hang out mostly with other bucks. Kind of like the human males in a Judd Apatow movie. As common as they are, many mysteries remain about antlers, which also function as oversized hearing aids. And if a deer sustains an injury to a rear leg, the antler on the opposite side will often be stunted or deformed. No one knows why. Personally, I like the idea that we may never find out.

grow faster than almost any other animal tissue —as much as half an inch per day— truly the bamboo of the animal world. They can

Peter Kearns

Montana Headwall

Page 37 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

Gutting better all the time

by Ari LeVaux

GRUB

A first-timer’s guide to hunting and hearty eats

ou finally knocked one down. F— yeah! After buying a gun, learning how to use it, and venturing out in search of something to kill, the folded instructions from the Internet on how to gut a beast are actually coming in handy. Back at camp, amid the backslapping, your buddies chuckle at how bloody you are. Funny, you hadn’t noticed. They convince you to take a bite of your deer’s raw heart, because that’s what a hunter is supposed to do after his first kill. So you remove the heart from the Ziploc bag. It’s about as big as your own. As you hold it close to your face, the same gut juice stench that’s been surrounding you like a cloud gets much, much stronger, and your stomach turns as you prepare to bite. You dig your teeth into the rubbery organ, chew and swallow as quickly as possible. It’s totally disgusting. Later on, your buddies suggest cooking the tenderloins, so you fry them in oil with salt and pepper, and as you bring a bite to your mouth you’re again assaulted by the smell of gut juice. You chew, and chew, and chew, and can’t make a dent because the flesh of the so-called tenderloin is apparently reinforced with carbon fiber. If the tenderloin is this tough, you wonder, how tough is the rest of the deer? And will it taste any better?

animal’s internal organs—is to use a nifty piece of gear called a gut hook. It’s basically a curved knife that you insert into an opening in the animal’s belly skin and pull along the length of its body cavity. It opens the animal like a zipper, which is much better than fumbling with your knife. Gerber makes the best gut hook knife that I’m aware of; stay away from the Wyoming brand model, which is designed so poorly it seems intended to

••• You’re hardly the first mighty deer hunter to ask these questions. The first carcass experience, like the first carnal experience, can be emotionally frantic and handicapped by cluelessness, laden with expectations of what should happen and what you should feel. But don’t worry—it gets better. And for those who want to leapfrog the learning curve, here’s a primer on what is and isn’t worth doing in the moments and meals following a kill. As soon as you’re done cleaning your animal in the field, clean yourself. The lingering odor of blood and guts on your body and clothes at camp can transport you back to the kill scene, making you extra sensitive to the gamy flavors in the meat. One good way to stay clean—as well as to speed up the gutting process and eliminate the possibility of rupturing the Montana Headwall

Pumpernickel Stewart

make you cut yourself. As for chewing on the heart, not only does it do absolutely nothing to cement your status as a real hunter, but it’s also gross. And a chewed-on heart is problematic to cook down the road when you want to eat the rest—which you probably won’t do if you’ve sampled it raw. The tenderloins are indeed appropriately named, because they are more tender than most other cuts. But almost any cut of meat, if eaten within hours of the kill, will still be stiff with rigor mortis. Except the heart, that is, and perhaps that accounts for the tradition of eating the heart first (cooked, yes; raw, no). Being an internal organ, heart meat doesn’t get rigor mortis. So back at camp, after you’ve washed the heart—and

Page 38 October–December 2009

when you truly feel like eating some of your animal—slice the meat crosswise into steaks and cook them in the pan with oil, salt and pepper. If you have some mushrooms to throw in the pan, or even a can of cream of mushroom soup, that will add nicely to the meal. So will an accompanying red wine or a passedaround flask of whiskey. As for those tenderloins, they do merit special attention because of their placement in the deer, exposed in the back of the body cavity and vulnerable to spoilage. While the rest of the carcass can hang for days or even weeks in your garage—provided there are constant sub-40degree temperatures— the tenderloins must be removed as soon as possible and carefully cleaned, either by trimming or rinsing. After a week or so in the freezer, the meat will have loosened up and be ready for the pan. And you’ll want to keep that pan handy for when you cut up the rest of the carcass back home. Some of the finest moments of the hunting season occur during this butchering process, when scraps of crimson flesh are spontaneously dropped into a hot pan on the kitchen stove with oil, salt and pepper, and washed down with wine. Just be advised: Once you’ve done this too many times in a given night, it will be time to put down the knife for safety reasons—a tired carver is a lot more prone to slicing off a digit. Conveniently, this allows you to devote your full attention to celebrating your successful hunt with more wine and meat, not necessarily in that order. After you’ve successfully conquered your first carcass, you’ll be primed for many more hunting seasons, each one smoother than the last. And some day soon, as an experienced hunter, you’ll get the pleasure of convincing some other greenhorn to take a bite of raw heart.

State-of-the-art facility including on-site surgery, imaging, and orthopedic urgent care.

721-4436 OFFICE

2360 Mullan Road â&#x20AC;˘ Missoula

Hand/Microvascular Surgery Sports Injuries Work-Related Injuries General Orthopedics Total Joint Replacement Spine Foot & Ankle

Serving Western Montana for Over 50 Years with Comprehensive Orthopedic Care

w w w. m i s s o u l a b o n e a n d j o i n t . c o m

Montana Headwall

Page 39 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

by Noël Phillips

HEAD TRIP

Bitterroot gambol Trekking 30 miles in one day can be brutal ... or blessed

A red dotted line squiggled its way over Bear Creek Pass from Idaho into Montana—at least on some maps. The line remained conspicuously and uncomfortably absent on others. Agonizingly familiar with soul-sucking, energy-draining Bitterroot bushwhacks, I knew dotted lines on a map did not guarantee the existence of a trail. Yet, I clung to the wiggling red marks I had seen with unrelenting tenacity. I insisted upon the trail’s presence. Last year, my friend Greg Peters and I initiated an annual rite of completing a long, single-day trek by making a 28mile loop hike of the Fred Burr drainage and Mill Creek in the Bitterroots. For this year’s outing, the teasing red line inspired an even more lofty goal: 30 miles through the Selway-Bitterroot

Greg Peters

Wilderness over two passes, with the questionable existence of a trail. I managed to convince Greg that a track climbed the northwestern aspect of Bear Creek Pass, connecting Big Creek with Bear Creek. My husband Joshua, on the other hand, was not a believer. “There’s not going to be a trail back there,” he warned. “Yes, there is,” I said. “No, there’s not. It’s going to be a bushwhack—deadfall everywhere. You’re only planning one day for this?” My husband’s skepticism registered clearly and threatened to shake my cheerful optimism. I delivered the only rebuttal possible.

“Well … I choose to think positively.” My chin jutted forward in defiance. “Thinking positively doesn’t change reality. There’s not going to be a trail.” I tried to ignore my husband, but the idea of a monstrous bushwhack lying in wait 16 miles into the wilderness caused my stomach to churn and my palms to sweat, so Greg and I planned on leaving the Big Creek trailhead early

Greg Peters

Tired feet get a refreshing dip fording Bear Creek at 26 miles.

Gradually, the black sky gave way to a enough to allow for the possibility of a gray dawn and a single, resounding trill death march. And because attitude means from a bird sounded the morning’s reveille. everything, we armed ourselves with the Angry chatter from a squirrel answered the hope that at least one cartographer knew bird’s call, and like a Marine barracks, the his trade. forest awoke at once. Our steps quickened as After a groggy, barely-lucid breakfast in we shook away the last tendrils of darkness. Hamilton at a time of day I would normally We then began the sticky task of removing refer to as “night,” Greg and I drove up an uncharacteristically empty Highway 93 toward the trailhead. With a final check to ensure the car keys found their way safely into my pack, I took the lead down the trail. It’s not that I was dying to get out front, but Greg, less cautious than I, did not bother to pack a light. To travel by headlamp is to enter an unearthly world—to tumble down the rabbit hole. Within the fuzzy blue circle of light, colors disappear into a muted palette of grays and silvers. Shadows merge into incongruous shapes and sizes, and familiar objects take on an unrecGreg Peters ognizable character. Outside of the bubble, the darkness pressed against us, while the loamy, fraBig Creek Lake. grant smells of the ancient forest the cobwebs that covered us as we rushed saturated our nostrils. up the trail toward Big Creek Lake. Our stumbling footsteps concerned me. I “We’re here already?” I asked Greg as we wondered how rough miles 10 and 20 might crested a steep hill. become if we were already tripping over We had blitzed the first nine miles to the roots this early in the game. I attempted to lake in three hours—good time. After a voice my concern, but I was too tired to say quick stop to filter water and greet a party of anything. Half of me remained nestled in horse packers, we made our way toward bed. Montana Headwall

Packbox Pass. Our rapid pace slowed as we climbed the four miles to the Bitterroot Divide. “You know it’s going to be steeper than this getting back into Montana?” It was the sort of comment no one likes to hear when grinding up a punishing climb, but I said it anyway. “Really?” Greg asked. “Yep. Much steeper.” Greg’s quiet, grunting response betrayed some apprehension, but we both returned our attention to the path. Heavily-laden huckleberry bushes along the switchbacks trail added a happy distraction and helped us slow the pace to a comfortable plod. The berries soon gave way to gleaming white granite slopes as we approached Packbox Pass. The summit of the divide revealed impressive, jagged spires to the south of the canyon and the lengthy span of Big Creek Lake below us. But even with 13 miles now complete, we had not yet covered half the distance we planned. After a quick look at the map, we plunged down the thicklytimbered Idaho side of the mountains. According to the red dotted lines, the path would switchback three miles down to Packbox Creek, past a detour to White Sand Lake and then lead to a junction a quarter mile later with a trail that promised to take us up to Bear Creek Pass. It was that last sec-

Page 41 October–December 2009

Greg Peters

Atop Bear Creek Pass, with pizza still more than eight miles away.

tion—the trail to the pass— which led a doubtful existence, appearing on some maps, but not on others. Was it nothing more than a rendering on paper? Still armed with wishful thinking, we descended through dense forest, past corridors of whortleberries, over avalanche-scarred meadows covered with startling blue gentians, and across brushy bogs that sucked noisily at our feet. Three miles from the pass, at the junction with the trail to White Sand Lake, we actually considered the merits of the four-mile side trip to dip our toes in the water. But, uncertain of what lay ahead, neither of us wanted to add additional distance to the 30 clicks already on the itinerary. A quarter mile now separated us from the questionable trail to Bear Creek Pass and the possibility of a heinous bushwhack. My stomach started churning again. I anxiously watched the minutes tick by on my watch as I attempted to judge the passage of a quarter of a mile. One minute … Montana Headwall

three minutes … five … seven … “Woohoo!!” Greg’s shout of joy triggered an exultant yelp of my own. A

Joe Weston

Page 42 October–December 2009

wooden sign bearing the words “Bear Creek Pass” with an arrow pointing the way hung from a tree where a distinctive, freshlycleared boulevard branched east-

ward off the main thoroughfare. We high-fived, laughed and practically skipped up the trail. The wide, wonderful, thankGod-it-was-there path followed Garnet Creek before traversing the mountainside. Three and a half miles of beautiful, clear trail now separated us from Bear Creek Pass. “Hey, Greg—this trail was just recently cleared,” I noted. Above us came the unexpected chink of hammer on rock. We realized then how lucky we were. A trail crew of three dusty guys and their dog appeared around a bend. A day earlier and our route might have been buried under alder and deadfall. “We love you guys!” I called as we passed. Once again in alpine terrain, the trail, although slightly overgrown, remained visible. A final, quad-burning half-mile climb up a gully of white boulders brought us to the summit of Bear Creek Pass, where Bryan Lake, nestled in a steeplywalled canyon, welcomed us back to

Greg Peters

Gentians along the path. Montana. A mere eight and a half miles to go—all downhill. But the miles had started to take their toll. As we descended the well-traveled Bear Creek trail, our limited conversation focused on fantasies of pizza toppings and the hot tub awaiting us, punctuated by reports on my aching knee and our tired feet. Neither of us had the energy we’d enjoyed at the end of the previous year’s trek, when we hiked the final distance to the car in slap-happy ecstasy, singing rap songs in full voice without a hint of embarrassment. This time, we were almost silent. The last few miles became a blur: an icy but welcome creek crossing; protesting feet shoved back into shoes; advancing on auto-pilot until the rooftops of

several cars finally appeared. Thirteen hours and 30 miles from Big Creek, we wearily dropped our packs and took a final photo. We were exhausted. My knee was screaming and we still had the irksome chore of returning to the car parked at Big Creek. But we had done it! We’d conquered 30 miles of rugged Bitterroot country in a day. As my foot pressed down on my car’s clutch and I massaged my throbbing knee, a single thought filtered its way through my pizza dreams: I can’t wait to tell my husband. Moments later, as we drove toward Big Creek, the view through my rose-colored glasses blurring by, I started wondering if we could do 35 next year.

restore balance

• NSCA - CPT • CERTIFIED PERSONAL TRAINER 105 SW HIGGINS SUITE 3 • MISSOULA

Noël Phillips

Montana Headwall

Page 43 October–December 2009

Chew with a view

by Amy Linn

HEAD TRIP

Sumptuous Holland Lake Lodge proves an old saying wrong: You can eat the scenery.

alfway from Missoula to the Holland Lake Lodge, a piece of paradise framed by the Swan Range and Mission Mountains near Condon, it occurs to me that this will be the last time I’ll be on a trip with my non-teenager. Natalie turns 13 this fall. It also occurs to me that she’ll probably hate the entire weekend, since it involves two days spent almost entirely in the outdoors doing things like the “h” word—hiking. Try as I have to get her to love being outside, Natalie—a cheerful redhead blessed with great balance and natural athletic ability—would really rather create anime on a computer than put a toe outside (and yes, I’ve done everything to lure her out, from camping with her to yanking the cord on electronics and consulting books about “nature deficit disorder,” which only make me feel guiltier). Mention hiking and she visibly shrivels, as if I’ve just lobbed a giant spider into her lap. Be that as it may, we’re going to spend the weekend in a place where cell phone coverage is spotty, the cabins are rustic, and nothing virtual appears on the menu. Whatever happens, we’ll be floating on it, touching it, tramping on it, basking in it, or (for something I’ve rarely experienced at a backwoods outpost) savoring how good it tastes. “Having fun yet?” I ask Nat and my partner Don, as we drive through Seeley Lake to the lodge.

Chad Harder

“Yep,” says Don, who’s easily pleased. “What?” says Natalie, who’s listening to her iPod and can’t hear me. A short time later, we turn down Holland Lake Road and behold, there’s the lodge, a historic log structure built in 1947, with the requisite deer and elk mounts on either side of a stone fireplace, an impressive stuffed black bear in one corner, and a well-worn wood bar. We check in at the log-cabin gift shop and make the short walk to Loon Loft, one of the lodge’s six waterfront cabins. It’s a small, comfortable, rough-hewn affair with a fire pit and picnic table and, just beyond, the lap, lap, lapping waters of Holland Lake, nestled in alpine greenery. The day is perfect. The noon sun bobs off the lake like one of the old bouncing balls that cue the sing-alongs at the movies. Only instead of inviting song, it’s inviting us to calm down, calm down, calm down. Who cares what’s happening in the rest of the world, the bouncing light says: Right now, all we have to do is nothing. Although eating would be nice. “Should we have lunch and then take a hike?” I ask. “Can I skip some rocks first?” Natalie says. You bet she can.

Holland Lake Lodge and its crystal waters, two gems at the gateway of the Bob Marshall Wilderness, take their names from Ben Holland, one of the valley’s first white settlers in the 1890s. The original lodge, since burned, was built circa 1924 for guests and travelers. There weren’t many of them. “It was a two-day stagecoach ride from Missoula when the first lodge was here,” says owner Christian Wohlfeil, who’s been running the place since he was 24. Wohlfeil purchased the lodge in March 2002 in partnership with his father, John Wohlfeil, who died just a month later, leaving Christian to manage the resort on his own. But his success is evident. Today the lodge draws guests from around the globe, including visitors from Turkey, Spain and the Netherlands in August alone. “The mountains, the trees, the water—the landscape here is so dramatic and the feelings it brings out are so peaceful,” says Gabriele Leidecker, from Albany, Oregon, who’s seated at the bar for lunch with Seeley Lake resident Michaela Probst. “You don’t have to be in tune with nature to feel the peacefulness—the environment brings you there magically.” For our own midday meal, Don has a terrific pulled-pork sandwich, I have curry chicken, Natalie snarfs down a burger in record time, and Don and I steal most of her primo sweet potato fries. Then it’s time for the easy 3.4-mile roundtrip stroll to Holland Falls—one of the most popular trails in the valley. There’s a 50-foot waterfall at the end of it, so there’s plenty of payoff for the kid, I’m thinking. But just in case, I buy two chocolate chip cookies and a bag of M&M’s at the bar. When in doubt, I’ve learned as a mom, bring goodies. The trail (#416) starts near the lodge, on a gentle ramble east along the

Amy Linn

lakeshore through Douglas fir, larch, birch and ponderosa pine. The forest gives way to a well-worn path climbing higher and higher above the lake. Our Bichon, Luna, follows dutifully on a leash. It’s a warm Saturday, and we pass at least 30 people of all ages and fitness levels, including one woman who appears to be eight months pregnant. (Note: the narrow path is not good for strollers; we see one unhappy dad carrying the whole thing, kid and all). After the 1-mile mark, the vistas expand. Off in the distance are the gorgeous Mission Mountains. Up close we see pretty inlets and scampering chipmunks. Meanwhile, the dog pants along, wondering where we’re going and why. “You’re almost there,” a red-faced woman tells Luna as she passes us heading down. And she’s right: around a corner, up a short, steep scramble over boulders, and we’re there. The water booms down with a cool, misty reward. Natalie and I edge as close to the crashing spray as we can get—jagged rocks prevent access to all but one small spot—but the crowds have suddenly vanished, and it’s just us, alone with the scenery. “Wow,” Natalie says. “I’m really glad we came here.” “And the best is yet to come,” I tell her. I’m not even lying. Back at Loon Loft we pull on bathing suits and hit the beach in front of our cabin. The lake is calm, blue bliss. The sounds of summer-cottage life waft in the air: far-off children’s squeals, thrumming motorboats, lilting waves. The lodge offers its guests free use of its canoes and skirtless kayaks—not the snazziest varieties, but serviceable. I grab two kayaks, put Natalie in one for her first time and climb in mine. We head for a little island off the shore, and eventual-

ly put our paddles down and simply drift. Canoeists stroke by us; a young guy in an inner tube holds a fishing rod in one hand and a beer in the other. When Don rows up in our raft—the dog acting as lookout—I realize how glad I am that we brought it. After

Lynne Foland

returning the kayaks, Natalie and I take a cool-off swim (yowza) and climb onto the sun-baked rubber while Don plays gondolier. If ever there was a cure for insomnia, this is it: I could be sleeping in seconds. But first there’s more eating to do. ••• Do we have the coffee-and-spicecrusted sirloin with rustic whipped potatoes, a handmade demi-glace, marion-berry-bacon compote and grilled asparagus? Or the pork tenderloin medallions glazed with southern

Chad Harder

mustard barbecue sauce (with baby red new potatoes stuffed with herbs and goat cheese); or the grilled portobello mushroom? We opt for the sirloin (Don), a cabernet sautéed filet mignon (Natalie), and the pork (me), and decline a bottle of wine (although if we’d had an extra $110, the 2004 Justin Vineyards Isoceles might have been nice). Then Natalie and I play hangman and wait for our coconut prawns and crab cake appetizers to arrive. “There’s a plane landing on the lake,” Don says. I don’t believe him. I ask Natalie if there’s an “A” in her word. “The plane’s coming right at us,” Don says. I look up, and right out the dining room window is a bush plane drifting to shore. It stops and six people disembark, right on the lawn. “We love this place. We got married here,” Tammy Andie explains. She’s

flown in from Missoula with her pilot husband, Jim, in a classic refurbished de Havilland Beaver. The couple likes to fly to the lodge for dinner with friends whenever they can. The excitement over the plane’s splashy landing helps stir up an appetite that, as it turns out, we all need. On top of the appetizer, salad and main course, there’s dessert—profiteroles filled with huckleberry ice cream drizzled with killer chocolate sauce. It’s enough to make me wish for a post-prandial recovery cot. “I’ve never had food like this,” says Natalie. “I love this place.” Strong praise indeed. By the time we leave the lodge she’ll have conquered some milestones, including the amble to Holland Falls and a tougher, steeper, 4.4-mile hike the next day to Holland Creek, on which she never once complained. She also had her kayaking debut and gave me a word in hangman, “biochemical,” that completely stumped

me for the first time in all the years we’ve played. But the best is the afterdinner raft ride. After night falls, we paddle into the lake and lay back to stare at the kind of sky we haven’t seen in years. The stars are so thick they’re incomprehensible. We search for shooting stars until I see a tiny one, Don spots a long-tailed one, and Natalie says, “Oh, darn, I never see them.” Which isn’t true, I don’t think, but then moms and daughters often remember life differently. “Didn’t you see one the last time we went camping?” I ask her, but when she turns her head to answer me, Don says “Oooh,” and we know we’ve missed another one. We’re quiet again, peaceful but determined. Natalie and I don’t stop scanning the skies. And then Natalie says, “I saw one!” And a few minutes later, “I saw another one!” The moment enfolds us in the best possible place, together, excited, inspired.

Holland Lake lowdown Accommodations and activities Six waterfront cabins and nine lodge rooms for 46 guests. Call ahead for guided fishing trips, whitewater rafting, pack trips, horse rides and more. Chad Harder

Nightly rates Starting at $290, double occupancy; children under age 13, $55; no charge for kids under 2; $75 fee for dogs. Rates include canoe and kayak rentals and gourmet meals.

Dining Guests of the lodge get the all-inclusive treatment to three meals a day from chef Amber Lukas, but day-trippers are welcome, too. Dinner entrĂŠes start at $23.

Directions Highway 83 to Holland Lake Road, about 8 miles south of Condon. Call 406-754-2282 or (toll free) 877-925-6343, or go to www.hollandlakelodge.com. The season runs May through sometime in October.

Kou Moua

Serving western Montana for more than 29 years and offering the best in personal service and knowledge.

Wamsley Realty has SOLD more than 300 million dollars in residential, land, ranch and commercial properties. LET US HELP YOU PURSUE YOUR MONTANA DREAM.

Mike Wamsley :: Broker/Owner 501 Brooks Missoula :: 406-721-0620 www.wamsleyrealty.com wamsleyre@aol.com Montana Headwall

Page 47 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

www.mtheadwall.com

HEAD OUT

OCTOBER October 3 All XX chromosome holders are invited to “be a diva for a day” at the Missoula All Women’s Diva Day 5K Run and free family walk. Pick up an entry form or race brochure at The Runner’s Edge in downtown Missoula, and your $25 pre-race entry fee ($30 on race day) will get you camaraderie, a Tshirt, a party, fashion show, and giveaways for “best diva team styling,” “best diva girl,” and more. Get the lowdown at www.runwildmissoula.org. October 3-4 Run among (not into) some of Montana’s largest trees during the Tamarack Festival, an annual celebration of the western larch and its brilliant fall foliage. Commonly mislabeled a tamarack, the unrelated western larch (Larix occidentalis) is a coniferous giant that grows over 180 feet tall. No matter, take to Seeley Lake’s impressive trail system for a 1K, 5K or 10K trail run and help raise funds for the local YMCA. Find out more at www.seeleylakechamber.com. October 4 Got a team of runners ready to hit some primo pavement? Then head to the Wolf Creek Canyon Relay, a

Chad Harder

scenic 28-mile relay for teams of up to four folks each. Running through Wolf Creek Canyon along the Missouri River between Helena and Great Falls, racers can count on a combination of flats and hills. Get the beta at www.wolfcreekcanyonrelay.net. October 4 Grab your taser, turn on the sirens and head to Livingston for the 21st Annual Livingston River Scramble, a fundraiser for the Livingston Police Protective Association. This fast, mostly flat road course is said to have very little traffic and “will be around 6K.” Count on a T-shirt, prizes, cake and ice cream, but register first by e-mailing race director Joseph Harris at livingstonriverscramble@gmail.com. October 10 Antelope archery season ends. Pheasant hunting season begins. For a schedule of these and all other Montana hunts, check with Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks at http://fwp.mt.gov. October 11 Antelope general hunting season begins. October 11 Hey, human mountain goats! Head to the capitol for the Mount Helena Ridge Run,

aka “Goat Pursuit,” the third race in the Helena South Hills Trails Series. This 6.6mile point-to-point starts with switchbacks uphill but eventually becomes a mostly “downhill race on moderately technical singletrack” (cloven hooves not required). First-timers are asked to contact Brian Wieck at bquick50k@hotmail.com and give a recent 10K or 12K time. October 17 The run’s so fun you’ll want to do it twice during the Hellgate Duathlon. The race, at Kreis Pond in the Ninemile valley west of Missoula, starts with a 4K trail run, followed by a 15K mountain bike ride over a mix of winding single-track and fire roads, and concludes with another 4K run. For a course map and more information, e-mail Jeff Crouch at jcrouch@kibogroup.com. October 18 Bow hunting season for deer and elk closes. October 18 So you thought the goat runs were over? Naaah. Run over to Helena again for the “Goat Grind,” the fourth race in the South Hills Trails Series. This fourmile slog is notorious for its rugged course—one champ refers to it as “the

meatgrinder”—so be prepared for steep hills, technical singletrack and a creek crossing. Afterward, enjoy a pancake brunch and syrupy high-fives. E-mail Brian Wieck at bquick50k@hotmail.com for the skinny.

variety of terrain. E-mail Dave Skelton at bztkclub@bresnan.net or call 587-7698.

leg and hit the slopes. Find out more at www.bigskyresort.com.

November 8 Antelope general hunting season ends.

October 23 Moose meatballs, anyone? They’re on hand at the ever-popular Hunters’ Feed and Wild Game Cook Off on Main Street in downtown Ennis. First launched as way to clean out the old meat in the freezer to make room for the new, the annual cook-up and chowdown happens every year before the launch of the hunting season. Expect deer fudge and elk chili along with those moose treats, prepared by local merchants. For more meaty details, go to www.ennischamber.com.

November 8 Spend some green in honor of some white: It’s the last day to get discounted season passes at Missoula’s Snowbowl, from $299 for weekday student skiers to $1,259 for skiing families. After today, prices climb as much as $80 higher at the pow center, with its 2,600 feet of continuous vertical drop, 42 trails and groomed runs on the Lolo National Forest. Catch the drift at www.montanasnowbowl.com.

November 29 Closing day for fall hunts of black bears, mountain lions, bighorn sheep, moose, mountain goats, deer and elk.

October 24 Runners looking for the Raw Deal (no bandages required) should head to McLeod for the “scenic autumn race” amid colorful trees along the Boulder River, south of Big Timber. Participants in the 5K or 10K run—which start at the Raw Deal Ranch and wind through actor Michael Keaton’s spread, too—will see downtown McLeod and scenic valley views. There’s also a fun-run and walk, and a post-race chili feed. Proceeds go to the Sweet Grass Health and Wellness Foundation. Find out more at 932-3090 or e-mail sghwf@itstriangle.com.

November 24-28 Cross-country skiers and spandex hit West Yellowstone like a blizzard during the Yellowstone Ski Festival, an annual event that brings Nordic fans from around the world to enjoy the gorgeously-groomed Rendezvous Trail System. Take in the races, exhibits, talks, waxing demos (no, not the Brazilian type), and clinics. All skill levels are welcome. Go to www.yellowstoneskifestival.com or call the West Yellowstone Chamber of Commerce at 646-7701.

NOVEMBER November 7 Time to get qualified for the 2009 Junior Olympic National Cross Country Championships in Reno, Nev., on December 12. Runners aiming for that lofty goal should gather at the USATF Montana Cross Country Championships on the mega-green Bridger Creek Golf Course in Bozeman. The event includes 12 age divisions for youth, open and masters competitors, with 3K, 4K and 5K courses over a

December 5 Fuel up on homemade sourdough flapjacks at the Snowmobile Club Pancake Breakfast in Lincoln, then charge the town’s 250 miles of groomed snowmobiling trails. Climb to Stonewall Mountain at 8,260 feet, if it’s thrills and spectacular views you like. But there are routes to suit beginners and vertigo-sufferers, too. For directions to the clubhouse breakfast check out www.lincolnmontana.com or call 362-4949. December 10-12 The West Yellowstone Sled Dog Races are a mush-beloved event in this part of the world, where a good early snow pack allows the first race of the season. Watch Iditarod veterans and newbies navigate the two-day race with dogs galore. Contact Klondike Dreams kennel at www.klondikedreams.com or 646-4988. December 19-20 Get deep on a holiday candlelight tour of Lewis and Clark Caverns, a guided, twohour walk through historic rock formations. It’s a two-mile wintry walk to reach the cavern mouth, so dress snugly. And just remember, Lewis and Clark didn’t have the luxury of fleece. Reservations are required. Call the park office at 287-3541 or spelunk into more info at http://fwp.mt.gov.

October 25 Opening day for the deer and elk general hunting season and the fall mountain lion season. October 31 It’s the Big Sky version of the Rumble in the Jungle, with victory arriving in the form of hometown glory. The Montana Cup pits teams from Montana’s seven largest towns against each other in a crosscountry running meet for the right to claim the “traveling” trophy for one year. The 2009 competition happens in Bozeman, with separate races for men and women. Catch the buzz at www.montanacup.com.

DECEMBER

November 26 Why gobble when you can huff and puff at the Huffing For Stuffing Thanksgiving Day Run in Bozeman? It’s the third annual event to raise money for the Gallatin Valley Food Bank, with 5K and 10K races (for a $20 entry fee; $25 day of race) and a free kids’ run with a canned food donation. The trotting starts and ends at the Museum of the Rockies; costumes are encouraged. Eat up the details at http://huffingforstuffing.com. November 26 What place in Montana has a Bavarian Forest, huge views of snow-caked wilderness … and hopes to open today? Yep, it’s Big Sky Resort, so dust off your skis, put down that turkey Montana Headwall

December 19 Take Duran Duran, Pac-Man and the Mahre brothers, toss in three ski mountains and what do you get? A 1980s bash and “Best Worst Ski Movie Festival” at Big Sky Resort. Watch a ballet ski contest and retro ski flicks where, for this day, big hair is totally awesome and stretch pants are encouraged. Call 9955765 or schuss to www.bigskyresort.com. December 31 Forget Auld Lang Syne: get jamming at the New Year’s Eve Rockin’ Rail Jam and Torchlight Parade at Whitefish Mountain resort, capped off by fireworks above the snow. Expect nonstop skiers and riders on terrain park features, with judges picking winners in a host of categories. The parade starts when the jammin’ ends. Uncork more info at 862-2900 or www.skiwhitefish.com. And Happy New Year. Page 49 October–December 2009

www.rockymtnlodge.com

79 guest rooms including

suites with jetted tubs Free deluxe continental breakfast Outdoor pool & hot tub Free hi-speed internet in all rooms 26 miles from Glacier National Park

Hiking, rock climbing, swimming,

biking, kayaking, running, golf, fishing, hunting and almost every other outdoor activity imaginable right outside our door.

6510 Hwy 93 S. | Whitefish, MT 59937 | 406-862-2569

Montana Headwall

Page 50 Octoberâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;December 2009

To help outfit the blade-deprived as we head into big-game hunting season, Montana Headwall asked Missoula’s knife dealers to weigh in with their recommendations. Sharp experts behind the counters at Brady’s Sportsman’s Surplus, Bob Ward and Sons and Wholesale Sports (formerly Sportsman’s Warehouse) told us what they take afield.

EDITOR’S 6. Gerber Gator CHOICE $44 • Brady’s Full-tang or folding, drop-point or clip, Gerber’s venerable Gators have long been the choice of discerning hunters on a budget.

7. Knives of Alaska Magnum Ulu $57 • Wholesale Sports This specialized skinner requires some learnin’, but in qualified hands it makes short work of skinning (or caping) even the toughest Yellowstone bull.

by Chad Harder

2. Buck Zipper $71 • Wholesale Sports The heftiest knife of the group, this doit-all blade sports brass caps (perfect for elk ivory extraction) and comes with Buck’s impressive unconditional warranty.

HEAD GEAR

1. Outdoor Edge’s Swingblade $60 • Bob Ward and Sons Two knives in one, the swingblade’s duel-blade rotates to function as a hunting blade or a no-clog guthook.

Gaining an edge

3. Knives of Alaska Jaeger Boning Knife $85 • Bob Ward and Sons D-2 steel keeps this beauty—a droppoint excellent for boning or caping— sharp for years. BEST 4. Bucklite MAX BUY $20 • Bob Ward and Sons This all-rounder is as light in the pack as it is on the wallet. With a full tang and excellent grip, this blade keeps up with the others, but at a fraction of the price.

5. Custom blade by local knifemaker Gerome Weinard $200 • Wholesale Sports This showcase piece’s razor-sharp D-2 steel will shine in the field, but with a custom antler handle and brass end caps it’s suitable for the showcase. 6.

1. 4.

3. 2.

Chad Harder

RipPod www.mazdog.com • $220

mtheadwall.com

HEAD GEAR

As a photographer, filmmaker and hunter, I’ve found that no amount of meditation, breath control or isometric exercises can make me as steady as I’d like to be when looking through a telephoto lens at twilight or through the scope of a rifle. Tripods and other sorts of stabilization equipment provide support, but usually not at a weight you’d want to walk over a mountain with. Lolo, Montana, outdoor gear manufacturer MazDog offers the RipPod as an inventive solution to this very problem. A well-built carbon-fiber monopod, the RipPod has an ingenious swivel-head that can mount to a rifle, camera or a bow, using a magnetized attachment for quick connecting and disconnecting. Even better, it only weighs 19 ounces. But the RipPod’s real strength is versatility. Instead of lugging a tripod (to get primo photos) along with a shooting stick to steady your gun, you only have to tote one item. Just plant the RipPod pole in the ground, mount your shooting gear, and voila. (Another plus: The MazDog website offers how-to videos that make using the product a cinch.) At just over 29 inches collapsed and 64 inches fully expanded, the RipPod might not be practical in quick-fire situations, when you won’t have time to set up and adjust it to the right height. But if you’re waiting in a tree stand or blind, it could come in handy. If you’re doing serious photography or videography, you still need a tripod, which offers the superior stability required to capture crisp shots at slow shutter speeds. And if you’re only going, say, rifle hunting, and you aren’t bringing a camera, shooting sticks might be the better choice: They’re lighter, let you get lower to the ground and provide more left-to-right stabilization. But if multi-tasking is your game, the RipPod will give you a leg up—and another one to lean on. –Colin Ruggiero

Yogesh Simpson

Trail Designs Caldera Keg www.traildesigns.com • $60 If my life were a quest to find the perfect camping stove, I could now die in peace. Alas, life is a bit more complicated, but anyone who appreciates ingenious simplicity and a light backcountry kit will flip for the Trail Designs Caldera Keg. The heart of the system is a blissfully simple alcohol stove made from an aluminum soda can. Add denatured alcohol (available at hardware stores), light, and you’re done. There’s no temperature modulation, and boil-time isn’t as fast as those little rocket-burner stoves, but there are also no moving parts and nothing to maintain, ever. Alcohol stoves are simple to make yourself, but what makes the Keg impressive (and worth your 60 bucks) are the brilliantly efficient refinements that start with the Caldera Cone. A thin sheet of aluminum that rolls into its namesake shape, the Caldera Cone functions as a pot support that ensconces the stove at its base, effectively channeling all available BTUs directly into heating your water. In a final eco-flourish, the pot itself is a recycled Foster’s can (Heineken can and traditional camping-pot versions are also available). Finishing touches include a foil “cozy” that insulates the pot when off the stove and a plastic Nalgene-bottle-sized “caddy” with screw-on lid that function as a mug and bowl while also holding the entire system in a protective hard case for transport. All together, the system weighs a miraculous 6 ounces. If, like many backcountry chefs, you need only to boil water for freeze-dried meals, oatmeal, tea, etc., this is as light, simple, compact and fuel-efficient a backcountry stove as you can buy. –Aaron Teasdale

Pacific Outdoor Equipment Velocio www.pacoutdoor.com • $155 Everybody loves courier bags— they’re convenient, they hold lots of stuff, they look cool. But unless you’re an actual courier who’s constantly slinging it around, the hard truth is that a one-strap bag doesn’t make much sense. Unless, that is, you enjoy the feeling of torquing your neck, spine and shoulders. Fortunately, there are companies like Bozeman-based Pacific Outdoor Equipment making courier bags like the Velocio with a chiropractorapproved second strap. An innovative, employee-owned outfit that specializes in sleeping pads and waterproof dry bags, duffles, panniers and commuting bags, POE frequently pushes the envelope with its eco-friendly products, recognizing that making quality gear that lasts is a critical component of sustainability. The tough-as-nails Velocio exemplifies their ethos, with its heavyduty materials and overbuilt construction. Made with thick, polyurethane-coated nylon (no PVC here), welded seams, weather-tight zippers, and a roll-top closure, it’s supremely waterproof. You could pedal into a tsunami confident that your laptop would stay perfectly dry. With a 24-liter capacity, the Velocio will hold more than you should probably carry, but it doesn’t feel too big and—thanks to its structured shoulder straps, mesh-padded back panel, and waist and sternum straps—it carries weight surprisingly well. A bevy of internal and external pockets aid organization, while reflector panels on the lid flap will help keep you alive. Which is good, because with a lifetime guarantee on workmanship this may be the last courier bag you’ll ever buy. –Aaron Teasdale

Haul of fame Mystery Ranch packs paramilitary performance

by Yogesh Simpson

were spray-painting the packs black to use in the field. Gleason obliged, forging a relationship that led to many more lucrative contracts and eventually the NICE frame. Gleason recognized the frame’s versatility when he saw it pressed into use on a climbing excursion. “We had one sitting around and we ended up using it to carry a haul bag to the base of a climb,” he says. The frame, a grid of carbon-fiber stays, handled that unwieldy gear bag so well that they put it into production for their hunting and recreation packs in 2004. “It’s at the beginning of its design and development cycle, and it’s already better than any of the internal frames we’ve made in the last 30 years,” Gleason says. The NICE frame provides the backbone for several other Mystery Ranch packs, including the 2,400-cubic-inch Long Bow and two expedition-style packs, the NICE 6500 and the NICE Wolfpack, all available in two “tactical” solid colors or “Multicam” camouflage. Mystery Ranch makes all of its packs stateside, which allows better quality control but accounts for much higher production costs, putting these packs out of reach for many. The base model Crew Cab starts at a very pricey $490. Throw in all the components, including the waistbelt pockets for your range finder and binoculars, and the price tag shoots to almost $700. Weightconscious hunters will also shrink from the pack’s extremely burly 7-plus pounds. Of course, the Crew Cab’s military pedigree means it’s built to take all the abuse your average civilian can dish out, and then some. If you’re ready to wage an uncompromising campaign to bag a trophy, the Crew Cab’s got your back.

HEAD GEAR

hen I first strapped on the flagship Crew Cab hunting pack from Mystery Ranch backpacks in Bozeman I felt like I was ready for combat in Afghanistan. Maybe it was the dried blood and bits of hair left on the heavy-duty desert-colored Cordura of the demo pack from some previous outing, or maybe it was the similarity to a model I had seen the day before on the showroom floor that featured a dedicated compartment for a collapsible .50-caliber sniper rifle. But for my pre-season field test on a short, steep hike outside Bozeman, I luckily avoided any encounters with dangerous insurgents. I had to fill the pack with cinder blocks in lieu of an elk carcass, but the bloodstains and accompanying odor helped bolster the illusion of a hunt. The expandable cavity swallowed three of the blocks with ease, and the load felt stable and comfortable. The yoke adjusted easily to fit my torso and the curved plastic framesheet mimicked the natural contours of my back. On one-day hunts I regularly wrestle with the question of which pack to take. Do I leave the big pack in the truck and hike back to get it if I make a kill, or do I haul around a cumbersome and mostly empty pack for the whole day? The Crew Cab effectively eliminates this dilemma. When fully collapsed it functions as a compact, 1,900-cubic-inch daypack, but with a few adjustments it opens up to create a massive space for hauling your bloody loot while essentially keeping it on the outside of the pack. The daypack lid and the company’s custom-fit stuff sacks (called load cells) beef up the Crew Cab to a fully-enclosed 5,000 cubic inches— suitable for multi-day wilderness hunts. The secret to the pack’s impressive stability and comfort is the NICE frame (that’s Nylinear Individual Carrying Equipment for you procurement officers out there), which was originally developed for the Navy SEALs to carry a breathing apparatus and a cutting torch. Mystery Ranch founder Dana Gleason started working with the military in the early ’90s when he was making packs under the Dana Designs name. The Navy approached him about making his venerable Terraplane pack in a color other than fire-engine red. The SEALs loved the Terraplane’s design, but they

NICE Crew Cab www.mysteryranch.com • $490

Mystery Ranch founder Dana Gleason in his Bozeman showroom.

Yogesh Simpson

Blood Relations CONTINUED FROM PAGE 22 oblivious. Nothing against cows, really. Perhaps they are just too apt a metaphor for what worries us most about our own species. The hikes here are long, the early season hot. I’ve killed some elk here, but I’m still looking for the best place to serve my apprenticeship. Easing down a steep chute on a limestone ridge, I come upon a patch of serviceberry that has been ravaged. All of the rocks, some of them big as coffee tables, have been flipped over, and an ant nest has been dug up. There’s a grizzly somewhere close, and I check the bear spray hanging on the strap of my backpack, bracing my thumb on the safety, breathing deep to see if I can smell him. Nothing, just evergreen needles in hot sun, and yarrow crushed underfoot. From somewhere below I can hear the creek, just barely. From an opening on the mountainside, I can see far into the next drainage, where a mix of grasslands, aspen groves and giant Doug fir looks like an elk hunter’s paradise. Even with a good pack frame it would be God’s own travail to pack an elk from that distance, even a calf. There are fingers of talus, a patchwork of thickets to hide bears— complex, risky country, a long way from anywhere. More to the point, it looks like a hard place to get into on horseback. Perfect. I tighten the strap on my rifle, check my bear spray one last time, and start walking.

• Ski charters • Birthdays • Bachelor & Bachelorette parties • Weddings • Frat & Sorority parties • Tube shuttle • Backpacking drop off and pick up • Fishing trips • Concerts • Christmas • New Year’s Parties • and we run the after school shuttle for the Z.A.C.C.

Montana Headwall

Page 54 October–December 2009

Reel Long Shot CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35 By mid-afternoon I do manage to boat a couple of those dinks, along with a pair of stunning Kootenai rainbows in the 15-inch range. And near the end of the day, just a short stretch from the takeout, I get one last shot at glory. We’re in a long mini-rapid pocked with huge boulders, and Tim back-rows furiously to keep me in position as long as possible. The turbulence-encased eddies behind these rocks are notorious big-fish hangouts, and I’m slinging the sink-tip left and right, ripping a huge streamer through every eddy I can reach. From the underside of one of those boulders emerges a huge, dark form that lunges at the fly before turning on a frying-pan-sized tail and disappearing back into the depths. It could probably eat every fish I’ve landed over the past two days for breakfast, and still have room for more. Was it a rainbow? A bull trout? A state record of either species? I’ll never know. And neither, unfortunately, will FWP prophet Ladd Knotek.

Record-seeking or not, you can have a fine time fishing with our guides. —A Able Fishing Charters and Tours, for trips on Flathead Lake. Call 406-844-0888, or go to www.aablefishing.com. —Linehan Outfitting Co., leading trips in northwest Montana and beyond. Call 406-2954872 or 800-596-0034 (toll free) or go to www.fishmontana.com.

Montana Smiles

F a m i l y G r o u p

D e n t a l

Appointments Available Evenings and Saturdays 406.541.2886 MTSmiles.com Southgate Mall, Missoula, MT (Next to Dillard’s) Montana Headwall

Page 55 October–December 2009

The Crux CONTINUED FROM PAGE 58

I wondered if he’d thought of his wife and four-year-old boy before a drunken driver took a left turn into him. After the late night call, did his wife watch their boy sleep for a few more hours, knowing that when she woke him to tell him his dad was gone, nothing would ever be the same? I realized I was being judgmental and, possibly, entirely unfair, but I couldn’t help wondering: Was that motorcycle ride worth it? The man didn’t set out to die. He wore his helmet. And still … how do we find balance on the knife-edge of risk? We love, we get married, we have children, we grow in other ways, and our mortality and that of our loved ones is all around us. One day, the stakes are higher, the potential loss greater.

Montana Headwall

Things in this life will change you wholly and fundamentally, and you may not even know it’s happened until you find yourself thinking about what life would be like if your husband never came home.

I couldn’t

this, I’m learning, is a slippery slope. Is sport climbing somehow safer than mountaineering? Does ice climbing 20 minutes from home rather than two states away give me peace of mind? Not exactly.

shake the worry

that had my

crept into

bones.

I never thought anyone could accuse me of trying to keep Seth from pursuing his dreams. But here I am, asking for measures of restraint. And

Page 56 October–December 2009

Seth is a methodical, safe climber. He leans toward caution, even more so now that he has children. But accidents happen. Ice breaks. Avalanches

slide. What I want is the promise that nothing bad will ever happen to him. I want certainty. And yet I know it doesn’t exist. Seth came back from Cody last winter giddy and renewed. He also offered to stop climbing. I told him no. So here we are. We’ve drawn no lines in the sand, made no hard and fast rules. We’ve agreed to take it one climbing trip at a time. I guess this is what compromise looks like, what a marriage looks like. But no matter what balance we reach, if something happened to Seth on an ice field somewhere there would be nothing to quell the grief. When weighing whether he comes home or not, peace of mind is not possible. Jennifer Savage is a freelance writer based in Arlee, Montana.

To advertise in Headwall Marketplace, call Peter Kearns at 406-543-6609.

Noel Phillips • NSCA-CPT • RYT Certified Personal Trainer 105 SW Higgins, Suite 3 Missoula

Backcountry Accommodations Guided Trips • Incredible Terrain The Bell Lake Yurt

skimba.com 406-995-3880

Operating by Permit in the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest Kene Sperry - Eye in the Sky Photography

Montana Headwall

Page 57 October–December 2009

by Jennifer Savage

THE CRUX

Ice in the veins A husband’s passion for climbing leaves wife grasping for peace

ing. He’d rather sleep in single-degree he wants nothing more than to sink his s the light begins to tilt temperatures in the middle of nowhere ice tools. toward shorter nights, colder than find a nice new anything under From our first date (some might call days and the inevitable the tree. I picture him shivering, it a tryout) at Smith Rock in Oregon bundling up and pulling leaning on his truck at the end of an I knew life with Seth meant life with close that is winter, Seth’s attention amazing climbing day, eating someclimbing. I’ve always known he turns to the thin slip of canyon behind thing out of a can, as happy as a wouldn’t be the person I love without our house in Arlee, Montana. I find puppy with a new leather shoe. I it. We vowed on our wedding day to him staring at it, arms crossed, from love this image of him. our backyard. But last February when he went As usual, I once again fall for How do we on the to Cody I couldn’t shake the worry his invitation to go for a hike that had crept into my bones. With past the rock walls there. We walk—each of us carrying one of risk? , seven-month-old Lucille on my hip I was walking around our farmof our young daughters—and I house picking up toys when I realnotice the ponderosas that I , the the stakes ized I was making plans. can’t wrap my arms around, If something happens to him I’ll how they smell like vanilla and sell the house, move to Missoula. We’d how beautiful Eliza, our threepotential have enough money for a little while. year-old, looks with the forest Maybe I’ll have a parent come help. framing her sweet face. The picture by my bed would be good for a encourage each other to seek adventure Seth, on the other hand, is on a scoutmemorial. and, knowing this included a clanking ing mission. When we stop he pulls out This last thought stopped me cold. climbing rack and 14 ropes hanging in his camera. I wait in the same boulder And I thought for the first time, what is our laundry room for the rest of eternifield where I wait every year while he he doing out there? ty, I meant it. takes pictures of the forming ice. A friend called last summer to say a I’ve only recently started to change I should know better by now. This friend of a friend died in a motorcycle my mind. hike is becoming a fall ritual. And over accident. I’d never met the man who For the past two years Seth has the next few weeks Seth will watch the died, but I walked around for a few wanted nothing material for Christmas, hills intently as drips of mountain water days pretty pissed off at him. only a promise of a trip to Cody, turn to ribbons of ice and ribbons turn Wyoming, in February to go ice climbto blue and green columns into which Continued on page 56

find balance

knife-edge

One day

are higher

loss greater.

Robin Carleton