Montana, Day Six: Inclinations

The cold rain streams over our sopping heads, our wincing faces, our knotted shoulders. But just as the gelid river water reaches our collarbones, the rock floor beneath us starts slanting upwards; incrementally, sluggishly, but definitely upwards.

We round the far side of the promontory. There, up the hill, is the glowing campsite.

One foot after another, muddy but unbowed. Through an icy stream with dammed-up side pool in which bob several cans of beer. Up, up the steep incline to be met at the top by the most welcome and staggering cliché: a cowboy in a white hat.

“Howdy! Name’s Martin Hayes!” His eyes twinkle; his firm and friendly handshake pulls us toward the fire.

“Come on in, you look about half-drowned. Now I gotta warn you, there’re some folks back there been drinkin’, but they won’t give you a hard time. They’re really a friendly bunch. Want some coffee? Come over, get warm by the fire. Come in, come in, we’re just fixin’ to eat and we’ve got a whole lot. Got some ribs goin’ now, havin’ ribeyes later—we got plenty. Stay for dinner.”

Thus begins our extraordinary evening.

“I’m going to go back and help our guys set up camp,” says Don. In a flash he’s gone, by way of an inland trail the cowboys point out above the promontory. No more clambering over the menacing rocks, even on our way back in the dark.

•••

The wilderness is the edge of so much: the edge of convenience, the edge of comfort, the edge of exertion, but not the edge of civilization. Not here. The rougher things get, the kinder people get.

Hot coffee, warm fire, fellowship. Living beatitudes. Giving food to the hungry.

Bobbing over to the fire are practically the first women we’ve seen on the trip—four or five of them. One offers me the fleece off her back—“You’re soaked to the skin.”

Which is literally true. But I say, “Thanks, but that’s okay—I don’t want you to get cold.”

“Wanna glassa red wine?”

“Sure!” The coffee had taken the edge off.

“Have a rib!”

Vegetarian Ro passes, but I accept.

“Why’nch’a all stay for dinner? We have loads.”

“Thanks so much, but our guy Mike is making his special chicken and dumplings tonight. He’s been looking forward to it all trip. We need to be there.”

“Got enough for them, too.”

“You’re terrific, but we’ll head back soon. It’s great to meet up with some women back here. How come we didn’t see you on the river?”

“We come the other direction.”

Rather than taking our route from Holland Lake, they’d brought their horses and gear in from the other end, along the Meadow Creek trail. They passed the spot where, day after tomorrow, we hope to hoist our rafts out of the water for good, leave our gear for the mules, pick up the Meadow Creek trail, and hike the last three and a half miles to the trailhead where Jim’s friend Seidlitz—where the heck is he?!—has supposedly parked Jim’s car with the promised cooler of ice-cold beer.

After we get over the Red Rapids, that is. Which after this rain will be flushing and gushing over the rocks.

Don’t think about it. Feel how good it is to be warm, comforted with wine and warm people.

“Just came for the weekend. We been comin’ for years. Martin’s pal Guy used to own an outfitters. We only live in Missoula. Just come whenever we want.”

Everyone’s upwards of forty. They’d packed in enough supplies for an army, though they were just going tubing—no paddles—in flimsy-looking things that seem doppelgangers of children’s wading pools.

Sharon, who had offered her golden fleece, says casually, “I nearly drowned today, going over that set of rapids, just yonder.”

The deadly, red-rimmed “Scout These” rapids devilish whirling mess awaiting us day after tomorrow on our final rafting day.

“Yeah, I’ve summitted Rainier and I love all that adrenaline stuff, but them rapids almost took me—I was going over in the tube and I flipped out and I was underwater for the longest time, but I just kept thinking my brother’ll get me, Martin’ll get me, and he did. Leaped in and got hold of me and pulled me out. Tomorrow I’ll be wearing my life jacket.”

Hard to understand these people. Why no life jacket?

“Won’t you stay for dinner?”

We just want to get back now and relax absolutely. Sleep. Weary.

“Thanks so much—we gotta get back. We should help them set up camp and then rest up. We have to take those rapids ourselves day after tomorrow.”

“Keep to the left goin’—if you miss that you’re in for trouble.”

She. Nearly. Drowned.

After warm thanks and farewells, Ro and I wend our way down the crooked hill, past the little dam of cold beer, splash fast through the icy stream, and trudge up the long hill to the trail that leads to our campsite. It’s nearly dark. The trail’s mucky with rain, but at least it’s not the deadly rocks.

Fifteen minutes more in the drenching downpour. When we are nearly to the site, here come Mike and Jack and Jim and Don and everybody lugging their stuff toward us.

“Turn around and go back,” says Mike. “We can’t make a campsite—there’s no firewood, it’s all rock. We’ll have to spend the night with those folks.”

“I think they’ll be okay with that,” I say. “Their tarp is enormous, and they have tents, too. Lots of food. They’ve been very friendly.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Ro and I wearily pivot and slog back with the gang to Martin’s camp.

They’re surprised but happy to see us.

“We got tons of food—come on in!”

Logistics first. The men and women haul all their stuff to one end of the giant tarp so we can pile ours in. Our intrepid guys go out in the pelting rain and pitch Big Agnes for us. And they brought us dry clothes.

“You can change here,” says Sharon, pointing to a spacious stand-up-in-able tent. We practically trip in anticipation. Soon, after eight hours of being cold and wet, we revel in the simple animal comfort of being warm and dry.

The gents flip ribeyes on the grill; Ro and I help the women set out bread, cheese, salad, and three versions of homemade huckleberry pie. Don wins everyone’s gratitude again, for their water filter is sluggish. He hooks up our specially rigged one, so there’s plenty of water with little waiting.

As Ro compares notes with a retired first grade teacher, Sharon tells me about life on her ranch.

“Lucky I live next to a veterinarian, ’cause last month when my gate swung back and gashed my head? I could call her to come stitch me up. Turns out I didn’t need ’em.”

She lifts her black bangs revealing a nasty but healing red furrow.

“So close here, ’cross my forehead into my scalp. She said I’d be fine without. Tough to stitch the scalp, you know.” One tough woman.

Good food, big laughter, great stories, human tribal joy. Finding that hospitality means not only entertaining angels unaware, but being cared for by them yourself.

After we’ve eaten our fill, Mike draws me aside.

“We thought we should have your special Scotch tonight. With our hosts.”

He’s referring to the gift I planned to give Jim on our last night—the most extravagant bottle I have ever bought.

How thoughtful Mike is. “Absolutely,” I say. “What a great idea. Sorry Jim won’t get as much as I hoped, but it’s the perfect gesture of thanks.”

Round go the red Solo cups. Nine of us, twelve of them. A ceremonial taste for all.

Like a priest of the wilderness, Jim tips elixir into each cup while I tell the story of this Scotch.

“Jim heard about Bruichladdich, and decided, taste untasted, to buy a bottle. He still hasn’t tasted it. He keeps telling us that he’s set it aside for his wake.

“So I secretly had a bottle sent to Mike, who packed it in. It’s twenty-two years old and called Black Art, and you could buy a decent pair of boots for what it cost. But it seems to me a man who loves and appreciates good single malt shouldn’t have to wait until he’s dead to taste it. I was gonna surprise him on our last night, but this is the ideal occasion. We’re honored to share it with all you generous, extraordinary folk.”

We all toast each other and sip the liquid marvel.

“Mmmm,” they say. “This Funeral Scotch is good.”

•••

I take another sip then give Jim the rest. After all, it was for him.

Time for bed, or rather, for bag.

Ro and I repair to our tent, our hosts to theirs. Their pack drivers camp further off. Our guys and Lauren shelter under the giant tarp as buckets of rain stream down, closing a day exhausting and exhilarating in each extreme.