A ‘dash’ through the Bob, Part II

Editor’s Note: The following is part II of a chapter of John Fraley’s new book, “My Wilderness Life, One Man’s Search for Meaning in Montana’s Backcountry.” Chapter 10 “My Dash through the Bob” takes us through the Bob Marshall Wilderness as Fraley attempts to bag a 40-mile day hike through the Bob before he turns 40… Back at Big Salmon Falls on my daylong dash through the Bob, I bid Gordon’s friends goodbye and loped down the trail. I reached mile fifteen at Albino Creek/Tango Camp and took my first rest, savoring the warm sunshine as I ate a snack and gulped water. I took stock of how I was feeling physically: my usually stable stomach was queasy, my legs felt tired, and my foot and left knee were sore. After a fifteen-minute rest, I proceeded on.

The trail through this stretch runs along the beautiful rocky banks and ledges of Big Salmon Creek, with several tricky creek crossings. I also encountered more blowdowns, forcing me to climb over large tangles of trees. I trekked past Barrier Falls, and then a short distance upstream of Big Salmon Lake I ran into a Forest Service crew that was clearing downed trees from the trail. What a relief—no more clambering over blowdowns.

At 11 a.m. I reached the lake, the biggest in the Bob, and bushwhacked through the willows and swampy backwaters to the inlet. After nearly twenty miles, my knees were bothering me, especially the lateral ligaments. But I didn’t care, I was just happy to be in one of my most favorite spots in the Bob, or in the world for that matter. I sat down for a minute to soak in the sunny day with scattered clouds, in the center of paradise.

For probably thousands of years, the inlet of Big Salmon Lake has represented a vortex for native fish in the drainage. Here, the waters of Big Salmon Creek spill into the lake and flow for a few hundred yards. The westslope cutthroat line up to eat insects delivered by the current, and the bull trout line up to eat the cutthroat. In the spring, the cutthroat spawn upstream in the creek, and in the fall, the bull trout take their turn. It’s a wonderful, timeless dance.

I dug out my telescoping fishing rod and cast a bubble and dry fly out into the current. A few cutts hit my fly, but they didn’t seem very interested. I switched to a small spoon, made a few casts, and caught and released two bull trout and a small cutthroat, and that was plenty. My fishing was only ceremonial; I couldn’t dash by one of the best fishing holes in the Bob and not wet a line, and it added another fun angle to the trip.

I sat there for a while, watching the cutts feed on bugs and the bulls feed on small cutts, remembering past trips. At noon, I made my way back over to the trail. I hiked the four miles along Big Salmon Lake to its outlet, picking a few strawberries and early huckleberries on the way. At the outlet, I ran into two llama wranglers who sang the praises of their docile pack stock.

I sat down and contemplated the stretch of wonderful, flat shoreline along the foot of the lake. For generations, Native Americans met and spent time here, chipping arrowheads and scrapers. I saw chips and one partly complete arrowhead in the gravel where I sat. I could almost picture the hunched tool makers skillfully working the stone into sharp edges. My trek was a lark; theirs was a way of life. I thought of how important this point of geography must have been to them, and how this exact spot on the Bob’s largest lake served as a universally recognized landmark among the region’s tribes. After a short rest, I headed down the outlet toward the junction with the South Fork of the Flathead River, just a mile away.

At the South Fork, I turned north and hiked a few miles downstream to the Little Salmon Creek footbridge. I walked down to the stream and bent down to get a drink (I never filtered water back then). Right at my feet at the edge of the stream lay a beautiful, mostly intact arrowhead. Another gem in the wild from long ago.

I was beginning to think that my upset stomach might stem from eating too much snack food, especially red licorice. I thought it would be better to stick to conventional food, like sandwiches, fruit, and maybe breadsticks. That’s the menu Bud Moore, my wilderness mentor, recommended.

A couple hours later, at 4:30 p.m., I crossed Hungry Creek and swung around the bend in the trail, finally arriving at Black Bear Cabin, which was deserted. I’d left the packer camp trailhead thirty-one miles and twelve hours ago. I reclined sleepily in the sun, listening to the chirps of the Columbian ground squirrels and watching their little heads poke out of their burrows.

For a combination of reasons—trail conditions, blowdowns, rough stream crossings, no sleep—my knees were super sore. I had gone similar distances before without any problems. This trek, I had paced myself well and rested occasionally, so the pain surprised me.

I walked down to the bank and took a good look at the South Fork. It was flowing too high to stay on the west-side trail and then ford the river about a mile upstream of Black Bear Creek, even though that would cut a mile or two off the route. So, I crossed the big pack bridge and headed up the trail along the east side. I had eleven miles to go. But by the time I covered the four miles to Black Bear Creek, my legs had fallen apart, a new feeling for me. I was limping and favoring my right knee, and a sharp pain emanated from under my left kneecap. Unfortunately, the trail was muddy in this final stretch, and the squishy footing added a special kind of discomfort.

I reached Mid Creek (thirty-eight miles) at 7:20 p.m., and I couldn’t imagine making it through the pain four more miles to the trailhead. A huge storm was gathering, and even in the long July daylight, the sky turned almost pitch black by 8:15 p.m.. But I marched on and finally reached the Meadow Creek Trailhead (forty-two miles) at 9:05 p.m. The last couple miles required a lot of willpower, as I dragged my right leg along. Looking back, I can’t believe it was that bad; it shouldn’t have been a death march, especially with my pre-dawn start. I took plenty of time to do the distance and was well prepared. But when I read my notes and relive it, yep, it was that bad.

The storm clouds opened and lashed the landscape just after I crossed the footbridge spanning the South Fork; the river boiled below in its deep gorge. I trudged as fast as I could through the sheets of rain to the trailhead parking lot, my Honda sedan illuminated by the big flashes of lightning. It was so nice to finally be off my feet that I didn’t care how bad the storm was.

Crazy lightning and pounding rain held my attention during the fiftymile drive on the winding road around the west side of the Hungry Horse Reservoir. The weather gnomes threw everything they had at me, but I drove through it. When I finally reached home in Kalispell at midnight, it was still raining.

I opened the door and willed myself upstairs. My wife woke up and calmly watched me limp up the stairs, my right leg dragging. Dana shook her head, maybe in sympathy. But her face said, You asked for it and you got it.

But I had seen so much, such a big chunk of the Bob, in a very short time. I’d soaked in so much inspiration, so much profound beauty. I’d been immersed in the Bob, as if it had taken me into its arms. Nothing memorable comes easy, and a hard challenge like this usually brings joy in the end.

This whole trek had started from our tent near Holland Lake, followed a circuitous route through America’s best backcountry, and finished back home in Kalispell, all in twenty hours. A long but wonderful day.

A few days later, Dana, Kevin, and I were in Bigfork and we ran into my good friend Mike Enk, who worked for the Forest Service. He noticed that I was limping, so we were talking about my trek. He said that first of all, it was stupid, and secondly, I would sustain permanent knee damage from the ordeal.

I’m happy to report that he was wrong on both counts. Fraley’s book is available at Farcountrypress.com and local bookstores.