Selway Bitterroot Wilderness - Day 3

Just after dawn the wake-up call came - a flock of wild turkeys gobbling in the trees behind camp. The morning air was absolutely still, cool and damp on my face as I unzipped the tent and peeked out. A few deer browsed just inside the tree line, and the hills were shrouded with low clouds.

I ate some oats, then lit a small fire in my stove and put the water on. The hot tea felt luxurious and I sat just inside the tent watching the weather. Today was forecast to be rainy, and the clouds were definitely leaning that way. But for now there was no rain, and sometimes there were brief windows of clear blue sky and even patches of sunlight moving across the meadow. If it was going to rain hard, it would be better to stay by the ranger station and spend the day reading through their historical documents. But if not, I wanted to get on my way.

When the tea was gone it still hadn't rained, so I packed up and took my first steps up the Moose Creek trail. From the ranger station, the trail leads four miles north-east along a plateau before crossing Moose Creek on another large suspension bridge. The trail passes through big stands of timber, with wildfire burn scars here and there. On one tiny creek crossing there were signs of a massive flash flood - large tree trunks were piled high against the trees next to the trail. I found out later that the trail crew had needed explosives to clear the trail after that flood.

Elk sign was everywhere in this area, as though I had crossed a boundary at the ranger station. Raw dirt trails led directly up steep hillsides, and in the trees above the trail I saw a big cow elk standing broadside and pretending not to notice me. When you're used to seeing deer, all elk are big.

A light rain started when I reached the bridge over Moose Creek. I had been planning out the next five days of hiking, and decided to cache the food for my return journey and my gas stove at the bridge. I wouldn't need the food until day eight, and the wood-burning ultralight stove was working well enough that I didn't want to carry a full canister of gas for the next sixty miles. Working quickly in the rain, I repacked my spare food and suspended it beneath the bridge. Then I set off across a wide flat meadow that looked to be an old airstrip.

Despite the intermittent rain, the day was pleasant enough and I felt excited about moving farther into the wilderness. The trail ran the length of the old airstrip, then entered a section of thin pine woods. Beyond the woods the trail entered a burned area - big hollow cedar trunks standing empty and black among a jungle of green underbrush. The trail itself narrowed to a groove hidden underneath walls of foliage. I could not believe that anyone had been up this trail in months.

As I proceeded east, the underbrush began to get taller. First it was waist high, then shoulder high; and it began to feel claustrophobic. I couldn't see more than five feet in front of me, and with the effort of parting the underbrush to find the trail my hiking speed dropped. I began to see bear tracks and bear scat on the trail - the first of the trip. Neither was particularly fresh, but the bear tracks were on top of all other tracks on the trail.

For a while the trail was on a bench a few hundred feet away from the river - the East Fork of Moose Creek. I could hear it running shallow and splashy over a wide bed of cobbles. But then the trail cut down a bank and continued much closer to the river, and the noise of the water filled my ears. The increased noise level made me nervous and I checked my bear spray holster to make sure it was loose.

After only a few hundred feet I stopped and looked at the forest ahead. I couldn't see much beyond the immediacy of the thick underbrush. I couldn't hear anything. With the rain and still air, I knew that it would be hard for a bear to smell me. That left only two senses: touch and taste, neither of which are recommended ways of detecting a bear. Panic rose in me and I fought it down, took a few more steps, and stopped again. One thought came into my head: Dave was a special breed of man.

I turned and walked back the way I came. As soon as I got back away from the river I could breathe again. I sat on a log and wrung the water out of my socks. Ate a snack, drank some water. I did not like this section of trail, and I did not like this part of Moose Creek. I did not feel kinship with the land or the water and the thought of continuing made me skittish. When I put my boots back on I turned and retreated back towards the old airstrip. I felt like a coward, abandoning my goal at the first major trial. I looked uphill, away from the river, trying to see a way to get through off-trail, but it was all dense underbrush and steep ravines.

When I got close to the airstrip a wave of heavy rain moved in. I stopped and set up the tent in a small clearing, took off my boots, and lay back against my pack. My mind was unsettled and I felt like just giving up and hiking back to the car tomorrow. I pulled out "In the Shining Mountains" to find inspiration. Reading Dave's familiar description of this area brought me back to my senses. On his way through he stopped to visit some old graves close to the North Fork of Moose Creek. I resolved to head that way as soon as the rain slackened.

Back on the trail, and with a clear purpose again, I moved fast back across the old airstrip, then turned onto the North Fork trail. From my map of the area, the graves appeared to be close to the river, at the edge of two chained clearings. I crossed the first clearing, turned into the second one, and then dropped down one more bank almost on top of the graves. A granite stone stood at the foot of a rough outline of rocks. An ancient cedar slab stood in the middle of the grave, with illegible carved letters on the face. About fifteen feet away, another cedar slab marked the second grave.

I dropped my pack and stood looking. I heard later from some folks at the ranger station that they did not like this area at all and avoided it when possible, but I liked it and felt very comfortable. The graves were occupied by two men who had tried to overwinter in this area, prospecting and trapping. They had died of scurvy in late winter, and their one surviving friend had buried them before hiking out himself. (For more information, see Dead Man’s Flat by Robert Printz).

The rain seemed to have stopped for a while - there were some patches of blue visible through the grey clouds moving quickly overhead. The area was flat and I found an old fire ring a few hundred feet away from the graves. I set up camp and collected firewood - mostly driftwood from the river. I carved beautiful long curls of wood from an old piece of cedar and used them to light a fire. I took off my boots, poured out the water, and propped them up next to the fire to dry. I was happy there, and I spent all evening tending the fire and drying my boots and socks. I felt at home here and I thought it would be a nice place to be buried, if I had to be buried.

Well after dark I doused the fire and moved into the tent. My boots were mostly dry except for in the toe area. As long as it didn't continue to rain I could hike in them and not get blisters.