In the most southern reaches of Montana, on the border of Yellowstone National Park, high up in the smoldering volcanic cinders of the fuming mountains, there exists a small wetland with a little stream running through it. The wetland consists of rodents and waterfowl, raptors circling overhead, and black bears and grizzly bears meandering in search of trout that fill the waters of the river and berries that line its shores. The wetland's green, grassy expanses are strikingly different than the mountainous sides that erupt on either side. The stream, that begins as a mere trickle, soon turns into a gurgling flow as it leaves Yellowstone and becomes the Gallatin River. Grassy fields line its shore and the river supports vibrant ecosystems and ranches for more than 100 miles as it gains more volume until it reaches Three Forks and joins forces with the East Gallatin and the Madison River to become the Missouri River.
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
To Glacier National Park
After a long spell in Bozeman with Ben (1.5 weeks) Ben and I set out together for Glacier National Park. I have to admit, I cheated a little bit during this segment - Ben and I drove until we were just northwest of Helena. We could have driven to the top of the continental divide pass to start our trip, but some masochistic tendency within us told us to bike all the way up and over. We skipped Missoula and headed straight north through the Swan Valley, a valley with the Swan mountains to the east and the Mission mountains separating us from Flathead lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. Through the valley we biked, passing snow capped peaks and crystal clear rivers with trout rising from their stream homes.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
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