September 18, 2017
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Anyhow, yeah ... Charlie and I made it back to Bozeman late last night. Yesterday was a lovely day on Mount Baptiste, and I took my time packing and closing up the tower. It was close to 3 when I radioed Kalispell Dispatch to tell them that Baptiste was going out of service for the season, and I locked the door and hit the trail. Made it back to the car in about 2-1/4 hours, my only excitement being the discovery that a mildly incontinent bear had used my trail a few days before. I could feel the beginnings of a cold front moving in as I hiked, bringing the rain and snow that will carpet northwest Montana this week. Summer's over.
I'm going to miss that place, that life.
I used to know a guy who spent his summers as a river guide in Utah, taking people on multi-day raft trips through the desert wilderness. He and his fellow guides had a ritual that happened after every trip: as soon as the boats were pulled out of the water and the guests boarded their bus back to town, the guides all headed straight for the closest Wendy's, and ordered large Frostys for themselves. They started talking about those Frostys long before the end of the trip, with great wistfulness ... that cup of soft ice cream was the symbol of civilization they missed the most, more than clean clothes or hot showers or anything else.
I was on a trip with him where he sliced his hand open very badly with a kitchen knife, prepping dinner the first night out. He needed stitches, but he also had to row for two more days to get to a doctor, and so he did it, a roll of tape and gauze wrapped around the wound. The last morning, the guides were talking about the trip's end, trying to decide if they should go to the hospital first, or go to Wendy's first. Their decision: get the Frostys first, and then hit the ER.
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Anyhow, I've developed a similar ritual at the end of my lookout hitches: as soon as I get back to town and drop off the Forest Service radio, I treat myself to one of these:
I was on a trip with him where he sliced his hand open very badly with a kitchen knife, prepping dinner the first night out. He needed stitches, but he also had to row for two more days to get to a doctor, and so he did it, a roll of tape and gauze wrapped around the wound. The last morning, the guides were talking about the trip's end, trying to decide if they should go to the hospital first, or go to Wendy's first. Their decision: get the Frostys first, and then hit the ER.
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Anyhow, I've developed a similar ritual at the end of my lookout hitches: as soon as I get back to town and drop off the Forest Service radio, I treat myself to one of these:
It's a Bacon Double Cheeseburger from the A&W Drive-In just outside Columbia Falls, Montana. After three weeks of mostly pasta and oatmeal and Mountain House, it's the perfect indulgence ... a reminder that civilization isn't *all* bad. :)
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Anyhow, yeah ... Charlie and I made it back to Bozeman late last night. Yesterday was a lovely day on Mount Baptiste, and I took my time packing and closing up the tower. It was close to 3 when I radioed Kalispell Dispatch to tell them that Baptiste was going out of service for the season, and I locked the door and hit the trail. Made it back to the car in about 2-1/4 hours, my only excitement being the discovery that a mildly incontinent bear had used my trail a few days before. I could feel the beginnings of a cold front moving in as I hiked, bringing the rain and snow that will carpet northwest Montana this week. Summer's over.
I'm going to miss that place, that life.