Day 11-13: The Bob

July 2-4; Mile 141-206

Day 11

It was an early morning; we had 20 miles to go before camp. The trail started out in the forest, and the sides were lined with woody bushes that swatted our legs as we pushed past. We crested Muskrat Pass, indistinguishable from a grassy clearing, and passed into the Bob Marshall Wilderness, known affectionately as The Bob (or less affectionately as the Bog Marsh Wilderness). 

Before long we passed back into burn scar, but the sky was thankfully overcast enough to keep the temperature down. The burn scar stretched on for 9 miles, a remnant from the 2017 Strawberry fire. Days of hot, dry weather had baked the often soggy ground into a hard track. Beargrass spouted up between the charred trees, and the grade was fairly flat. But as the day wore on, the sky cleared and the sun beat down relentlessly. 

We hid in scraps of shade whenever we took breaks, including a semi-nap beside a creek that was slightly off-trail. The downside of stopping was the flies: small, darting black flies and languid, massive horseflies. They all bit, and those bites hurt like hell. My body was already a symphony of itching from the day before, an amalgamation of mosquito, fly, and horsefly attacks. 

We passed from one burn scar into another, meanwhile the sun blazed above. I dumped water over myself at lunch to try to stay cool, but my feet were cooking. The stream crossings had all been easy to rock-hop across, apart from Strawberry creek. At the sight of the deep water, I plunged straight in, completely dousing my shoes and socks. It felt good for about a mile, until the wet socks started to rub. 

At last we reached the junction to the Gooseberry cabin. A wide grassy field was our tenting spot for the evening, and we ran into Jessica from the night before. I headed straight for the river to soak my feet and cool off after a long, hot day. A few sprinkles fell from the darkening sky, and I heard distant rumbling. 

The cabin porch was a luxury out in the woods, and we all gathered to cook dinner on the flat, level surface. Although we had to be careful not to trip and fall anywhere near the front door; a bed of 4-inch nails lay in place of a doormat, with some decorative animal bones on top. 

More hikers showed up after we had finished eating – and just in time. Lightning flashed and rain began to fall. I snuggled up inside my tent, reminded of my first night camping in the Wind River range back in 2019. We had also stayed in a grassy field in a thunderstorm. With luck I would be back there in a month or two. 

Day 12

Our first adventure for the morning was fording the Flathead River. The water was cold, but thankfully below knee-level and not very fast. But that 1/10th of a mile between the cabin and the river were to be our only chance for dry feet that day. 

The bushes were drenched from the storm the night before, and it felt like pushing through a car wash at times. Wet leaves wiped down my legs, while branches scrubbed at the dirt. It was the cleanest my legs had been all week. 

We passed a beaver dam with mist rising from the valley beyond it. The trapped water was mirror-smooth, with the tiniest of ripples from the three ducks floating lazily across its surface. 

We started the climb toward Switchback Pass, and though it led through an old burn scar, the day was still cool and the bear grass brushed gently at our legs as we hiked. We paused near a creek for a break as Jessica passed us on her way uphill. 

The trail led through a wide meadow with pale cliffs high above. We curled around Pentagon Mountain, where Dean Lake was nestled. The alpine lake was a beautiful shade of turquoise, with a small rim of snow still lingering at its shore. Past the lake the climb began in earnest, gaining 800ft in a mile. The grade was smooth and most of the snow had melted, and we sailed up the trail to the well-named Switchback Pass. 

At the high point we were greeted by views to the south, including the snowy north faces of some tall peaks. The descent was steep and relentless, and we hiked almost four miles before finally stopping for lunch at a wide spot beside the trail next to a creek. Jessica was already there, her gear drying in the sunshine. We added our stuff, and the forest was soon littered with colorful tents and sleeping bags fluttering in the breeze. I laid out my socks, took the insoles out of my shoes, and put everything in a patch of sunshine. Butterflies flocked to the wet gear and lapped up the mixture of sweat and river water. Yum. 

After lunch we descended a bit more until reaching a junction with a horse camp. My shoes and socks had almost dried, and then we came upon Pentagon Creek. After all the care I’d taken to dry things out, it felt like defeat to plunge back in. But the cold water honestly felt good on the hot day, and I happily plunged through all the remaining creeks and kept my feet wet, but cool. In my experience my hot feet blistered more than wet feet. And the hot spot I had felt forming after lunch went away. 

That morning we had planned on doing 21 miles. But the thought of shortening our final day heading into town – plus the chance to camp at a better spot – meant we were aiming for over 23 miles that day. Thankfully the trail was wonderful: smooth dirt through shaded, unburned forest. 

We hugged the cliffs above Pentagon Creek, barely noticing the minor ups and downs. For the last ten miles, we cruised along the soft trail, only stopping twice, and reaching camp before 7 pm. 

Jessica was sitting a bit before camp to cook dinner, and at the tent spot we met Lucy and her dog, Wombat. She was hiking to Alaska, and would continue through the winter as part of a research trip for a device for real-time weather/air quality information for hikers. She talked all through when we were setting up our tents, mentioning other hikers she had met and how she had accidentally logged a temperature of -99 Celsius the day before. She seemed a little starved for interaction – I didn’t learn this until later, but apparently she had started her hike on an island at the southern tip of South America. In 2017!! She had hiked 12,000 miles and still had several thousand to go before she would be done. 

I asked Lucy about Sprinkles’ blister since they had met a few days earlier. She said it looked like it was festering. After dinner I peeled off my soggy socks and inspected the white, wrinkled feet beneath. No trench foot yet, at least. 

Day 13

The morning began with a steep climb up to a junction where we got back onto the official CDT from our detour on Spotted Bear Pass. Immediately we were back into burn scar – the main reason we had taken the alternate in the first place. 

We passed My Lake where casual backpackers had unsecured food strewn all over the campsite. And then we got our first view of the Chinese Wall. The rocky escarpment stretched 12 miles, and we got to hike right beneath the unique formation for miles. 

At the next pass we stopped for lunch and saw Smiley and Puppet again. A large group of equestrians were gathered nearby, and the long descent was chock-full of churned-up mud where any stream crossed the trail. 

We descended in a race against the weather. The forecast had said the rain would start at 4 pm, and indeed the first wet patter began to fall right on time. We had some tricky water crossings, and I slipped and got my feet wet again. The next big river crossing had a bridge – what a luxury! But the trail was filled with horse poop and quickly turning to mud in the rain. We passed one large campsite where a group had a fire going, stopping for a quick break made even shorter by the incessant rain. We hiked on through the dense woods along the narrow brown track leading into the distance. At least it was flat. 

At last we reached our sad camping spot for the night, a large flat area in the woods filled with horse poop that smelled like a farm. We cooked dinner in what little protection the tree canopy afforded before hiding in our tents. At that point the rain began in earnest, and it poured all night long.