APR 13 2001
By Win Goodbody
With the first half of our Greater Yellowstone traverse complete, a pattern is emerging: the winter has turned into a series of river descents. If we had set off three months ago consciously intending to explore the major waterways between Lander, WY and Livingston, MT, we could not have come up with a better itinerary than the path we have taken. This was not our plan at the start. Rather the style and location of our journey has been dictated by this year's unusually dry weather.
With so little snow in the northern Rockies, valleys have been the best places to travel. Ridge crests and steep terrain are either bare, dangerous, or inaccessible. On almost every leg so far we have taken a lower, milder line than what we originally planned. Though it has been disappointing to miss some of the higher peaks, I can't help thinking that following rivers is probably the best way to understand Greater Yellowstone. Perhaps the drought has been our good luck.
Rivers, along with the mountains and valleys they help sculpt, are this region's defining features. In the midst of a near desert, surrounded by places like southern Idaho's ancient lava flows, southwest Wyoming's parched moonscape, or eastern Montana's dusty badlands, Yellowstone is an oasis of sorts. That there is any water at all here is thanks to the high plateaus and mountains that squeeze moisture from passing air masses. Water in turn exerts a huge influence on the character of the landscape, both on its literal shape as well as its inhabitants. An entire universe of life takes hold, from insects to fish to bears. Deep canyons and valleys are carved out. This interplay between altitude, topography, and precipitation explains a lot about Greater Yellowstone.
A large cube of rock sitting on a flat parking lot is a good image for understanding the relation of Yellowstone's high central plateaus to neighboring areas when it comes to flowing water. Whereas perimeter towns like Jackson, WY, Bozeman, MT, or Cody, WY are located at about 6,000 feet, Yellowstone's high country is anywhere between 8,000 and 10,000 feet. If you were to take a pitcher of water and pour it on top of that cube, streams would drain off and spill downward. Once on the parking lot, the water would head off in all directions. Keep doing this for millions of years and channels form. A network of streams and rivers is born.
Of course in the real world a chunk of the annual precipitation falls in the form of snow, not water. During winter the snow piles up. Spring's warmer temperatures unlock these precious stores, and the melt cycle sends cold, clear water downhill. For a few succeeding months the dry landscape is wet. Fingers of green spread out across the barren surrounding plains. Unless it is a drought year, in which case the advent of spring amounts to just a slight increase in water flows.
The main rivers and subsidiary forks draining Greater Yellowstone's cold, high center are the Green, Wind, Gros Ventre, Snake, Shoshone, Boulder, Stillwater, Lamar, Yellowstone, Falls, Madison, and Gallatin. Aside from their obvious importance to local animal species and plant life, these rivers are lifelines that enable humans to live both in the immediate neighborhood and even hundreds of miles downstream. Without the Snake, southern Idaho would be uninhabitable. Without the Green, irrigation systems in Wyoming and Utah would disappear.
As they flow down both sides of the Continental Divide toward the sea, Greater Yellowstone's rivers support millions of people. It is therefore a fascinating exercise to examine firsthand the headwaters of these drainages, one after another, and to travel along their first 20 or 30 miles, in the season when they are stockpiling the precipitation on which an entire region depends. On past legs we had followed the Green, Gros Ventre, Yellowstone, and Lamar drainages. On this one the Boulder River was to be our highway.
Our sixth leg from Cooke City, MT to Livingston, MT was sure to be exciting, and possibly difficult. Cutting through the most rugged terrain in the entire ecosystem, our proposed route looked better suited to canyoneering or rock climbing than skiing. Initially we would follow mild creeks and streams as we have done so often on past legs, but ultimately we would hit the high Absaroka crest and have to get up and over somehow.
I had serious doubts, given the lack of snow, about our chances of pulling off this crest traverse, but we could always modify our plans out on the trail. In the last few months we had become experts at that. Joining us on this northern Absaroka odyssey was Torsten Prahl. Based in Jackson, WY, Torsten had gotten wind of our trip and decided he just had to get in on some of the fun. We were happy to have an extra set of skis for trail breaking. And maybe a fresh voice for singing back country, wilderness hits.
We departed Cooke City under unsettled, gray skies. During the week we had been away after first arriving in Cooke at the end of leg 5, the snow had visibly receded. Main Street was now dry pavement. Dirt roads in town were once again dirt. We skinned up toward Daisy Pass on a packed snow machine trail with bare ground on either side. It didn't look good.
The mountains just north of Cooke City were the scene of vigorous mining activities not so long ago, and abandoned equipment and structures still dot the landscape. On our first night out we found an old cabin near some rusting machinery and cleared the floor of broken bottles and other unidentified objects to make it bearable. Joe slept on an old set of springs he found. The large gaps in the roof and open doorway let in plenty of snow later on when it started storming and blowing in earnest. As was to become the pattern of this trip, it stormed at night and was clear during the day.
We left the last signs of snow machiners behind on day 2 as we hit the wilderness boundary and headed down Abundance Creek toward its confluence with Slough Creek, just north of Yellowstone Park. All trees in all directions were burned, making views and travel easy. On the last leg down the Lamar River, Joe and I had been treated to the first fully supportable snow of the winter. We now found more of it and made good time until the heat of midday softened the snowpack enough so that plunging in knee deep was once again the norm.
Down near Slough Creek, there was almost no snow on the ground at all. Mud and rocks greeted us on the trail and begged to have a go at our skis. That evening we made camp on a small rise amidst typical post-fire Yellowstone forest. New trees are growing back in a dense carpet that blends with burned trees still standing and stacked downfall that in places is too thick to navigate. You could almost taste the presence of recently awakened, hungry bears.
By day 3, in keeping with tradition, it was time to once again alter our proposed route and take the easy way out. The absence of snow made us pessimistic about our chances of skiing or traveling up high. Instead, we locked on to the Boulder River as our route and set about climbing up to the head of its East Fork. Following what used to be a mining road, we made good time up Slough Creek. Last night's storm had dropped just enough snow to make the lower trail navigable. Rounding one of those inexplicable bends where the burn suddenly stops, we found ourselves back in the woods. The weather was marvelous though. Almost hot.
That night we realized that our abandonment of the high ground was going to shorten this leg dramatically. In fact, we might be out in one more day. The next morning delivered a dusting of new snow but then cleared as we began a five mile downhill kamikaze run into the East Fork drainage. We could point our skis, with or without climbing skins still on depending on one's desire for speed, and coast along. We were on the trail, and because the woods here were unburned, you really had to be on the trail, which was not wide enough to allow turns.
For this leg I had donned sturdy fixed heel AT gear, thinking we were actually going to do some skiing. Torsten had the same. Joe was on his usual tele gear - much better for touring, which is all we were now doing. Trying to simultaneously kick and glide and ski downhill with AT gear when the heels are released in walk mode raises a few stability issues. Joe immediately disappeared down canyon, leaving me and Torsten to battle our way down in a Darwinian struggle. Always the cautious one, I left my skins on for the luge run, wanting a little braking ability. Torsten took his off and seemed to be preparing for an all out speed offensive. I noticed, however, that he kept the heels of his AT bindings released. Hmmm.
I lost sight of Torsten as he blazed ahead but could hear him at times crashing through one obstacle or another. Then the trail steepened and we were in dense woods. Nothing to do but head straight down the trail and hope for somewhere below to run out and slow down. I checked myself with some sidesteps at the top of the slope and then aimed downhill. Shortly after, I came around a corner going faster than I wanted to, and there was a wreck! A human casualty! It was Torsten entangled in some large flora he had been unable to avoid on a particularly out of control corner. I didn't know this guy was a tree hugger! No time to stop and find out whether he was still living, though. I blazed on by, focused only on self preservation. Down on the flats I met Joe, who looked like he had been having lunch for the last 25 minutes. Eventually Torsten materialized, hat askew, snow beard pasted across his face, maybe a slight limp in his stride. "Did you have fun up there?" I asked him.
We had now reached the main fork of the Boulder River and the edge of civilization. It was the end of the road, or, given our inbound direction, the beginning. We saw snow machine and tire tracks. The road had been bare in unshaded stretches before the recent snows. There was now just enough cover to allow us to ski onwards, ignoring the not so occasional sound of scraping as our skis met rock and dirt.
Now we had a chance to take in from ground level the massive, rugged drainage. Steep walls and sheer cliffs line both sides of this text book example of a box canyon. The only way out is to follow the Boulder for another 20 miles to where it emerges from the canyon near Big Timber, MT and joins the Yellowstone River.
What really captured my interest about this densely treed valley, however, aside from its great beauty and wild feeling, is the fact that it is completely unburned. It escaped entirely the conflagrations of 1988 that turned Yellowstone and many neighboring areas black. The forest is now almost too thick to navigate off trail. Huge downfall covers the ground. Aside from a few minor fires over the years, this drainage has not seen a real burn in a very long time.
This can only mean that sometime soon, in a dry year when the right conditions come together, a fire of unimaginable intensity is almost certain here. Unfortunately the valley is filled with many summer homes and at least four bible camps, so aside from the natural effects of a large fire, there could be a very real human impact. Escape out the narrow road during a full blaze would be impossible. According to a local guy we met, the Forest Service is definitely worried about this time bomb. And given the dry conditions that have prevailed so far this year, coming on the heels of a very dry season last year, this could be the year the Boulder burns.
We continued along the road out, skis on, scraping and dinging our way homeward. We still had about 15 miles to go, so we camped and kept at it the next day. Again a tiny amount of new snow overnight extended the distance we could use our skis, but I finally tired of inflecting such hideous damage and started walking. We wanted to see a truck, a snow machine. Anyone who would pick us up. And at last a large pickup appeared. We clambered on top of a giant pile of firewood in the back.
The three men in the truck were hunters, fishermen, campers, back for a weekend reunion with old friends. Apparently they used to roam the hills around the Boulder when they were younger, not as much anymore. We stopped at their large camp for a few minutes before one of them gave us a ride all the way to Mcleod, the nearest town. While we were in the camp I talked to an older member of the party. He was amazed and happy to hear of our trip. You could see in his bright eyes that he wanted to be out there with us, but that his exploring days were now done.
He besieged me with incredibly specific questions about what we had seen and talked about John Colter, the legendary mountain man of the early 1800's who traveled over much of this country solo. This old timer clearly knew a lot about Yellowstone, both from firsthand experience and extensive reading. I mentioned to him how amazing it was that after several decades of living by his wits, often alone and with no more gear than the clothes on his back and a rifle, Colter had given it all up and moved to Virginia to become a simple, civilized farmer. "You mean Missouri," he corrected me.
I wished we could have lingered for an hour or two to hear his stories of past hunts, of wild rides and dark moments. It was pretty clear that for him the outdoors - and specifically Yellowstone - was much more than just a place to go and recreate. It was more like his home. I had no doubt that by Saturday night when the group had swelled to about 20 guys, there were going to be some interesting tales being told.
Once in McLeod, we plagued the local Post Office - actually the only open public structure during the day (bar opens at 5pm) - for a few hours before Torsten's mother arrived from Bozeman to pick us up. We headed north toward Big Timber and I-90. On both sides now were ranches where the Boulder's waters feed crops and animals. At last we emerged from the canyon and could get a glimpse into the distance, the nascent plains to the east. I looked behind at the endless walls of trees falling steeply down and thought about the drought year we were in. Fire and water. I was glad we had taken the low road and learned something about these two fundamental elements in Yellowstone country.
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