The Night
I’ve waited too long to begin, once again. Now, we are running out of daylight.
ADVENTURE ART CLUB | DAY 17 | 9.17
CRAZY CANYON TRAILHEAD
PATTEE CANYON RECREATION AREA
MISSOULA, MT
In Montana, we have the luxury of having an idea for an adventure and then setting out on that journey in a matter of minutes (if we have the right gear for it). We, often, don’t have to plan much in advance to be able to engage with the wild in this world. I cannot count the number of times I have said to myself “I want to go on a hike” and have found myself on the top of a mountain in a matter of hours. What a privilege!
Today, I’ve decided to go on an evening hike, setting off from the Crazy Canyon trailhead in the Pattee Creek Recreation Area near Missoula and turning back whenever I feel like it. I have a vague intention of reaching a lookout spot I know that is located just before the final ascent to the top of Mount Sentinel. This spot overlooks the Missoula Valley floor from the top of a ridgeline. From this turning point, hikers can see across the valley (and Highway 90 running along the valley floor) past Mount Jumbo across the way. These two mountains are iconic markers of Missoula, and almost every view from town includes one or both of these peak guardians. I like this viewpoint because it is not built up in any way. It’s simply a flat spot where you can stand to look out, past ancient gnarled pine and spruce trees, all the way to the horizon.
Like many trail systems in the Missoula area, the trail I’m driving to, up a winding mountain road, is one that splits off into offshoots and different climbs along the journey. My husband and I call these “plates of spaghetti” trail systems. Because you can walk the trail in a hundred different ways and durations, giving route guidance on these systems for new visitors can be challenging. You just have to explore and find out how trails connect to each other. It’s a process of discovery derived from time and effort. I usually like to bring my bike to Crazy Canyon, but I’ve also hiked here countless times.
I feel a bit rushed as I pull into the trailhead parking lot this evening. The light is starting to fade faster and faster in Montana, and I haven’t quite adjusted to this loss of daylight hours. To make up for a late start, my plan for this adventure is to maintain a fast pace, see how far I can get, but not to get too attached to making it to my intended lookout. I’m overly optimistic about how much time I have.
As soon as my boot meets the trail, I’m met by the intoxicating smell of forest pine filling my lungs. This sweet, cold air cannot be captured anywhere else but the mountains, and I love it dearly. It’s quiet here in that eerie “forest at dusk” sort of way that feeds an animal sense of hypervigilance. I’m feeling….lonely…and lost in my mind. I usually welcome my solitude, but tonight I wish someone was with me. Plus, I can’t shake the feeling of rushing behindness. I feel like I’m trying to catch up to something, but…what, exactly? The quick pace of my step isn’t helping. Why do I always wait so late in the evenings to go on adventures? It was cheerful and sunny earlier today…. Why did I miss that window?
In this paradoxically tight and open forest, light fades and night descends more quickly than it does in the valley. So close to the start, I can already feel the change from day into night. Clouds close in. It feels like being surrounded. Far away and out of sight, a raven’s caw feels like a warning - turn back, turn back - but I press on. My pack is heavier than it should be, but my feet move a little quicker. I feel the strain of exertion coursing through me. This hike has become more exercise than pleasure.
Typically, I take my time while hiking, taking it all in. I listen and heed nature’s warnings, soft or insistent, and heed any silent intuitive calls to change directions. Tonight, I’m making a conscious choice to ignore my intuition. I keep going. My feet move quicker and quicker because I believe we are closer than we are to that viewpoint. “It’s just around the next bend! We can make it!”, I think. Well, one bend becomes two, then three, then four. We’re past the point when I swore I would turn back. Willfulness kicks in. Fuck it. I’m doing it. I know now I’ll return in the dark, but I think to myself “The view will be worth it…and we won’t stay long”.
Finally, after pushing ourselves the whole way, we arrive. It’s just as beautiful a place tonight as I know it to be in my mind. I appreciate this quickly as I go about sketching what I see. I know I’ll have to finish this later, but the process gets me to pause just long enough to fall in love, once again, with this view, these trees, this beauty. While putting my drawing materials away, I say a silent prayer to the earth as I watch some ominously dark clouds move closer to us: “Please be kind. Hold off long enough for us to return to the trailhead.” I’m standing at the top of a mountain three miles from where we began. It will take about an hour to return. I know I’m pushing my luck here.
As Scout and I take a quick picture and leave, I can feel the first few drops of rain on my skin. Too late. Luckily, though, this storm is not enough to drench us. It’s twilight now. The light around us holds more blues than warmth. Night is falling as we descend down the rocky trail.
We make our way down a bit faster than how we climbed. I set the pace here, which does not allow for Scout to scamper about like he likes to. Still, he’s in heaven. It’s no matter to him that my visibility is getting poorer and poorer. This forest is filled with dark tree stumps from the intentional fires they use to manage it, and my animal brain imagines each one is a bear moving towards us (except, none of them are actually moving!). Out of an abundance of caution, I pull out my bear spray and hold it for the remainder of the journey, not wanting to lose time pulling it from my pack if we do need to use it.
This is where I’ll confess something utterly stupid. I had forgotten to grab a headlamp before leaving home. (I know, I know….not good).
Scout and I hike at night almost all Winter. The days end at 4 pm, and we would do nothing all season if we didn’t set out in the darkness. For those hikes, he wears an obnoxiously bright collar that illuminates everything and prevents me from losing him. I always have my head lamp, and we can usually see pretty clearly. Tonight, no such luck. It’s clear I haven’t adjusted to the change of seasons just yet.
Things can go wrong in the mountains, quickly. I’m a serial over-packer for every adventure because I want to be prepared for the statistically low probability that something may happen. Wouldn’t I kick myself if I wound up on the news for almost dying of hypothermia somewhere… Because of this, you can expect me to be the trail mom carrying band-aids, snacks, and a way to make fire.
Now I’m kicking myself for my oversight, as we make our way down the trail with very little visibility indeed. My night vision is decent; I’m not tripping and falling, but I can’t see just enough for my instincts of self-preservation to persist in a state of hypervigilant strain. I start to talk to Scout, loudly, so that any animals near will be gracious enough to stay away from us. Eventually, in pitch blackness, we safely arrive at the car again…finally!
So, what have I learned from this sojourn? I’ve learned the importance of final gear checks, even when rushing to get somewhere. I’ve learned the power of our species’ self-protective vigilance and how fiercely this instinct is linked to our eyesight. I’ve learned something I already knew:
Some adventures become about testing one’s luck, taking calculated risks, pushing oneself, accepting a challenge, and (hopefully) coming through the adventure unscathed.
To be honest, every single time we step into the mountains, no matter how prepared, we are taking a risk. Injury and demise could be the cost of a life lived in fullness. It can be really easy to forget this risk when we’ve become so accustomed to traipsing through the wild like child explorers. I wouldn’t give up these experiences. All’s well that ends well.
Love & Gratitude,
- Christina
