Mud and Guts: Caving in the Wilderness

Over a year ago, I started caving. And while I say "I", no one can start themselves into caving. You have to rely on the kindness of established cavers to train you and make sure you don't do anything too stupid at first.

This calls for the head-first approach, right?

I was overwhelmed even by small caves then, but I listened to stories and dreamed about some caves that had achieved an almost mythical status in my mind.

So when I was invited to tag along with some of the most experienced, expert cavers in the country on their caving expedition in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I accepted even with the awareness that I was probably going to pee myself in fear. Ten days in the wilderness was about 8 days longer than I'd ever been in the Wilderness before, and easily the most remote caving I had ever done. Just hiking around on the surface you are pretty much beyond rescue, let alone in the depths of the caves themselves.

Ten days of backpacking, caving, and rafting, with a group of mostly strangers--I was well out of every comfort zone I have. When the day of departure came, my farewells to my family had almost a note of finality to them.

I had one main goal: don't cause trouble for the group.

Wilderness sign...OF NO RETURN!

There were so many things to worry about that by the time I started hiking I couldn't possibly worry about them all, so I just focused on one step, one mile at a time. I stuck by the side of an older and wiser friend who tolerated my beginner-ness with saintly patience.

For the first time in my life, I didn't need an alarm clock. My inner alarm (i.e. fright) woke me consistently at 5:30-6:00 AM each morning. Afraid of being too slow and left behind, I jumped up to get ready each morning. I saw something like 9 sunrises in a row, easily a record for me.

I learned more in these days than, I suspect, an entire semester of school. I slowly got to know each of my companions and became even more awed by the company I was keeping. These were incredibly intelligent, competent adults, miles ahead of me in every aspect of life, with PhDs and life experience to their name. They taught me to run survey instruments and gain vertical caving skills. And they never passed up an opportunity to make a dick joke.

It's so big!

Every day scared me, but the work was fun. I helped map a new section of cave where no human had ever been before. In the meantime, the others were pushing deeper in a cave that would prove to be the deepest in the US. After 3 days of caving, I took a rest day to hike around and look at plants, clean my gear and nap in my tent. It was absolutely gorgeous, of course.

I thought I wanted a day to enjoy the beauty of the wilderness. But that day, as I lay in the full sun surrounded by flowers and swatting at numerous flies, I realized I would actually rather be underground.

So I went.

The next day, I found myself at the bottom of Virgil the Turtle, one of the deepest caves in the US. I had told myself around a year ago that this was the cave I wanted to get in someday, thinking it wouldn't be for a very long time. Sitting at the bottom of Virgil was a surreal experience. I wasn't sure if it was actually happening, or if I had somehow died and was having a very realistic fantasy.

Although a very dimly lit fantasy.

Then one of my companions reached over and smeared some of the abundantly present mud on my face, breaking the spell. In the midst of wrestling to try to mud him back, I realized that this was definitely real, and there was nowhere else on--or in--the earth I'd rather be.

Plenty more mud where that came from!

At the end of the trip, we floated out on tiny, inadequate rafts on the South Fork of the Flathead. Even that part was scary (maybe the scariest!)

But it wasn't with a group of strangers anymore.

Lead the way!

 I accomplished my number one goal (well, mostly), plus a few others. And I have no regrets.

The cave suit, tragically, did not survive.

Urgggh choices

It's that time of year again! That period of midwinter restlessness and desire to see the days grow longer again. When you've exhausted the snowshoeing/skiing options (or the snow just doesn't want to cooperate).

Ha. I wish.

For us wildlifers, it's also job season. I am applying and interviewing for summer seasonal work, which means my head is already way past spring semester. Considering I have 18 credits' worth of class to get through, that could be problematic.

Summatime!! And animals yeah!!

Last year, I already knew by February that I was going to be spending my summer in Barrow. It provided a welcome incentive to get through the drudge of spring semester. However, last year the choice was simple. I received few offers (due to it being a terrible, terrible year for federally funded projects), and of those offers, Alaska was the only real option because of timing conflict. (Note: I had zero problem with this).

This year the game has changed. There are actual projects to choose from. I also have an aim--if possible, I'd like to start working with bats. I've never before had an interest in a particular species, so I am excited to see where it goes.

It probably goes into some large, dark hole.

Someday it's going to exasperate me, but for now, I am enjoying the fleeting nature of wildlife work. I don't want to be trapped in one place or one career. I want to travel around, see new places and meet new people every few months. I love Missoula--this place has become my home while going to school here.

Beautiful from so many angles.

After just three years, Missoula is already full of memories. I complain about college a lot because there are a lot of problems with the system, but it has been very good for me. I came to UM a nervous, naive 18-year-old. I kept my head down through public school in conservative, rural Montana. I was so busy trying not to stand out that I never questioned what I actually liked.

Except motorcycles. Motorcycles always win.

Three years ago, I'd never been rock climbing, kayaking, caving, or even backpacking. I hadn't hiked hundreds of miles in the backcountry or swam in icy mountain lakes, or run in Arctic races.

Or played with baby caribou in the mist.

 It's amazing how easily I can take all that for granted. I get fed up with long days of school and work and little sleep, but the truth is, it's already been worth it. I am incredibly graced with everything I have found here. Kind, welcoming people, unique experiences, maybe even a tiny bit of self-confidence that I didn't have before.

In other words, I need to suck it up, quit complaining, and get ready to work my ass off this semester. Summer will come, and hopefully some sort of paid employment with it.

Stay weird, lovely Missoula.

--Ellen Marie

With Montana it is love. . .

If I ever forget why I love Montana (God forbid), haul me up and take me on a backpacking trip. There is something about traveling country by foot, and nothing else seems to be able to replace it. It is looking down at a dizzying drop, knowing it was your feet and legs, attached to your rapidly beating heart, that took you up there and nothing else.

Red Gap Pass, Glacier Nat'l Park

I try not to romanticize the outdoors in my own mind too much (though it is probably inevitable). The mountain does not give a shit that we are walking on it. The cold stream doesn't care. We can certainly impact these places, whether positively or negatively, but the earth does not care about our little ant scurries.

What we take away from it, however, is invaluable. I'm not really sure why, but as much as the mountains and rivers and lakes do not need people, people need them.

Preferably as grueling as possible.

 I probably could have stayed home all weekend and worked on chores, homework, and other life demands, and still not have finished everything. Instead I fled responsibility and escaped into the mountains--the Mission Mountains Wilderness, where I took a short backpack trip with friends. After spending an enjoyable night by a high alpine lake I still hadn't escaped my restlessness. That need had not been quite fulfilled.

Behold, Daughter of the Sun

The peak featured in the center of this photo sits solidly at 8,777 feet--not enormous, but an impressive mountain with a lovely name. The sight of it had teased us all the way up on our hike. Myself and an intrepid partner (or leader, more accurately. . . ) parted from the rest of the group to tackle the summit (see previous photo of ridiculous scree scramble).

Without a map or knowledge of a good route, we eyed a possible line up to the ridge and headed up. We hiked over a boulder field, which turned into near-vertical loose talus, and finally hit giant stacked boulders to scramble up and over all the way to the top. The route required Class 3/4 scrambling, according to the people at summitpost.org, but I wasn't expecting quite that much sheer vertical climbing. *After some research, turns out I accidentally did Class 5 (roped climbing) free solo on this trip. Don't try it at home, kids. . . *

I wish I had taken more photos to prove how epic the climb was, but on the other hand, I was pretty focused on not dying. The climbing was easy compared to the rock climbing I've done before-- except I was wearing hiking boots, a pack, and had absolutely no rope protection. Even Intrepid Partner, not known for his cautiousness, advised me to make sure every hand and foothold was 100% before I tried it.

"Looks solid."

Several times we attained false summits only to throw our hands up frustrated, realizing we had yet another ledge with hundreds of feet of exposure to climb. Returning the way we came seemed impossible (and in fact probably was). We had gone too far to turn back now. Somehow, inching across ledges and climbing up narrow slots, we made our way upward. Stepping onto the summit was a ridiculously joyous, heady moment.

At the summit, the rest of the world seems to stop. Human things look very small and inconsequential from up there. They look the way they ought to, maybe.

I was concerned about coming back down, knowing that downclimbing is much more dangerous. I took my time edging carefully back down the mountain, taking a slightly different route with looser rock but less exposure. I hopped down from solid hold to solid hold, sending showers of loose rock plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground. Intrepid Partner sailed down with a grin on his face, skiing (skreeing?) over the rocks in his boots. 

There wasn't much time for celebration at arriving on solid ground again. At the bottom, we shouldered our suddenly heavy overnight packs and continued on 6 miles down to the trailhead. Tired, but totally content (and in my case, happy to have some solid earth under my feet).

Why do humans seek adventure, and inherent with it, risk?

Sometimes, just because we can.

Just too good to pass up.

On Solo Backpacking

My first steps up the trail were uncertain. I looked back over my shoulder at the car, and then it vanished from sight. Oh well--I tugged at the straps of my heavy pack and hiked on up the creek.

It hadn't seemed like a big deal on the drive up to East Rosebud Trailhead. I have camped out, traveled to the Arctic, and hiked many long miles solo. But somehow, hiking out miles beyond any other human being to face the night alone, depending entirely on myself, seemed different.

It was an experiment of sorts. I'm a pretty social person and lived pretty closely with other people all summer, so I wondered how it would go.

During the hike, I was distracted by being extremely sweaty and out of breath (elevation is a killer). Eventually I got to choose exactly when and where I wanted to bed down for the night.

Time: a couple seconds before nightfall. Place: mountaintop

I was sweatier than I'd ever been in my life, but I stripped down without worries to cool off and dry out my clothes. I stretched out diagonally across my tent. I brought no food with me (due to lack of a method to store it bear-safely), so I contented myself with snacking on the numerous growing wild berries.

Sooo many raspberries

I barely slept that night. Less because of any fear or discomfort (though those were certainly factors) but because it was so novel. After the summer of daylight and being around people, this was the exact opposite. Loud hoof steps crunched around outside my tent, but besides that, it was absolutely silent. No birds or even insects chirped, and the wind was still.

By morning light, before the sun had come up, I packed up my camp and moved on. There was a lake with my name on it somewhere up ahead--I didn't know how far, but I was determined to make it somewhere, or else it seemed almost like a waste of effort.

I hiked on and on. I almost turned back several times, exhausted by lack of sleep and the thought of the long drive I had yet to do that day. No one was with me; no one would know.

But I kept hiking anyway. And finally that moment, standing by the lakeside in the 6:30 AM light, was pure magic. It took me that experience to finally understand.

You can hike at your own speed, stop to eat berries when you want. You can ignore certain comforts, like food, without worry of causing someone else misery. You can cuss like a sailor every step of the way, or be in a bad mood without affecting someone else. Everything is your decision, which also means if you fuck up, there's no one to take up your slack. If there is a monster outside your tent, only you can wrestle it.

I was alone, but I wasn't lonely. I'm not sure what this says for my future, but I do feel a bit freed. Company is appreciated but not necessary. We're all going through life alone anyway--it's just an illusion that we are doing anything else.

Grouse aaall alooone

Urban Jungle

The city scares me. A lot. All the stuff I say about doing things that scare you--it all flies out the window in any place where the avenues start numbering in the hundreds.

The stuff of nightmares.

I find it strangely true that I am more awkward and out of place in an area designed for human use than I am in those that are not, like caves. Somehow, I managed to forget this long enough to agree to a trip to Seattle with my sister.

It began with a disastrous end to a backpack trip. The gorgeous hike had started out looking like this:

The trail remained dry and easy to follow, lazily swinging by roaring waterfalls and through shallow creek beds. Fellow backpacker "Fire Master" Justin and I hiked on into the valley, stopping to nibble on glacier lilies and dreaming of a quiet evening fly fishing on an alpine lake seven miles up.

About a half mile from the lake, the landscape changed dramatically.

In a few switchbacks, we'd gone from a blazing summer day back to winter's chill. The lake, of course, was frozen over.  Our attempts to make the best of it ended in my falling in the lake, getting sopping wet, and subsequently burning holes in all my belongings while trying to dry them out by the fire. To his credit, Justin only laughed at me a little. I shivered my way through a poor night's sleep before calling it quits the next morning--our planned two nights suddenly didn't seem so appetizing.

Tough choice.

Further plans we might have made once we got back down were canceled the moment I turned the ignition key in my vehicle and found it dead. Fantastic--parked at a trailhead into the backcountry with no cell service. This is what you call a trip that was not meant to be.

After getting a jump, I drove home feeling extremely young, foolish, and wet behind the ears (perhaps literally as well as figuratively). This was what I had to show for a whole summer's worth of backcountry hiking?

Pity visit from a butterfly.

And yet, I would have traded for any of the uncomfortable moments of the backpacking trip over my discomfort in Seattle. Sounds, smells, and sights assaulted my senses from the moment I woke. One can't just settle into a rhythm and hike the steep streets, since you have to stop every other block for a red light. One must navigate around construction and crazily slanted streets, cars gridlocked in the intersections, people trying to sell you random things on corners, and everything costing something (parking!). Most of America is used to this, but it's an adjustment for me.

I think of myself as living in the city while I go to college, but I've realized that isn't true. I can walk for five minutes off my campus and be in the woods, alone, whenever I like. There is nowhere in Missoula where I can't see my beloved mountains looming near.

The best of both worlds. . .

Turns out I was wrong about cities in that they do retain pockets of wild here and there (or at least Seattle does.) Nature creeps in overgrown parks and unkempt backyards. Wildlife is actually quite abundant. When I stood on the docks and looked out over the bay, learned to slackline on the beach with a local friend, or biked through parks with my sister around Union Lake, I could see, at moments, falling in love with this place.

But not for me. At least, not now--I can't exclude anything from my future, seems like--but for now, my mind turns toward Alaska, the Arctic circle, the frozen and the remote. I'm glad I stepped into the city for a bit. Different paths in life are not more valuable than one another, they are only a preference. City life is just as much adventure after all. Except instead of avoiding snakes, you're avoiding parking tickets, and staying out of the path of giant buses instead of bears.

Thisss isss a hold-up!

Riding Solo

The older I get, the more often I seem to run into a particular barrier with my adventuring. Occasional day trips are one thing, but planning multi-day, complicated trips is quite another. I'm pretty sure there must be a mathematical equation somewhere that calculates the percentage of difficulty as multiplied by number of people coming on the trip.

And it looks something like this.

That's right--14 people is 20,000%. Actually, that doesn't sound too far off. . .

Anyway, this leads me to something I've been pondering. When it comes to getting out and doing things, I am a social outdoorswoman--I like to have company. However, I greatly prefer getting out and doing something fun by myself than sitting home bored.

That's my Bessie!

I first began to run into this problem with my motorcycling. I can rarely find anyone else to take trips with; therefore I spent a lot of time riding alone last summer. I was fine with it, although my mother probably gained a few new stress lines. When I broke down (once!) I was reliant on total strangers to help me out.

I was assisted by some amazing people in getting her running again, at least enough to limp home.If I had ridden with a partner, at the very least they could have given me a lift somewhere when I broke down, so of course, I was vulnerable riding alone (not to mention safety in numbers/visibility). I know these risks, and have decided to continue riding solo anyway.

Now, as I am slowly becoming a more experienced hiker, I am confronted by the same decision. Where do I draw the line with solo adventures?

I would love to say that my being a young woman has nothing to do with it--and it doesn't very often, but it does make me pause to think on occasion. On a recent camping trip with friends, some random strangers joined our group, got drunk and rowdy and hit on me pretty hard. I was okay with my friends there, but it was an interesting reminder that even out in the woods where you don't expect to run into people, you certainly can.

And then you can always push them into fires!

But no, my mind is less dominated by fears of hillbillies hiding behind trees, and more of twisting an ankle, facing off with a mountain lion/bear, or simply getting lost and facing exposure (most likely option). 

People like Aron Ralston are widely criticized--after the fact at least--for going out alone on their trips. But if they chose not to go alone, and waited for companions to be free to join them, they probably wouldn't be having those adventures at all. Ralston should have left a note then, they say, but I ask you, who would have been able to free him even if they had found him? One way or another that arm was coming off.

They're hungry for your arms. . .

And yet, if I backpack in the wilderness alone, even after informing friends and family (select ones anyway) if something goes wrong, I would be another Aron. Labeled an idiot, maybe even deserving of what I get.

It is a balance of risk versus reward. Is it worth it?

I know my decision about my motorcycle already. But as I tackle bigger things, I do have to remind myself to ask, where do I draw the line?

Need for Speed

Happy winter everybody!

I feel quite sorry for anyone who doesn't have seasons--or those who fail to appreciate it when they do. Is it a pain in the ass to drive on crappy roads and scrape your windshield? Yes. It also sucks to have to bundle up like an Arctic explorer just to grab the newspaper.

But honestly, I'm having a hard time even sympathizing with these woes, because AWESOME.

http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live

This guy says, "What? Hard to travel in the snow you say? I can't hear you through the sound of awesome!"

I'm no pro when it comes to skiing, but I do love it. And anyway, you don't have to love hurtling at deadly speeds down extremely angled slopes to enjoy the wintertime. Snowshoeing or cross-country skiing are just as enjoyable in their own way. If none of these interest you, then. . . well, you and I don't have much in common, but at least you can enjoy a hot mug of tea indoors while watching the snow fall outside.

Turns out, even the wussiest person who is highly susceptible to cold temperatures (read: me) can adjust to the cold. I have found out that the human body is sturdier than I ever would've imagined. It may not be beautiful, but dammit, it's resilient.

I only lost 3 toes to frostbite on this trip. Win!

This winter, I have backpacked overnight in -20 degrees F perfectly comfortably. Hiking out the next morning, condensation froze my eyelashes solid, and my hair was white with frost--but I felt just fine. I have skied in -13 F with formidable windchill, and still managed to have an amazing day on the slopes. I have gone for long walks and runs in the cold, and where my lungs once ached to receive that frigid air, now they handle it. The human body is an amazing thing after all.

It's easy to forget when you don't hold up to society's ideal, or even your own ideal. It really isn't about how your body looks. It's about what it can do.

Enjoy your winter :)

Weekend Photo

Here's a quick photo from my volunteer backpack trip of the weekend--Heart Lake near Superior, Montana.

                  Next time the Great Burn area comes up for a vote, make sure this proposed wilderness becomes a reality, because it's worth it.

Hitchhikin' Through Life

          The summer may be over, and the drudge of school has begun, but the adventures continue! For the second time, I went rock climbing outdoors (not to mention, somehow found myself walking out of the Trailhead with a new climbing harness. Oops.)
         If ever you reach a point of incredible stress in your life and just need a release, take up climbing. There is nothing quite like it. All your buzzing thoughts and worries vanish when you're high up in the sky clinging to a rock, needing to focus on your every move. Not to mention, I've made some new climber friends (making friends yay!) which is of course, always awesome.
        I also managed to kick a few things off the bucket list this weekend, including:
        1) Backpacking! Crazily enough, I spent all summer out in the woods but never did go backpacking. I went with three very good friends, in Glacier National Park of all places. We swam in the chilly waters of Gunsight Lake, danced with mountain goats in the sunset, and threw snowballs at each other on the high talus slopes. It was an amazing, breathtaking (sometimes literally, as we climbed over a mountain pass) experience.

     2) Hitchhiking. We got down to the end of the trail and discovered that the park shuttle was no longer running, and stuck our thumbs out. I felt a little ridiculous at first, but I didn't think it would be a problem--my friend Jeremy and I looked like pretty harmless youths, our giant packs giving us an air of legitimacy, so I thought. It was only 20-30 minutes before we got picked up, but that time span felt like forever, as we knew that if we didn't get picked up it was another 11 miles of walking to go. At last, we were saved by a lovely Canadian woman doctor.
          So much for helping out your fellow Americans, you entitled, wealthy white assholes. (Not that I'm bitter). Jody, thank you so much, wherever you are. I learned a good lesson from this one though--you never know when you're going to be the one stranded at the side of the road. Do a person a good turn whenever you can.

    3) Riding a motorcycle over Going to the Sun road. I've wanted to do this ever since I first went up Going to the Sun in a car. Let me tell you. It absolutely cannot compare to doing it on a bike. I rode pillion behind Jeremy on his bike, so I was free to just look. And I did. My eyes were bloodshot from the wildfire smoke afterward, and I was sore as hell from hiking 22 miles and then sitting in one cramped position on the back of the bike. But it was soooo worth it.

         The real adventure of the trip? Getting to do all this with good friends at my side. We signed the hiker register at Sperry Chalet "Happiness is only real when shared."