Day Fifty-Two, Ev'ry Mountain

I eased up and over the Rocky Mountains. It was a very nice day. I was not eaten by badger nor bear, nor much pestered by mosquitos. The sun was hot but I didn't mind. It may just have warmed my cockles.

Hot cockles or not, I got a late start. I was in every mood to walk. But for whatever reason I could not straighten up. My spine had fused in my sleep.

It is a little-known danger of outdoor life. It involves a whole lot of crouching. You are always bending over to do this or that. I've got to tell you it's wearying. When I stop to rest I sit on my pack with my knees drawn up to my chest. At night I am huddled up in my tent, typing these missives to you. My back decided to stage a protest. It would have its demands heard.

There are all sorts of things you can accomplish, folded in half at the waist. I took down my tent and prepared my pack. I washed my hair in the river. I took several pills--at least half were orange--and made vigorous application of every herbal remedy I had at my disposal. But I still couldn't move. I resigned myself to dying, alone in the wilderness, and sat down to watch the trains.

I wrenched myself upright by early afternoon and set off on my jolly walk. My back, by then, felt just lovely. I was, in fact, in perfect health as I made my way up the hill. I am most grateful to the fellows who gave me this route. I liked crossing the Rockies on an unused dirt road. It made me feel like a hobbit.

I came across Priest Pass, which I am told is the easiest path across the Rockies this side of Panama. That is not to say it was an easy climb. I was in good shape but I made frequent stops in order to catch my breath. And I rather wanted to draw it out, this thing I have so been dreading. It was pretty up there and I had a whole world entirely to myself.

There was uphill walking but there was not any snow. There were meadows and wildflowers. Blue ones and orange ones and little pink ones that grew in clusters like bells. And not a skeeter in sight and surely the snakes don't slither up more than a mile. I crossed the continent at seven-thousand feet. A reptile would explode.

It was a pleasant surprise to find this paradise at the Top of the World. I felt like I was escaping into Switzerland. I did what Julie Andrews would do. I took off all my clothes and had a nap in the grass.

Now you might think this nudity thing is getting out of control with me, but I think it is a funtion of altitude. I have not been inclined to take off my clothes since I came down off of the mountain. I may be over it all for good. I may be a little suburned.

I was not too tired climbing up. I had a strange enthusiasm. Not enough water and even less food but plenty of energy. I was, do forgive me, excited and pleased and happy to be where I was. It has been more than ten years since I felt as good.

Maybe twenty.

I never got above the treeline. A quarter of the trees up there are dead, killed off by some kind of beetle. They are still pretty; they turn a nice red, but the locals are not at all happy. This little bug is threatening to kill every tree in the state. There is some debate over how to meet the threat. The timber companies want to log Montana flat and start over. The environmentalists want turn the forests into beetle sanctuaries. I have kept out of it.

From the top of the hill I could see snow-covered peaks all around and a small sign announced the top of Priest Pass. I had planned a photograph but it was shotgunned beyond recognition. I paused only briefly for two quick pees and then started walking downhill.

Do remember that I have been walking uphill since Wenatchee. I have a lot of altitude banked. The road went down, down, down. It was steep enough that I did not entirely trust the grip of my boots. But it kept going down, down, down and down for miles.

I was passed by a Forest Service truck. They were up there looking after something or other. The driver looked like a Forest Service guy and kindly gave me some water. When I looked in his truck, though, I was surprised to see it was stuffed to the gunwales with beautiful girls. I swear to God. It was like a clown car. Beautiful girl after beautiful girl, all jumbled in all together. You couldn't tell where one beautiful girl ended and the next beautiful girl began. I want to party with the Forest Service. Those cats have hidden depths.

I could not help but recall that I had only just rededicated my walk as a Walk to Meet Girls and was delighted to see my federal government conspiring to deliver them by the truckload. Earlier I had been passed by two girls on a little four-wheeled offroad thingamajobber. They were splattered with mud and one wore a bikini. But as pleased as I was to see them, I quickly dismissed them as a hallucination.

And I kept walking down, down, down; further down than I thought was possible. After miles the road got harder and wider and I started seeing houses and such. Eventually I rejoined highway 12 at a wide spot where westbound cars stop to put on their chains (when required).

I still had long miles to get to Helena. I kept walking down, down, down, expecting to find it around each curve. But it never turned up and it was getting dark. I decided to pitch my tent.

I climbed a fence into some unused pasture land and camped next to a river. It was a glorious day.

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