Moose Drool in Montana
Moose Drool in Montana
The town of Wisdom, Montana, is roughly four square blocks in size and sits a mile high amid the expansive sweep of cattle ranches and the alpine peaks that ring the Big Hole Valley. Wisdom contains a gas station, a trading post, a post office, and two bars that face each other. Antlers Saloon, the smaller of the two, was the bar people talked about. The pizza was great, they said.
What I liked about the place when I walked in on a Friday morning in August was that it was dark, nearly empty, and over-air-conditioned. It was a simple affair with video poker, a pool table, and, of course, lots of antlers, deer and elk mainly, all over the walls. There was a television above the bar and a selection of Montana craft brews in a fridge. This was going to be home for a spell.
Outside was a sunny cloudless start to the day. And I wanted no part of it. At 10 a.m. I was dehydrated and famished. I needed a cold beer and cheap carbohydrates. I needed to celebrate the fact that I had been able to walk into this bar in the first place.
This time yesterday I was deep in a mountain ravine, alone, and way off course. For an hour and half I had been following an overgrown pack trail that was becoming fainter by the footstep. On both sides of me were steep slopes thick with deadfalls and dense undergrowth. A rocky creek cut through the terrain a few hundred feet below. And despite my thirst, I was not going to risk making another bad choice by bushwhacking down to the water.
My series of bad decisions had begun when I exited the main trail and followed this unmarked path in the first place. The original route was simple and outlined clearly by a friend before I embarked on this trek over the Continental Divide: “Take a left at May Creek Trail and follow that to the road. From there you can hitch to Wisdom.”
When I saw no sign for May Creek Trail I kept walking and took the next reasonable trail on the left, hoping it would connect up with my route. As soon as I committed to this change in plan and the thinking that supported the choice, the rest of my judgment went haywire.
Unmarked and unused trail that is deteriorating rapidly? Stick with it. Trail now turning away from where I need to go? It’s still a trail and if you leave it you are lost.
Your brain does funny things when you start to panic.
Eventually, the trail just vanished. When it did, I looked around and realized how trapped I was by the valley walls, and ultimately, completely on my own. The dead quiet of it all scared me into a clarity of mind. I considered my growing fatigue and my situation. If I hit my head, broke my ankle or leg, or any scenario that left me immobilized—I was screwed. Nobody was ever coming down this path. My friends who were set to pick me up at Antlers tomorrow? It would take them days to find this drainage.
I let all of this set in and then retraced my steps to gain the ridgeline and then the main trail. As soon I did, I calmed down and my fortunes changed. I finally did find May Creek Trail (off another trail), and when I arrived at the road the next morning, I quickly caught a hitch to Wisdom.
As I ordered my first Moose Drool brown ale and braced for the outsized buzz that accompanies alcohol and adrenaline first thing in the morning, I did so with no small amount of gratitude and humility. I had rescued myself from my own folly, nothing more. After a few sips, my tongue loosened—on cue—and I began to wax philosophic on the mercurial moods of the wilderness. What it gives and takes. The bartender listened patiently, smiled and nodded. The oven beeped, indicating that my pepperoni pizza was done. She walked to the kitchen, returned and placed it front of me. While I ate, the room returned to its usual pre-lunch quiet. Not the empty and lonely quiet of the trail, but instead it felt familiar and safe. The bartender brought me another beer and then turned the volume back up on ESPN’s Sportscenter. We both watched in comfortable silence.