once stately and gleeful, bringing to mind an old man with a joke or a dizzy child balancing.
Up Kintla Lake, the snowstorm dumped a foot and a half in twelve hours. It was May, and assigned to an alpine crew for the rest of summer, this would likely be my only hitch in the North Fork for the year. The foreman sent me and Gabe and our housemate, Kent, an old friend from Missoula days, the one whoâd gotten us into this world in the first place. I work trails , heâd said when Gabe first met him in the apartment theyâd shared on Front Street. Park Service, up in Glacier. You guys would love it. In six years, weâd never been on a hitch just the three of us before. Old friends, chainsaws, the North Fork, beer and brats coming in on the mules. Nothing to add.
The first day weâd hiked in seven miles to the cabin at the head of Kintla Lake, clearing light deadfall, maybe two trees per mile, hardly enough work for three. The next day we planned to hike to Upper Kintla Lake, clearing as far as we could get. It was usually a long day, but with such sparse downfall, it looked doable. We woke at dawn and peeked out the cabin window to things changed: blowsy snowflakes, a winter sky over spring ground.
Gabe went to the outhouse first and came back urgent: Come look, quick! The new snow was thick and unmarred, a sea of white on which bear tracks stood out like flares: prints as big as pie pans emerging from the woods, past the cabin, disappearing at the shore of the lake. Where did it go? For a swim? We investigated, followed the tracks backward from the beach into the woods. Under the cabin window near the bunks, the four-paw gait pattern shifted to two where the bear must have risen up on its back legs, paws to the pane above Kentâs bunk, and peered in while we slept, nose pressed against cool glass. Them again. Winterâs over. The cabin creatures are here.
Inside, we ate a quick breakfast. Steeped hot drinks, packed our backpacks, topped off the saw and filed the chain, fitted the scabbard around the edge of the felling axe. Bears, snow, whatever. Trail crews work no matter what, something weâre proud of.
An hour into morning, a quarter mile from the cabin, we realized the futility of it. The snow was heavy and wet, burying fallen trees so that sinking the saw in where the tree should have been was like slicing through the frosting on a cake, the bar invisible beneath snow. Through safety goggles and thick snow, we could hardly see. As Kent bucked one tree, two fell around us. The late snow, accumulating on branches with roots in thawing ground, was too heavy for the trees to bear and they dropped hard, the way tired kids whoâve been up too long finally collapse.
In a wet, dark forest with saws running and trees falling, the three of us called it a day. This was nearly unprecedentedâin five seasons, I had had perhaps half a day where inclement weather was stiff enough to warrant truancy (then, it was lightning at a high alpine work site, our hair fuzzed out, metal tools tossed aside in the brush.) This day off wasnât hard to justify. Visibility was shit, sawing sketchy. At this rate, weâd have to clear the trail again anyway, and there was no other task to do instead, the drains all covered in snow, the tool cache organized, the cabin clean from last seasonâs closing-up hitch. Reasons aside, why turn down a free day in such a strange and quiet world? We stashed our tools and hard hats, opening senses to the unexpected snow. We hiked a while together before Kent, with wet feet and a sore Achilles, headed back to the cabin, promising hot drinks for us when we returned. After two miles, I turned around, my mind on the book Iâd left beneath my sleeping bag that morning, and the hot chocolate Kent would have waiting. Gabe said he wanted to get to the clearing ahead, and heâd catch up. We parted, disappearing into opposite ends of the whiteout.
On the hike back, my
Up Kintla Lake, the snowstorm dumped a foot and a half in twelve hours. It was May, and assigned to an alpine crew for the rest of summer, this would likely be my only hitch in the North Fork for the year. The foreman sent me and Gabe and our housemate, Kent, an old friend from Missoula days, the one whoâd gotten us into this world in the first place. I work trails , heâd said when Gabe first met him in the apartment theyâd shared on Front Street. Park Service, up in Glacier. You guys would love it. In six years, weâd never been on a hitch just the three of us before. Old friends, chainsaws, the North Fork, beer and brats coming in on the mules. Nothing to add.
The first day weâd hiked in seven miles to the cabin at the head of Kintla Lake, clearing light deadfall, maybe two trees per mile, hardly enough work for three. The next day we planned to hike to Upper Kintla Lake, clearing as far as we could get. It was usually a long day, but with such sparse downfall, it looked doable. We woke at dawn and peeked out the cabin window to things changed: blowsy snowflakes, a winter sky over spring ground.
Gabe went to the outhouse first and came back urgent: Come look, quick! The new snow was thick and unmarred, a sea of white on which bear tracks stood out like flares: prints as big as pie pans emerging from the woods, past the cabin, disappearing at the shore of the lake. Where did it go? For a swim? We investigated, followed the tracks backward from the beach into the woods. Under the cabin window near the bunks, the four-paw gait pattern shifted to two where the bear must have risen up on its back legs, paws to the pane above Kentâs bunk, and peered in while we slept, nose pressed against cool glass. Them again. Winterâs over. The cabin creatures are here.
Inside, we ate a quick breakfast. Steeped hot drinks, packed our backpacks, topped off the saw and filed the chain, fitted the scabbard around the edge of the felling axe. Bears, snow, whatever. Trail crews work no matter what, something weâre proud of.
An hour into morning, a quarter mile from the cabin, we realized the futility of it. The snow was heavy and wet, burying fallen trees so that sinking the saw in where the tree should have been was like slicing through the frosting on a cake, the bar invisible beneath snow. Through safety goggles and thick snow, we could hardly see. As Kent bucked one tree, two fell around us. The late snow, accumulating on branches with roots in thawing ground, was too heavy for the trees to bear and they dropped hard, the way tired kids whoâve been up too long finally collapse.
In a wet, dark forest with saws running and trees falling, the three of us called it a day. This was nearly unprecedentedâin five seasons, I had had perhaps half a day where inclement weather was stiff enough to warrant truancy (then, it was lightning at a high alpine work site, our hair fuzzed out, metal tools tossed aside in the brush.) This day off wasnât hard to justify. Visibility was shit, sawing sketchy. At this rate, weâd have to clear the trail again anyway, and there was no other task to do instead, the drains all covered in snow, the tool cache organized, the cabin clean from last seasonâs closing-up hitch. Reasons aside, why turn down a free day in such a strange and quiet world? We stashed our tools and hard hats, opening senses to the unexpected snow. We hiked a while together before Kent, with wet feet and a sore Achilles, headed back to the cabin, promising hot drinks for us when we returned. After two miles, I turned around, my mind on the book Iâd left beneath my sleeping bag that morning, and the hot chocolate Kent would have waiting. Gabe said he wanted to get to the clearing ahead, and heâd catch up. We parted, disappearing into opposite ends of the whiteout.
On the hike back, my
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