Date: 8/24/20
Miles: 21.4
Total Miles: 1112.6
I'm beginning to sense a pattern. Up until a few short days ago, warm weather and clear skies had been the norm since we'd returned to Montana. Two days south of Helena that all changed as the blue skies with long views vanished, replaced by a smoky haze that has stubbornly refused to move on down the road. Each Montanan we cross paths with tells the same story—despite some of the forest fires burning in this part of the state, they're not the source of the smoke. Rather, it's the smoke from fires in California and Oregon drifting in on the breeze. I'm not sure that makes it much better—or does much to blunt their already vocal distaste for all things California—as the result is still the same: a smell of campfire in the air and very little to see.
We began our day with a quick stop at a spring that doubled as a water source for the free ranging cattle in the area. Considering the lack of convenient water sources in this section, having such a good source just steps off the trail felt like a luxury and surprisingly we didn't have to navigate a herd of cattle to get to it this time.
The odd thing was that just as we'd finished filtering our water, along came a lone cow, trotting her way towards the water like she couldn't wait one minute longer to have a drink. It was such a contrast to all the cows we'd encountered thus far—anything but skittish, this one paused only slightly, judged that we weren't a threat, and kept right on fearlessly trotting towards us before sidling up next to me and slaking her thirst without a moment to waste. We loved her immediately.
With little breeze to speak of, the increasing smoke of the late morning and early afternoon seemed to act like a blanket trapping as much of the day’s heat as possible. Given how much more mountain goat-y the hiking was today, it wasn't exactly the conditions I'd been hoping for.
By late afternoon, the trail had taken us up onto a series of open grassy ridges while the wind had accelerated dramatically and bursts of raindrops would pelt us from the side for only a few minutes before disappearing again. On the highest and windiest of the ridges, a forest service fire tower was perched. Unmanned and empty, the door was locked and all the windows were shuttered save for one on the leeward side. Peering in, we could see an impeccably clean space with a small cot, a fire sighting device, and even a wood stove in the corner. It felt like someplace you'd love to be either on a cloudless starry night or sheltering from a tempest as it unleashed its wrath.
When early evening came, what little view we'd had in the morning was now completely gone and our sights instead became firmly set on our destination: a small gear shop, nestled a quarter mile off trail in what could rightfully be described as the middle of nowhere.
But this isn't just any gear store, although it certainly does a good job of hiding what lies within. In fact, if it weren't for the “open” signs by the front door and the side trail from the CDT inviting you in, you’d think you were stumbling into someone's residence. And then you open the door.
Every square inch is filled with what can only be described as: gear porn. The finest gear from the best manufacturers the world over, crammed into a humble space in such a way that it would bring tears to a hoarder’s eye if it were not so well organized. It was also familiar—oddly familiar, and for good reason.
The owner, an incredibly friendly man named Dave, had owned a gear shop on the Pacific Crest Trail that I’d stopped into and written about while hiking that trail in 2016. I'd never seen it's equal, until today at least. A couple thousand miles from where it had been, nothing had changed other than it's location on a different trail. Even the backpack I now carried had come from that very shop, it's journey coming full circle in a small way. All other gear shops: take notes.