Trapper Peak: The Crown of the Bitterroot Mountains

Yesterday I had a glorious adventure. I climbed Trapper Peak :)
The trail was nonexistant above 8200', so I got to wander my way up to the summit on my own path. It was so beautiful with its white blanket of early summer snow!

"Lean In" by Shelby Humphreys

Here in Montana, we’re heading into spring runoff.  Winter’s cache of precious snow funnels down mountain draws and babbles all her secrets into spring streams.  These hidden waterways zigzag through thickets, playing tag with the forest.  Rivulets pool in the plateaus.  Streams become creeks, and creeks join rivers.  Their refreshing touch awakens berry bushes, which will churn sun and snowmelt into August fruit.   If we're lucky, we'll have enough moisture to quench the hills and keep fires at bay this summer. 

In town, our Clark Fork River swells in a muddy rise.  Spring fishing surrenders to the slurry for a while.  No use casting a fly; not until after the tube hatch anyway.  This is the between time, the waiting hour, unless – of course – you go rafting.

Spring runoff attracts adventure rafters like Salmon Flies pull trout to the surface.  Rafters need not be out to catch a fish, mind you.  The water is challenge enough.  As rivers rise, so does the force of all that water.  Underneath the speedy swell hides a myriad of dangers, both seen and unseen.

Where a slight hump appears on the surface, a sunken boulder the size of a Volkswagen could be pushing the water up and over (I know one spot where I can dunk my head under and hear boulders thudding down the riverbed, like muffled thunder.)  More visible – but no less dangerous -- are giant cottonwoods felled by hungry beavers.  These trees, called “strainers,” act like a sieve, siphoning everything under their water-logged trunks and into tangles of immersed branches.  Beneath deceptively smooth spots in the river, deep whirlpools can catch you unaware.  Like underwater tornadoes, they yank everything into their murky holes.  That’s why, this time of year, I stay close to the shore.

And that’s why others don’t.

During spring runoff, locals like to ride the whitewater rodeo known as Alberton Gorge.  One crucial juncture along this stretch of the Clark Fork asks each boater to measure their courage for the day.  Where the mountainsides draw together and narrow the river’s breadth by half, a tall haystack rock squats between the flow.  This matters for three reasons:

The narrow channel creates a super-swift underwater current, which any good guide can float you over in a class 3 adrenaline rush of whitewater hustle.  That’s fun for some – except -- for number two.

Squeezed by the gorge, all that water has to go somewhere.  Spring runoff creates enough momentum to lift the river up and over the haystack rock.  This swell then plunges down the other side with all the wild gravity of a wilderness waterfall.  The force alone can bore out the riverbed below.  You’ve got a Montana black hole, also known as a “boat eater.”

Like it splits the river, the haystack rock splits your chances of getting through the gorge still in your boat.  As waves roll back onto themselves at the foot of the rock, the wonky current can snag an edge.  Even the best guide has felt their aft tugged into chaos.  Oars go flying.  The raft yanks backwards, sideways, and upside down, all at the same time.

Their guide knew this, the day my husband and his buddies decided to float the gorge.

[voice change]

“Guys,” the guide grunts in his best this-is-serious-stuff tone.  “How are you feeling today?”

No one answered.  Frank thought his question odd.  From what he saw, perched at the front of the raft, the sky was blue and the water perfect.

“We’ve got a decision to make,” the guide says.

Six souls scan one another, anticipating a man-up moment.  The guide drops an oar into the last calm water they’ll see for a while.  He raises his free hand and points down river.

“Up there, we’ve got a moment of decision.  There’s a tight rise with a big rock waitin’ for us.”  Wiping his face clean of sweat, river mist, and judgment, he’s giving his clients an out, like a good guide should.  “We can eddy out now and portage this puppy trailside, no harm done.”

 “Or?” one rider with trendy sunglasses goads.  Eyes dart to the guide.

“Or,” the guide pauses.  ”We can deep throat that sucker and find out why they call it the Alberton Gorge.”

A round of “hell yeah’s” and “damn straight’s” circles among the men.  With only two minutes between them and the rock, a quick discussion ensues.  Some grouse over having to haul the raft up a steep trail, but the steely dare in everyone’s eyes convinces them otherwise.  They want the gorge to ferry them back to boyhood, even for just a moment.  Nods all around.  The guide grips both oars and points the raft downstream.  A smile widens in the bent shade of his cowboy hat.

“Here’s the thing,” he says.  “If we’re gonna do this, we got to do it full force.  There’s no halfway with this.”

Everyone’s lips purse in agreement.

“Last week, I steered a boat of football players through this hole, and we all went swimmin’.”

Silence, then the familiar rrrriipppp of tightening straps on lifejackets.  The guide stiffens the oars to create a little drag and buy extra training time.

“Right now, fifteen feet of river is running over a ten foot rock we can’t see.   It’s a bearcat rise.  There’s a steep drop on the other side.  It’s a mess, a wet, rough, and rowdy mess.  If we’re gonna get through it, we gotta dive.”

Eyes dash among the crew.

“That’s right,” the guide answers.  “I said dive.  We got to punch this raft deep into that water.  When I say ‘go,’ you’re gonna have to lean into this baby with everything you’ve got.  You gotta punch into that wave, ‘specially you guys up front.  Push ‘er nose down, then push some more.  We had all better be under water, or that wave will flip us over.”

The guide clenches his fist, putting a silent exclamation point on his instructions.  Everyone tests their lungs with a gulp of air.  Oars lift.  The raft sets to going again.

“When we pop up,” he continues between committed pushes into the current, “we’ll be on the other side.”

Frank grips the rope draped along the inside edge.   Across from him, the other point man stretches his legs taunt to wedge himself solid into the sides of the raft. 

[slower] Granite walls rise up.  The air cools.  Shadows blanket the water, making it harder to read the river.  The sound of rapids ahead reverbs back, cloaking them within this natural echo chamber.  Frank smells green moss fed by the constant spray coming off the rocky banks.  They follow the river’s bend as they make the final turn.  Then, Frank sees it.  Not so much the wave as the fountain it spews five feet into the air, as if Old Faithful up and moved to the middle of the Clark Fork.  The guide pushes one oar and pulls the other, aiming straight for the geyser.

[louder] “Get ready!” he yells over the white water's rumble.   More hands clench more rope.  Everyone leans forward, mustering guts and momentum.  The fountain of foam gets bigger, closer to eight feet high now.  Frank eyes the current, following surface rivulets as they stretch long and thin in submission to the faster flow.  He braces.  Wait for it, he whispers to himself.

[louder] "Wait for it," the guide bellars over the roar.  The anxious river yanks them side to side.  They pick up speed. 

Wait for it.

Frank balances his weight between push and pull, trying to move with the water.  Out the side of his eye, a wet shine on one oar flickers then disappears. 

Wait for it.

The raft lunges.  Frank leans into the lift.  The raft’s nose raises, as if arguing with everything the guide just said.

[loud] “Go!” the guide blares.

[quick] The boat tilts skyward, high-centers for a half second, then teeters into a downward fall.  Frank thrusts his body over the nose.  His fingers wrap around the side tethers like fishhooks sunk deep into a trout.  Whitewater is everywhere.  He closes his eyes.  A gurgley mix of air and foam draws down his throat.  Behind him - he hopes - the crew has got his back tight.  Then, they hit wet thunder.  Under water, inside the whirlpool, liquid static fills his ears.  Frank forces his eyes open.  They sting from the shock of cold and sand.  They're still sinking.  Confusion tightens his lungs. They go deeper.  A swampy deep engulfs the last shards of sunlight.  Green goes to black.  His lungs are bulging against the pressure now.  When will they stop sinking?  Is he still in the boat?  The burning in his palms tell him ‘yes,’ but he has no idea where, in the whirlpool, the boat is.  They could spin underwater like this forever.  Should he let go?  Had the others bailed?

[pause]

These questions fill just enough time for a random shift.  Who knows what changed.  Maybe someone shifted their weight.  Maybe the raft bounced off  the bottom.  Maybe the guide had the wits to angle his oars just right and tag onto an up-current.  Whatever it was, the boat rises.  Light beams swim alongside Frank.  The boat breaks the surface, and Frank breathes.  No, he inhales.  Frank pulls oxygen from every atom in the air.  Droplets blink from his eyes.  He looks around. 

Heads.

Heads are floating, all around him, downstream with the calm current.  Disembodied smiles stretch wide as shoulders and torsos rise in unison.  With the raft still half-sunk and water up to their wastes, the guide points everyone to the bail buckets, attached to the side rope with a blue carabineer glimmering wet in the sun.   One man curses.  He lost his sunglasses.  The guide corrals his oars and – before dropping them in – tamps down his hat.

New Zealand Wilderness: A Video Showcase of Fjordland National Park

I was blessed with the opportunity to back pack in New Zealand's Fjordland Wilderness for 32 days all by myself. It was an incredible experience on all levels of the Wilderness conditional spectrum. Here are all the videos that I shot during my expedition in the wilds of southern New Zealand.

Video Playlist Fjordland National Park

Mount Earnslaw 360 Summit View

Wilderness and the Bonding Between Father and Adult Son

By the time a man reaches 25 years old, his resentment toward his father has just about resolved. What once was annoyance and embarrassment toward his father’s presence becomes a better understanding of the man that he actually is, which evolves into more of a friendship. Even though my dad is still subject his parenting instincts which can lead to the misunderstanding of criticism, we have reestablished a relationship. Mutual respect and greater appreciation for who we are as individuals and as men. We have more in common then we once suspected. The deeply rooted genetic need and bond with Wilderness and Divine Nature are a few of those similarities.

           

Dad and I with my truck "Tobey" all loaded up for the trip into the Northwest

Within the last 2 weeks, my father and I went on a journey. We packed up my pickup named Tobey, and busted quickly out of Bakersfield, CA for the very last time in my life. We are moving North, an exodus from the overwhelmingly changing atmosphere and politics of California. Just Ray and Bryan Harwood, father and son on a road trip to Post Falls Idaho and Missoula Montana. The trip would take us through some of the most inspiring places within the Cascade Mountains, atleast those accessible by road and current condition. I planned this road trip to follow the rural routes through the forests and mountains of Oregon and Washington. We skipped Portland and avoided Seattle. I am not a big city type tourist, I am a wilderness traveler.

The Wilderness was the theme of this trip, as well as moving myself and finding a new hometown for my dear parents, of course. So that Dad and I could get the hell out of the gruesome disgrace of human settlement, known as the California San Joaquin Valley, I drove long into the night up I-5. 10 hours later Tobey rolls into the Motel 6 in Redding, CA at 2 am. The crispness of the fresh Northern Californian air felt wonderful. We could already tell that the sobering effect of the North Woods would wash our dirty hands of Bakersfield’s filth. It didn’t quite hit me until I laid in bed that I would never set foot in that diabolic cesspool I call Bakers-shit again. This realization was an easy one to accept. I could see in my Dad’s overworked eyes that the presence of good things green and living was providing hope.

After a few hours of sleep, the next morning Dad and I headed westward on the 299 through the Trinity Mountains. The weather was absolutely perfect, no clouds and no wind. We absorbed up the positive energy of every ponderosa pine and soaked in every visual stimulant that was so generously provided by Divine Nature. Already, my sentiments toward my father began to grow as I empathized with his unfortunate lack of such necessity as habituating one’s self to natural settings. A necessity in which Bakersfield does not offer.

We parked Tobey at the boat launch area at Whiskeytown Lake about halfway from Redding to Weaverville. Leisurely, we walked along the shore of the tranquilly placid lake. Our feet gently touched the maroon volcanic soil as he told me stories of when he was a young lad on boat trips with my grandfather. How I wish I could have properly acquainted myself with that man. His knowledge of wilderness was great, and his skills were remarkable. The stroll around a portion of the lake was just what we needed after such an intense straight shot long haul drive.

Our next quick stop on our way to the coast was a caffeine reload in Weaverville. The people in the café were extremely generous with the coffee. We were now wired, a state in which we would be in the remainder of the trip. You could say that coffee was our fuel and the gas we bought for Tobes was only supplemental. After Coffe, I wanted to show my Dad a Wilderness area in which I have spent a lot of time in and hiked many miles, the Trinity Alps Wilderness. We headed up Canyon Creek, one of the most popular trailheads in the “Alps.” Our pace had significantly reduced since our evacuation from the Central Valley. My father was meant to be out here in these woods. Like me, the need and reliance for Wilderness is so deeply instilled within his genetics that it is only natural for him to interpret the will and message of Divine Nature.

            We parked Tobey on the side of the road and stepped out of the vehicle where the presence of wilderness took hold of both Dad and I simultaneously. The air, the breeze, the atmosphere, the light and the spirit of her majesty was radiating from the ambient ripples in the creek. We sat and gazed into the water as two wild Salmon playfully pushed their way up the current of the rushing creek. I watched carefully as the glow of happiness on my father’s face expressed genuine joy from witnessing such a fundamental display of divine nature. I am now sharing the wilderness with dad as he shared it with me in my days of childhood. The mountains of the Trinity Alps stood above as a testament to the rekindling of an ancient bond between father and son. The wilderness truly promotes a genuine interaction between the father and son because of the non-existing pressures that the differing perspectives and views of society create. This interaction is a pure man to man correspondence.

We then headed for Redwood Country after another stop. This time for Bigfoot Burgers at the Early Bird in Willow Creek. We split one, I have no idea how I used to able to put a whole one of those away. Once in Arcata, I met my friend Jensen while introducing him to Dad. We left soon after. As Dad and I drove up the Redwood Coast, the magnificent beauty was that of grandeur. The sun was bright and the vibrancy of the green trees sent our minds into wonder. We stopped at Prairie Creek, Del Norte, and Jedidiah Smith Redwood parks for hikes in glorious groves of ancient patriarchs. Again, the wild nature of this area made us feel as humans again. On a hike in my favorite of the many old growth redwood stands, the Stout Grove, Dad and I opened up with each other another notch. We walked through this grand display of ancient wisdom enshrined in the living pillars that support the temple of Divine Nature, and we felt a respectful communion with each other as well as God.

That night we camped on the Smith River. It was a fun evening. Camping with Dad has always been one of my favorite things to do on earth. In fact, have written a couple songs that mention the subject as being profoundly important on my growth and maturity into the man that I now am. There really is nothing more genuine and true than being in the woods with your dad. You are who you are, and he is who he is. There is no in between. We can be ourselves, and we can connect with the knowledge of who each of us are. He raised me, he knows who I was, what I am, and what my potential will lead me to be. I know who he is as a father, and now more importantly as a fellow man. The Wilderness helps in the expansion of this interaction as well as the evolution of their relationship.

           

The next morning we set forth north into Oregon territory. I have been to Oregon before, but I must have been asleep or something because I never realized how overwhelmingly beautiful the interior section through the Cascades were until this trip. WOW! We took the highway along the magnificent Rogue River. We passed through several quaint little communities. There was a spot above the river where we stopped to admire the deep and wide river. I can see why this river was given the title Rogue. Dad enjoyed this area so much that he was seriously considering just moving here.

As we got further into the woods, we decided to go check out a waterfall. The waterfall was well off the beaten track, in fact it was one of those situations that you would never even know something like this exists unless you happened upon it. That’s what happened to us anyway. The trail descended a set of switchbacks to a serene little gully where this surprisingly mighty waterfall was plummeting into. We sat and gazed upon the billions of cascading water droplets as they rushed impatiently down the falls. Dad was spellbound by this display of Divine Nature, and I was satisfied with this reaction. There are few things in my life that I enjoy more than to watch the reaction other individuals receive from any sort of natural setting or event. The satisfaction that I receive from witnessing such reactions are even further enhanced when it is being expressed by either my mother or father. It is only fair that they get the opportunity to feel the same sensations that the wilderness provides me. We then drove for quite a while.

As we drove further into the Deschutes National Forest where we passed through a vast kingdom of conifers, we were overwhelmed with the incomprehensible amount of pine forest that this area had. Mile after mile, a seemingly endless wall of trees hugged the side of the road. The speed of the vehicle through the trees was hypnotizing as we quickly flew past them. Then without much warning, we exited the dense forest as it opened up to a vast view of one of the Cascades iconic volcano peaks. The snow was thick on the ground still, so we pulled off the road to show our gratitude to God’s gift of Divine Nature. However, not technically wilderness, any grand display of Naked Earth gifts the willing with a deep sensation of peace. This place was doing just that for Dad and I. I recorded my song “Above The Clouds” here, as I reckoned this was a great place for such a devotion.

Originally, the plan was to spend a full day at the enormous obsidian flow at Newberry Volcanic National Monument just shy of Bend, OR, but it was closed. Darn. So we proceeded down into the Deschutes valley where we were not too overly impressed. The drive was pretty, but the day was getting old, and we were growing tired… of each other it seemed at this point in time. From this portion of the trip, we began heading northwest toward Mount Hood and eventually toward the Columbia River.

Later that evening we approached Mount Hood at sunset. Dad and I stood and gazed at the alpine beauty encapsulated in early spring’s lingering snow. It was cold, and we felt it cut into our bones. There was not a single person besides us on the road. After we descended back down into the small town of Mount Hood, we stayed on the banks of the mighty Columbia River at the confluence with the Hood River. A very beautiful region of our amazing country. The day was full of epic views and interesting conversation. Hanging out with Dad in the woods = as good as it gets, even if we disagree often and infuriate one another to the point of anxiety attacks. But that’s dad, and probably I am more to blame. Even the arguments pose as essential growing elements in a male relationship or a Father and son.

Today Dad and I enjoyed the magnificent spectacles of the Columbia River Gorge. A vastly understated and rarely spoken of area within our recreational public lands. We watched three exceptionally large waterfalls, and we ate an exquisite meal at the lodge next to the main waterfall of the area. We highly enjoyed our Alaskan Salmon meal and excess coffee binge. We then headed up to the next state north within our union, Washington. We have reached the point within our trip when sightseeing has become part of the norm. It’s easy to grow immuned from the awestruck sensation after you have been exposed to so much in such a little time. That is why I find it more beneficial to pick out one spot that you really enjoy and immerse yourself within the entire element. This was not an option for this trip, however. We had ground to cover and we were doing pretty damn well at getting a taste of these destination sites if you ask me…

            We headed in Washington through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.  The pacific Northwest’s forest type in this area is a mystical place. It reminds me of the old beech forests of New Zealand. We then headed to a nice dispersed camping spot off of a random gravel road where we parked and set up camp near a serene little creek. Dad and I shot the bow that I crafted myself, flint knapped some arrow heads, and played music into the night. I was on flute, and dad was on guitar. That day was a wonderful bonding experience provided by divine nature. We were contented with the simplicity of engaging in human activities such as the primitive use of the long bow and the crafting of flint stone tools. A father and son in the wild, the way it should always be.

            

It rained the next morning, but we packed up and decided to continue up into the Mount Rainier and Goat rocks Wilderness area of Central Washington. The weather cleared up and the views became phenomenal. I cant remember the name of any of these roads, but we went over a pass that made visible a close view of Mount Rainer and all the massive peaks of ice and rock that surround it. A spellbinding world of deep canyons and granite peaks, frozen lakes and tall trees. Wow, this place was incredible. Just me and my pops experiencing the last touch of winter’s spell on this daunting landscape. This area was in the Wenatchee National Forest, an area in which I am obligated to return to and explore further on foot. After passing a few very large mountain lakes in which we stopped at and soaked in the spirit of divine nature, we began descending into the lower foothills of the Cascade Mountains. This area reminded me a lot of the juniper/pinion forests of the high desert plateau in the Mojave.  Then the trip had to get boring as we crossed the plains of Eastern Washington…

           

A long night of driving was ahead of us now. It was crunch time. Say good bye to vast supplies of Divine Nature and say hello to the bland plains of Yakima to Spokane. We arrived in Ceour D’ lane ID where we spent the next two nights at the Motel 6. It was business time. Dad and I were to house hunt heavily for the next three days. Luckilly we found a nice house in woods next to the Spokane River in a town called Post Falls. This town is just what mom and dad need after raising us kids and putting up with Baker-shit for the last 18 years. After house business was done, it was time for me to go home… Missoula and the Bitterroot Valley in the last best place, Montana!

            

Before Dad took the plane home and we said our goodbyes, we spent 3 days in the glorious Bitterroot Mountains. We visited Big Creek, Blodgett Canyon, Lake Como, and Lost Horse. We had a swell time together on this leg of the journey. I learned a lot about my Dad, and more importantly I realized a lot more about myself from the interactions that I had with my Dad. The Wilderness provided us with an open forum to comfortably interact as adults. It was a new kind of Wilderness Experience for me. The bonding between father and adult son.

The Wilderness Digest: Successful Debut in Missoula on Friday Night!

Did you see this??

I would like to say thank you so much to those who expressed their interest in the new Missoula zine. I sat out in the wind promoting the digest with my booth. At first, I was starting to feel like this was going to fall through, but after a few hours of determined shouting out the purpose of the zine, I began getting more attention. The first wave of prints went quick. 100 copies were taken by interested individuals, and to me, that is a success. I am excited to see where this ends up going, and I hope with the help of the Missoula community that we will have something special here.

My booth set up at the corner of Broadway and Higgins on First Friday: May 1st 2014

My booth at the Framer's Market May 2nd 

Winter Nights in the Bigelow Range By: Jakob Wyder

Eventually I realized that until I reached the lean-to, all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and make sure that I was still on the trail.  Nothing else mattered, for all I cared nothing else even existed.  Just me, my pack, my dad's old wooden snowshoes and miles of moonlight wilderness in every direction.  The lean-to that filled me with purpose, that my survival depended on, was still three peaks and thousands of feet of elevation change away.  The sun had set and darkness engulfed the snow-covered alpine forest, thickening my isolation and simplifying my thought processes to the primal survival instincts buried deep beneath layers and layers of modern distractions.  These distractions- societal norms, television shows and restaurant dining meant nothing to me now.

For anyone who scoffs at the mountains east of the Mississippi and assumes they're all glorified hills, let me tell you that the Bigelow Mountains in western Maine are a range to be respected.  I probably should have had more respect for them before embarking on my journey.  I'd hiked the range in March with friends and in the summer by myself, but this was my first solo trip in the middle of winter.  Getting from one lean-to to the next is fairly easy in summer or fall, but with at least two feet of fresh snow and only nine hours of daylight all distances seem much larger.  I should have started earlier in the day, before sunrise, but the previous day had also been grueling and my sleeping bag felt like the most comfortable place on earth that morning.  Rookie mistake, I know.  I realize this was a "mistake" and the whole trip itself was somewhat "dangerous," but I had enough warm layers, food and water to stay relatively comfortable and allow my one focus to be the hike itself.  

The trip lasted three days, just long enough to feel a deep connection with the land and lose all thoughts about the outside world.  The four peaks in the Bigelow Range offer stunning views, but they were surrounded by snowclouds for my entire trip and most of my hiking was in the dark.  This didn't even matter, in fact it helped me maintain focus on my immediate location, absorbing everything each moment had to offer.  While scrambling up to the highest Peak, West Peak, I noticed that the snow had stopped falling and I looked up.  There was a small opening in the clouds and I could see a few stars.  It was shocking!  I had been so focused on the surrounding trees and snow that being able to look out to the stars flooded me with awe.  Moments later I looked again and the sky was completely clouded.  I figured that the moment I happened to look up was the one moment the clouds opened up.  I love simple moments like this, when somehow it feels like you're in tune with some larger orchestration, something beyond yourself.  It's easy to feel such awe when basic survival is the only priority.  Being able to feel the primal connection to nature is why I hike.  We need places where people can have experiences like this.  We need wilderness!

Wilderness Digest Zine Hits the Streets of Missoula for its First Issue Tonight!

The Wilderness Digest is hot off the presses, and it is ready to be distributed. Here is the digital version for those of you who are not in the area.