2022 Trip Report:
Last year, I posted on the BPL forum that I was a new arrival to Helena, had minimal backpacking experience and no packrafting experience, but, nevertheless, had borrowed a boat and was hoping to participate in the Bob Open andādue to a suspicion that I was well in over my headāwas looking for someone with a bit more experience who might be willing to partner up for some or all of the course.Ā Against all expectation, someone responded: Will generously agreeing to roll the dice on teaming up with such a complete unknown quantity.Ā We both had plenty of reason to wonder how much of a liability I might be in the Bob.Ā I was pleasantly surprised to find that, with no major hiccups and no difficulty covering mileage in the desired time-frame, our paces easily meshed and we reached the finish via an interesting route in a manner that felt like a real success.Ā With the thrill of seeing a big piece of wild country in a way that tested my physical and mental abilities to such an extent, I knew I would be back for more in 2022.
I was excited when Will suggested over the winter that we team up again for 2022, and we began planning our route.Ā As we had opted for a more northerly start pointāWest Fork of the Teton trailheadāin 2021, it was clear that a 2022 Missoula finish would involve a route strikingly similar to that we had used last year, so we settled on the Blackleaf loop.Ā Stretching a map across a Helena bar on Thursday night before the event, Will suggested that the route was looking quite lengthy, and I probably shouldnāt plan on being back any earlier than Tuesday pm.Ā I didnāt give it much thought, given how quickly the miles had passed in 2021.Ā If weāre running low on time, I reasoned, we can just break into an easy trot for a bit and make it up, which had worked well enough on the descent from the Scapegoat to the Dry Fork in 2021.Ā After having completed the 2021 event with relatively little struggle, I was apparently carrying the lightly-held assumption that whatever baseline physical capabilities I happened to have would be sufficient to have a successful Open, without engaging in anything so onerous as physical preparation.Ā I needed that assumption to be true: I had been kept from most physical activity since aĀ March ski tour on Marias Pass in which I had inadvertently tested the non-releasable nature of old school three-pin tele bindings (pain is the bodyās way of telling me to improve my ski technique, I concluded). Though I hadnāt heard anything back yet from the previous dayās x-ray examining the persistent pain and swelling in the resulting ankle protrusion, I confidently told Will that, presumably, if anything bad had popped up on the imaging, someone would have called me to let me know by now.
Will had flown into Helena Thursday night, so on Friday I suggested that, given the late spring here in Montana, he try to find tail extenders for our showshoes while I was at the office.Ā Will later informed me via text that the shop in town, perhaps suspecting what we had in mind, had no interest in entrusting us with their nice MSR extenders, which were apparently available for purchase only.Ā I later saw I had missed a text from Will saying that he couldnāt find his way back to my place from the shop.Ā First navigational error of the trip, we joked.
At Blackleaf on Friday night, it was fun to listen to stories being swapped among veteran Bob participants, a part of the event that I had missed in 2021 due to our extra-credit start point.Ā As I was still without a packraft of my own, Tom had kindly agreed to lend me his boat for the event.Ā After a windy night near the trailhead and one last hearty breakfast, Tom provided some brief event instructions (something like: ādonāt do anything too stupid, and donāt dieā) and we were on our merry way.Ā The canyon was a spectacular piece of the Rocky Mountain Front that I had never seen before, and provided a very scenic start to the trip.Ā Right away, we climbed out of the canyon and up a pass, taking in some impressive views of the gap in the canyon back into the plains behind us, before dropping into the Teton drainage.Ā At the bottom, we failed to notice the trail re-route higher along the bank, and instead meandered our way through thick brush a long the stream bed, which temporarily cost Rob the possession of a paddle-shaft that had been strapped to the outside of his pack.Ā Upon arriving at the West Fork of the Teton trailhead, I stopped to make use of a last pit-toilet while Rob caught up to his with his miraculously-retrieved paddle shaft, and the four of us (Will, Kyle, Rob, and I) began the trek up the West Fork.Ā This was familiar ground after last year, and Will and I managed to avoid repeating 2021ās first navigational error of missing the turn south to Nesbit.
After turning south, we stopped at the creek crossing to refill water and chat with an older gentleman (and his dogs), who warned us of a number of strainers on the North Fork of the Sun.Ā We thanked him and began approaching Nesbit Pass.Ā Aware that the first day of the trip would otherwise be very similar to the start of 2021ās route, Will and I decided to turn west and climb over the Washboard Reef and drop down to the North Fork Sun higher up, rather than continuing south over Nesbit Pass as we had last year.Ā We wished Kyle and Rob well and began the climb.Ā According to the cartogophers at National Geographic, there is a trail here, but, as expected, there was nothing that could be recognized as such through the years of uncleared burned blowdown on the climb.Ā We put on snowshoes, but the snow was surprisingly firm given the recent warming and we made the climb without too much difficulty.Ā Though there were big recent slides (including one that had obviously been triggered by what must have been a house-sized cornice fall) to either side of us, we were able to easily find an unexposed route.Ā We made the (windy) summit of Washboard Reef and were treated to some fantastic views of a stark, desolate, and mountainous landscape.Ā We began the descent once again feeling quite lucky to be on firm snow that kept us above most of the deadfall.
As we dropped down the gully into the start of Wrong Creek, we both had the feeling that we had just pulled a fast one on the Bob: a little extra off-trail climbing had gotten us a great view in the alpine, a mellow descent, and a route to a higher river put-in.Ā Then we turned the corner.Ā The landscape before us was what a pile of tumbled match-sticks must resemble to an ant.Ā With no more snow to aid our cause, we tried the left side of the drainage, then the right, then the far right, all to no avail.Ā Progress slowed to a crawl; a crawl that took place on, below, or between tree trunks.Ā Without a suitably-sized pack, I had ample items (PFD, snowshoes, paddles, boat) attached to the outside of my pack to serve as velcro.Ā After an hour or so, there was little indication that we had made forward progress, other than some sticks in my shirt that appeared to have come from a tree slightly behind me.Ā We still occasionally shouted for bearsāit might have been primarily out of hope that one would come and mercifully end our sufferingāthen gave even that up as clearly nothing bigger than a squirrel had attempted to cross this landscape in years.Ā We secretly hoped that the descent off of Nesbit Pass had been every bit as heinous; āmaybe this route is no worse than any other,ā we thought.Ā At long last we climbed out of the carnage, which evoked images from T.S. Elliotās āThe Wasteland,ā and met a recognizable trail heading through a stand of living trees.Ā Clearly, whatever wind event had occurred had been a significant one, as even a number of the green trees had been uprooted across the trail.Ā Nonetheless, we made real progress once again as we resumed our descent towards the North Fork of the Sun.
In addition to watching much of the afternoon disappear in that mile, I had noticed another ominous fact: I was already tired, more tired than I should be less than a day in.Ā Though I had indulged myself on the assistance of trekking poles this year, I struggled to climb over deadfall and didnāt always land where I intended on the other sideāI promptly smacked my kneecap into a sharp stump, leading to immediate and persistent swelling.Ā I shrugged the matter off to a slow start, as I tried not to notice that I was having to push myself to match Willās pace.
We enjoyed a pleasant walk down to the North Fork of the Sun at Wrong Creek and made our boat transition.Ā I was impressed to discover how truly watertight the internal storage in Tomās boat was, rendering my thick vinyl drybags completely unnecessary.Ā (My whitewater kayak is apparently made with special water-permeable plastic that ensures that any stored items, and my bottom-half, sit in sloshing water at all times.) By now, the sun was setting, and we knew we were far behind our intended schedule of being finished with the 25 mile float before us by the end of day.Ā We decided to see how far we could get, and even considered paddling by headlamp.Ā The river seemed much higher than it was in last yearās event, and the higher put-in gave us some more sporty paddling, portages, and wood-dodging moves, one of which involved me hastily squeezing under a set of logs in a tight drop by just enough room that my PFD took a significant hit on the back, but my tucked head and shoulders were unscathed (Willās significantly more minimalist flotation device led to no such problems).Ā After stopping at last yearās put-in so I could look for a missing water bottle and filter from the 2021 event, we continued on in the dusk, enjoying fast water, abundant waterfowl and ungulate viewing, and a pleasant evening. After the equally-abundant strainer dodging, we decided against a night-float, knowing we still had about 20 miles of floating ahead of us to the takeout.Ā We dried out items in front of a nice beach fire (the existence of which must be credited to Willā my fire-starting abilities remain a subject of praise and amazement by Smoky the Bear and Asbestos International) over which we cooked some tasty pasta and made some tea (thanks to my girlfriend, Krista, who had kindly donated teabags to my foodbag that morning).
The next morning, feeling much less bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we took our time getting up and making a hot breakfast, not getting back on the river until well after 7 AM after re-packing and āinflating our boats.Ā The river had come down significantly overnight, and we moved along much slower.Ā Floating through the game range, we were able to get close to plenty of elk and deer, including one soaking-wet mule deer standing in an eddy, apparently after having recently swum the river.Ā Amazingly, it appeared to be in no rush to get out of the shoulder-deep water, and complacently stood watching Will and I pass by.Ā If I, for some reason, found myself swimming the Sun River that May morning, I knew I would be exiting that watercourse in a much more hasty fashion.
We reached the takeout, attempting to divine a more expedient and direct location to leave the river than we had last year, but ultimately failing to do so.Ā Amazingly, the sun came out just as we got to shore, and blessed us with some direct radiation with which to dry our gear as we began the fiddle-and-fidget procedures of metamorphosingĀ from people-on-boats to boats-on-people.Ā We got underway sometime between 11:30 and noon, aware that we were about ten hours behind last-yearās progress, and doing little to make up time on this yearās vague schedule, which would most likely require us to pass the Youngs/Danaher checkpoint and reach the confluence of the SF Flathead and White River by the end of the day.Ā That would give us two days to climb back over the Divide at White River pass (with some likely finagling over Haystack mountain to avoid avalanche hazards), down the West Fork South Fork Sun, and work our way back up the North Fork Sun valley, over Nesbit (not Washboard Reef!), to Blackleaf by Tuesday evening.Ā We acknowledged that completing the route in the allotted time was looking to be an increasingly tall order, and began talking about a secondary option of exiting the Bob with a SF Flathead float to Spotted Bear, perhaps with a side trip up to White River Pass.Ā Nevertheless, we felt our original route might still be possible if we had a successful afternoon.
We walked out of the North Fork drainage and into the South Fork valley for what must have been some of the most pleasant and scenic walking miles of the trip.Ā While moving out from Vermont for a job in HelenaĀ less than two years ago, these were exactly the sort of landscapes I had imagined awaiting me in Montana as my rusty little truck shuddered in the wind, driving through endless plains.Ā We walked through Pretty Prairie, where we were greeted by some mules, contentedly grazing after having presumably finished their own day of carrying packs through the Bob.
As we approached the West Fork confluence, I was again noticing that my legs were not carrying me as I expected, and I seemed to be digging deeper and deeper just to match Willās pace.Ā For a couple years after high school, I had raced overseas as a low-level professional endurance athlete.Ā The experience had taught me that, even when the legs arenāt performing as hoped for, you can still get the job done with a bit of mental fortitude.Ā The lesson apparently stuck around a lot longer than the commensurate fitness necessary to back it up, and I put my head down and carried on.Ā By the time we reached Benchmark, I knew that the tank was running out, and I reluctantly toldĀ Will that I was not going to be able to keep the current pace, and likely wouldnāt make the climb over Stadler that night.Ā I suggested he continue on with his planned itenerary and we part ways, but he decided to stick together for the time being and kindly dialed back the pace a bit.Ā Nonetheless, at around 4:30 PM, as we reached the point where our route would take us away from the SF Sun and up to Stadler Pass, the lights had clearly gone out and I was no longer a fully-functioning human.Ā I stumbled onto a gravel-bar and managed to lower my pack off my cramping back and shoulders.Ā I canāt recall much of what followed through the brain fog, but Will later described coming back from collecting firewood to discover me still standing, shivering but otherwise frozen in place, staring with complete perplexity at an open drybag in my hands.Ā Unable to answer basic questions, I must have appeared to be suffering from a partial stroke, shock, or hypothermia.Ā Ā I subsequently curled up under a tree, loosely draped my sleeping bag over my body, shoes still on, and shivered in the rain.Ā Will set up a shelter and coaxed me over to it, where I came in and out of fitful sleep for several hours before awakening, physically exhausted but once again fully alert and oriented.
Sitting around the campfire, I had no explanation for what had just happened.Ā I didnāt appear to be sick and was seemingly not suffering from some strange Montana strain of malaria.Ā The only conclusion I could draw was that I had unwittingly showed up without the expected or necessary degree of fitness, had dug deep all day in an attempt to match Willās pace regardless, and had persisted in doing so until I had completely cracked myself.Ā It didnāt make much sense: I hadnāt trained or otherwise prepared myself for last yearās event either, and hadnāt come close to reaching my limit then.Ā Ah wellāas a Belgian coach used to admonish, some days you are the hammer, some days you are the nail.Ā Hammer on, Bob.
Either way, it was clear that a Tuesday Blackleaf finish was no longer an option for me and, due to his decision to stick around and keep an eye on me that afternoon, Will too.Ā The remaining question was whether I could get myself over Stadler and down to the SF Flathead the next day with enough of my wits still about me to manage the 45 mile paddle to Spotted Bear.Ā I suggested that I could, though I didnāt have much confidence in any of my predictions at this point.Ā We used Willās InReach to send Krista our new plan, hopeful that she or someone she knew would be willing to make the long drive to Spotted Bear sometime before Tuesdayās work day to pick us up.Ā The previous day, I had shared some haughty philosophical skepticism about carrying a device capable of sending text messages into the wilderness, but Will graciously declined to remind me of these fully-abandoned sentiments now.
The next morning I woke up feeling much better. Will agreed to sleep in a bit and give me a head start, so I could climb Stadler at my own pace and hopefully avoid a repeat of the previous afternoon.Ā I set out a little after 6, and had a pleasant walk up to the pass, which, while having a modest amount of blow-down to be navigated, was clearly a well-maintained trail.Ā After the previous nightās precipitation, the snow was soft enough at that point to need snowshoes, but nothing problematic.Ā After I lost the trail, I followed tracks left by Rob, Kyle, and a directionally-savvy moose through the freshly-falling snow over the summit and down the other side.Ā After being startled by the prehistoric sound of a pair of sandhill cranes reacting to my arrival, I looked back to see Will catching up to me in the meadows just before we reached the put-in to Danaher Creek.Ā With a long float ahead of us, and unsure of our plan after we reached Spotted Bear, we did a fairly quick transition and began paddling.Ā Danaher was high and fast, and loads of fun.Ā After we hit the confluence with Youngs Creek, the start of South Fork proper, we hit a stiff headwind and progress slowed.Ā However, the river picked up volume and soon we were fairly flying.Ā After some painfully slow foot miles that weekend, it was gratifying to watch the miles effortlessly tick by.Ā Despite the arrival of a persistent rain, the cloud ceiling remained high enough to take in fantastic views of the river valley and surrounding peaks.Ā As while floating the North Fork of the Sun, I was amazed at the ability to float along a fast-moving bit of water while also taking in expansive views of green river valleys with snow-covered peaks rising out of the timber beyondāquite the difference from the densely forested rivers in low-lying terrain of Maine and Quebec or the steep mossy bedrock of Vermont creeks where I learned to paddle.
Eventually, we reached the Meadow Creek takeout, which is marked by a signāironically, only readable from the river after one has missed the final eddyāwarning of certain doom to those who continue on into the downstream gorge.Ā By now, the cold rain, wind, and cloud cover had gotten us both quite chilled, and we were glad for a chance to move our legs and warm up. With a wet drysuit and boat, my pack was as heavy as it had been all trip, notwithstanding the diminished food and fuel weight.Ā Still, watching Will peel off the double-layered, but very wet, rain-gear, I was glad to have opted for a drysuit and neoprene mitts.Ā The final few miles walking to the trailhead as dusk gathered were pleasant as we warmed up and enjoyed some views of the constricting river below us.Ā As the river became a steep narrow gorge, we took the footbridge across and reached the Meadow Creek Trailhead, the end of our Bob traverse.
At somewhere around 100 miles, with two lengthy and beautiful river floats and three passes, I felt like the trip was well worth the effort.Ā Still, I felt disappointed that my body had let me down in such a major way on Sunday and that we hadnāt completed the route, especially since it meant that Will, in deciding to stick with me, also abandoned his own chances for a finish.
Before too long, Krista arrived, bearing pizza and snacks.Ā We thanked her profusely and assured her that we would do the driving on the return journey so that sheāhaving work the next morningācould sleep on the way back to Columbia Falls.Ā She wisely suggested that she would drive past the dicey drop-off sections of the road, by which point Will and I had promptly fallen soundly asleep and did not awaken until we arrived at her place in Columbia Falls.
Though our Bob Open had ended, our adventure had not.Ā On her way to work the next morning, Krista dropped us off at a Hungry Horse diner where, after filling up on biscuits and gravy, we began attempting to hitch our way back to Blackleaf.Ā Though Krista gave us a phone number of a friend she thought we might be able to arrange a shuttle with, I was excited by the prospect of relying on good luck, karma, and open hearts and car seats to close the circle to Blackleaf that my legs had failed to complete, with minimal excess fossil fuel consumption.Ā My idealism didnāt last long.Ā Though a raft company employee got us swiftly to West Glacier, and a mason with an appreciation for backpacking subsequentlyĀ took us over the pass to the route 89 junction (āyou guys sure smell like youāve been out for a while,ā he informed us), our luck then ran out.Ā At the intersection of routes 89 and 2, Will and I took turns begging passing motorists with pleading eyes and our break-down paddles while the other leaned against the lone road sign and rested.Ā Eventually, having given up on the purist approach, we broke began calling random taverns and garages along the Front, soliciting individuals willing (and preferably sober enough) to drive us to Dupuyer for some cash.Ā Nothing.Ā I was sunburnt, had eaten the last of my cheese and granola bars, was running out of water, and knew we were facing the unpleasant prospect of hiking four miles back into Browning to search for provisions and a new game plan.
To our great relief, a rancher stopped and agreed to take us to Dupuyer.Ā Along the way, we convinced him to drive us āa few milesā off the highway up to Blackleaf.Ā He kindly did so and refused our offers to buy him some gasoline.Ā At long last, we arrived back at the truck, about when we had initially expected to (Tuesday evening), though certainly not by the hoped-for route or method.Ā I enjoyed a beer and some apples left in the truck, though not necessarily in a celebratory fashion.Ā The truck started up and off we went.
As it turned out, the adventure was not quite over.Ā Only a couple miles down the the freshly-graded gravel out of the Blackleaf canyon, I got a flat, or, rather, shredded, rear tire.Ā Upon attempting to remove the rusted spare from below the bed of the truck, I recalled that, as when I had last attempted this on another old Tacoma many years ago, (a) the mechanism for de-attaching the spare from the vehicle was neither obvious nor intuitive and (b) I had forgotten whatever method I had eventually discovered on that prior occasion.Ā With no cell service, low on water, and still a significant distance from pavement, this once again looked like it was shaping up to be something of a pickle.Ā Fortunately, a brief shift in the wind allowed for enough service on a smartphone to read one cryptic internet message-board advice line: āabove the license plate,ā which was a sufficient clue to allow us to solve the puzzle and unlock the spare just as an 80-year-old rancher arrived with truck full of tools, encouragement, and good story-telling with which to assist in the remainder of the process.Ā In response to his questioning, we repeatedly assured him that our current barefoot state was due merely to blisters and hotspots and that we had not attempted to traverse theĀ Bob shoeless. He seemed to suspect that we might be a bit unhinged, all the same.Ā With another slow leak and a less-than-perfect spare, we limped back to Helena.
Though Iām not a highly-experienced backpacker, this event has been a perfect way to explore the wild country, river-courses, and mountain ranges that exist nearly in my Helena backyard, while meeting some fantastic people.Ā After having a remarkably problem-free initial go in 2021, I am glad to have had a humbling experience in 2022 to round out my perspective and ensure I continue to appreciate the Bob as the rugged and inspiring place that it is.Ā I feel grateful for so much in this yearās event, including the new ground and river mileage I was able to explore, the folks I met or re-met at the start, and another weekend of chatting on about lifeās Questions with Will.Ā A big thank you is also due to Krista for making the night drive to/from Spotted Bear, Will for keeping an eye on me while I hallucinated under a tree, Tom for loaning me his packraft, the wildlife that (willingly or otherwise) briefly shared their home as we passed through, and the kind folks who gave us rides back around to Blackleaf and came to offer assistance during automotive trouble.Ā And, begrudgingly, to Willās InReach.
