Montana TR- The Lost Nurses

(I'm back working 12 hour nights so whether I'll finish these TRs is
sort of up in the air. This might be the last one, at least for a
while.)


Friday came and I turned my attention to getting Jacci and Mason up
one of the mountainsides to get a broader view of the region. Jacci
had happily laid claim to the porch, playing suduko and hobnobbing
with various Forest Service employees and confused campers as they
passed through. And Mason had his Gameboy and had advanced numerous
members of the Pokemon tribe to higher levels of evolution. Now I
truly believed that vacations are for the individual to relax as they
see fit. And in general I respected their choices. But there was a
part of me, maybe derived from some stiff necked Yankee Puritan
ancestor, that felt that they needed to get up and do something
strenuous and uplifting. A hike in the mountains seemed made to order
and a hike in the mountains that ended at a lake that held trout
seemed especially well made.

I was somewhat surprised when Jacci agreed. Although on reflection I
don't know why. She has followed me on other half-assed schemes and
usually seemed to enjoy herself. Mason took a little more convincing
but when I mentioned that there might be fossils up on the slopes he
too signed on.

We filled the backpack with rain gear, snacks, water, compass,
waterproof matches, emergency blanket and camera. Jacci strapped on
the bear spray holster and I slipped the other container of pepper
spray in the side pocket of the pack. We sized our new set of trekking
poles, one to fit Jacci and one to fit Mason. Finally I crammed in a
box of assorted flies and a spool of 5x tippet in the pack and snapped
a cased 4 piece Avid 5wt to its side. Then we set off for the Nurses
Lakes.

Now the question should be asked here, as it wasn't then, what has
George forgotten? What will he need, eventually, probably sooner than
later? The lack of what item will make getting from here to there
hard, if nigh impossible? Do you have a clue? If you do, good for you,
because that makes you one clue up on Mr.Cleveland as he and his
little family begin their trek up the mountain that sunny Friday
morning.

The first problem was finding the right trailhead. The cabin and
campground were at the end of the public road. There were several
trails radiating out from that point. None were especially well
marked. We looked around and eventually found a well used looking one
that seemed to run in the right direction, across the lower slopes of
the mountain. But after a couple of hundred yards it became clear that
the local cows, rather than some long dead detachment of the CCC, had
had their efforts behind the path we followed. But it still seemed to
be heading in the right direction. And, surprise of surprises, it did
end up going the desired way. In the first grove of scrub pine it
merged with a virtual thorofare of a trail coming up from below. Not
only did the new trail bear the marks of other Vibram soled boots but
it bore the even more ubiquitous markings of the pack strings as they
headed for the high country. We were on the right path.

The trail ran through a section of private land and then crossed into
the National Forest proper. At first it took a lazy course, climbing
easily through the pines and tiny meadows. Then, when it reached the
steeper slopes, it began to switchback its way up the mountain. It is
perhaps easier for an adult to get satisfaction from this kind of
thing. To be rewarded by the slowly expanding outlook. To get a
feeling of accomplishment from seeing a new peak appear from behind a
previously obstructionist ridge. But to a kid, it is probably just
work. Despite many breaks for water and short rests and despite the
pile of ominously fresh looking bear droppings that punctuated the
edge of the trail (pepper spray out of the pack pocket and clipped on
the sternum strap) it was a wearing trip for Mason.

Finally it was too much. Paternal mutterings from me were met with
indifference. Mason's feet suddenly were oceans of pain, his mouth a
desert. Paternal mutterings began to escalate but were suddenly
silenced by a "look" from Jacci. A soft conversation followed. Pains
in the feet lessened, the arid waste in the mouth was eased by sips of
water. And a paternal promise of "If there are no lakes at the top
then we'll turn back" even seemed to help.

A couple of more tangental trips across the slope face and we neared
the point were the angle of the slope lessened. But the water bottles
were both near empty. Only the small flask in Mason's emergency pack
remained in reserve. We sat in the shade of a small grove of twisted
pines. The top looked so near. The lakes had to be close also. I told
Jacci and Mason that they should wait there for 15 minutes while I
hiked up and found the ponds. I truly thought that they were very,
very close. I took one of the trekking poles and began a fast hike up.
The slope did lessen and then completely flattened out. I kept on.
Then I passed a series of posts that seemed to be missing their
signage. Finally I found one with its sign attached. "Grouse Creek
Trail. No. 41" Grouse Creek? Where and what the hell was Grouse
Creek? Where was a sign for the Nurses Lakes? And now, finally, it
occured to me, where was my map? The answer was also immediately
forthcoming. Down in the cabin where you left it. ****.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0027a.jpg
Taskmaster

I had been gone for over 10 minutes. And even though the woods, mixed
aspen and pine, looked temptingly moist, I turned and started back. As
I approached the portion where the trail began to slope back down I
met Jacci and Mason coming up. It was decided to retreat. But not
before we took a good look at our surroundings. We were in a high
meadow. The mountains to the west were lined up in ranks and behind
them had to be the void that was the Paradise Valley. To the south
even higher peaks stretched, patches of snow shimmering in the 80
degree heat. The view to the north was blocked by trees. And to the
east, somewhere, were the mysterious Nurses Lakes. Far below the green
metal roof of the USFS horse barn stood out. The Davis Creek Trail
bridge was easily picked out and the earth toned shingles of our cabin
could be seen peaking through the surrounding treetops.

We turned and headed back down, the Avid's case knocking mockingly
against the packs nylon fabric. In a surprisingly short time we
reached the foot of the mountain. We followed the trail back to its
legitimate head and there was another small sign announcing that the
path we were on as the Grouse Creek Trail No. 41. Back in the cabin
the map showed the zig zag line of that path going up the face of the
unnamed mountain. Then the dotted line straightened and ran through a
stretch of map devoid of contour lines. And then the dotted line
skirted the shore of one of the Nurses Lakes.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0022a.jpg
The View West



Geo.C.