Total Weekly Mileage: 272.2

“Three Sheets to The Winds”

I’ve read comments from hikers complaining about too many people in Yellowstone. Yes, tourists in the most popular national park in the country will happen in the middle of summer. I myself enjoy people-watching—the melting pot of all walks of life while we’re all literally standing on a melting pot. Old Faithful, a pressure cooker overdue to blow, and when it does—sayonara. Let’s just hope before the entire country melts down into a lava pool, I get to pull the record off.

Anyway: lots of people, a couple bison, flat trail, slight rain—park done. Where the CDT trail brings you in Yellowstone is anticlimactic. It’s the boring side, the west side. The eastern side has all the good stuff. It’s the last park and permitting I have to deal with: choosing campsites, making calls, yada yada yada. All I wanted was to get to Dubois and into the Winds!

Once I stuffed my face with pulled pork and mac ’n’ cheese, I left Old Faithful a few minutes before the thing shot off. Seen it before, needed to get miles. I finished around 10 and just cowboy camped in the woods off the trail. One of my power bank lights had accidentally been pushed on and had almost completely drained. I had 120 miles and one and a half charges to get me to Dubois. This meant radio silence until town.

The next morning, as I was eating breakfast on the side of the trail, another southbound thru-hiker came around the corner. His name was Taxi. After a brief conversation about the trail, I packed up and we hiked together. I told him about my power issue, and he said he had a 26,000 mAh power bank fully charged and that I could charge my phone as we hiked. How lucky was that!? So I did, and we talked and hiked for the next two hours.

He’d been living in Guatemala before trail, day trading. He filled me in on how he makes enough money working a few hours a day doing this, and $45 covers his Airbnb and food for the day. I’ve met a lot of people who’ve found success living in other countries, not falling for the struggles of the American cost of living, and I was very intrigued. After a while, he headed to Grant Village in Yellowstone, and I continued on. Thanks, Taxi—you bailed me out big time!

I pushed hard from there, clocking a 43-mile day. The next day: 41. Other than getting stuck behind two huge bison hogging the trail for 10 minutes, everything went relatively smooth for the next 48 hours. The final 10 miles to the highway for my Dubois resupply stop was a mud pit. I was lucky to avoid the torrential downpour the night before, stopping north of the storm, but the next morning I could tell the trail had been saturated significantly. Dried-up rivers had been flowing down the trail, and I was slipping and sliding all over the place. The bottoms of my shoes got so caked with mud they felt like they weighed an extra five pounds each. I constantly had to stop, take them off, and bang off the mud or scrape them against rocks.

By 10:30 I was at the road, and only 10 minutes later I was picked up by two women from Colorado—Isabelle and another girl whose name I can’t remember. It was a 28-mile ride, so we chatted about my hike mostly. They had just hiked in the Tetons and were taking the scenic route home, which worked out perfectly for me.

By 11:15 I was dropped off in town, headed straight for the laundromat (which also had pay showers), and 45 minutes later I was clean and cleaning my clothes. Headed to the store and bought food for a resupply box at my next stop, which was South Pass City. It’s a small museum mining town and is literally on the trail. Dubois is a long hitch but necessary. Staying as close to the trail moving forward would be the key to big-mile days, even on resupply days. So taking an extra hour in town here to build a box was worth it.

The post office went off without a hitch—except I spilled my root beer during my box-building and yelled a profanity right as a woman came around the corner. It wasn’t directed at her, but she gave me an offended look. I’m too used to being alone on the trail—gotta watch my mouth when in towns in the future.

I had a cheeseburger at the local dive, unable to get a temperature on the meat, which I forgot I can’t get in Wyoming. This is funny and annoying to me because I’m in cattle country U.S.A., and they won’t cook my burger to temp. Hockey puck style is all they’ll do. It was still decent. Beats the hell out of cold ramen and oatmeal.

After a 15-minute resupply for the next 167 miles to South Pass City, I was again quickly picked up by old-timer Mike, and he whisked me back up to the trail. Road-walking the old CDT trail for the next 15 miles, I cowboy camped under the stars and woke at 5 a.m., moving by 5:30. I needed big miles through this section because I wanted to get to SPC before they closed at 5 p.m. on Friday. It was Tuesday, and I had 152 miles to do in under four days. Hard but not impossible.

Met a few SOBOS that day—Steam Engine and Mama Cita. We hiked and talked most of the day, and when they stopped for lunch, like I always have to do, I continued on.

The Bridger Wilderness, known as the Winds (short for the Wind River Range), is beautiful. Like a mini Sierra. Many alternates and high routes along ridgelines. But I was following the line of the dude I was trying to beat, which meant the low red-line route. It still has incredible views, just not as rugged hiking as the other stuff.

It was the following day I realized my food situation was going to be an issue. I didn’t buy enough in town, so I started to ration with 110 miles to go. My only saving grace was the Big Sandy Lodge a few miles off-trail the following afternoon. I could skip it and be starving until my next box, or go in, raid the hiker box, and get a meal there. It would take an extra 90 minutes to do this, which might mean I could be late to SPC for my box, but I felt I had no choice and would just have to do big miles. So I did what I had to do and pulled a 45-mile day.

In the Winds, that’s not normal—but I’m not, and neither is my hike. A lot of weekend warriors through this section—some happy, some miserable. Light sprinkles kept the heat at bay, and I arrived at Big Sandy at 3 p.m. I ate two overpriced burgers (no temp), talked with more hikers (all of whom were from New England—French Fry and Achilles), and was off and hiking by 4.

Besides a quick detour to dig a cat hole after the burgers in a wide-open field, I made great time and still was able to get a 41. Saw a lot of deer and elk that day also. This left me 29 miles the next day to do by 5—totally doable. On trail early, a couple big climbs and then a long downhill cruiser, I clocked one of my biggest weeks so far. Feeling good and ready to crush into the Basin.

Total Weekly Mileage: 249.9

“I’m 40”

I had a day to make it to Leadore. I think it’s Idaho—could be Montana. This part of the trail weaves its way from Montana to Idaho, then back to Montana, then Idaho, and then… well, you get the point. I could never tell the difference, except for the fact that it’s illegal to hitch in Idaho and legal in Montana.

I was able to get ahold of Jen P. and book a pickup at the pass for a ride into town. People do wing it and hope to get a ride, but it’s on a back road to nowhere, so confirming a $20 ride each way was better for me. I made it there early, and she was early too. Another dude named “True Grit” hopped in with us. A couple of Cokes later, I was in Leadore by 2 p.m.

This was a quick two-and-a-half-hour turnaround: eat, charge, resupply, organize, and go. I forgot that I was in Mormon country. The young girl at the counter at the store—Lexington—was nice, and before I left, I told her I was headed back out to find a female hiker to “soak” with. She said, “Oh my god!” Believe it or not, soaking is something Mormons do, and it’s too inappropriate for me to explain here. Google it!

There are a lot of people who are jack-of-all-trades and masters of none. I’d put myself in that camp—except it’s more along the lines of useless knowledge, which comes in handy for random conversations, especially in small towns.

Jen P. (Lexi’s mother) dropped me back off just before 5.

105 miles to Lima—pronounced like the fruit, with an “a.” I crushed this section. Water was tough in the cattle troughs, but I hit the 100-day mark with over 3,200 miles. Finally got service. Just so you know, I have cell service about 25 percent of the time, so no more texting that you haven’t heard from me for a while. This is why I have a website.

I scheduled a ride to get picked up in the morning at 9 a.m., not realizing that where I thought I was to be picked up was actually 2.5 miles farther than I thought. That morning, I was doing a nice 8-mile run. If I hadn’t done a 45-mile day with 4.5 hours of sleep, it might not have been so bad. I made it, and Josh picked me up and whisked me into town. Shower, laundry, charge, box, and 1:30 back on the trail.

Six miles of road walk uphill in the hot sun was tough, but I was still able to get 30 miles in for the day. The following day: 42. The next morning, I woke up and I was 40. Made it into Island Park, ID around 10:30. Had Subway, resupplied, charged my things at a Mexican restaurant, and ate some strange egg rolls and shrimp ceviche.

Took off and met trail angel Val, who made me a spaghetti dinner. The following day, I made it into Wyoming and Yellowstone and finished out the week getting warm water out of Summit Lake. I bleached the hell out of it and filtered through my bandana. There were still some odd-looking floaties in there, but what the hell—the bleach kills all.

Montana and Idaho had some tough sections. Wyoming has the Wind River Range, but other than that, it should be a quick state!

Total Weekly Mileage: 255.9

CDT Mile: 609

Total Miles: 3264.5

“Murder in Anaconda”

After spending three hours in my tent waiting for the lightning storm to pass, I got back on trail at 4:15 and was able to knock out another 18 miles. The following day, my goal was to reach the junction to the Anaconda alternate route. The traditional CDT continues south past Butte and then cuts west into the Pintler Wilderness. I, however, would be going to Anaconda. This alternate was taken by the record holder, and it cuts out 96 miles. I’m trying to mirror his CDT distance, which is 2,665 miles, so there’s no need to add miles.

As I approached the junction, Dallas (the guy that built the awesome website you’re enjoying right now) called to tell me about a quadruple murder that took place in Anaconda the day before—and that the guy had still not been caught. It didn’t matter. I had 26 miles of roadwalk to get there, and by that time I was sure they’d find him up against a tree with a bullet between his eyes.

On the roadwalk, three locals stopped to tell me about the killing and gave me food and drink. Getting into town, I stopped at the Town Pump Mini Mart and grabbed a Slim Jim to hold me over until I made it to the golden arches. There are Town Pumps in the place I live, but they’re not gas stations.

Two more locals told me about the murder and that the crackhead was still at large. I arrived at McD’s and decided to change up my order game. I like Big Macs, but the burger patties (if you want to call them that) are the size of a 50-cent piece—three bites and the thing is gone. So I ordered a Double Quarter Pounder, which is closer to real food, and had all the things that come on the Big Mac go on that. Y’know the song: “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.” Yeah, that—but on a Quarter Pounder. It was great, except the teller put extra ketchup instead of no ketchup. I ate it anyway. Still beats ramen and oatmeal.

I added a Filet-O-Fish, a McChicken, medium fry, and a Hi-C. Resupplied at Albertsons grocery and headed to the “Hiker Hut,” which is a small building in a park on the outside of town. I charged my stuff, ate again, and slept on the floor inside. The next morning, I was able to shower at the community center next door. The water pressure was extreme, and with my sunburned arms, I was wide awake by 7:30.

On my way by 8:30, I was pleased with myself. I always have a hard time getting out of town before 10, so I was excited to attack the Pintler Wilderness. About a mile up the road, I was stopped by police who told me the whole area was shut down. They still hadn’t found the killer, and they knew he was somewhere in the mountains. I turned around.

I called Dallas to figure out a new game plan. I certainly didn’t want to get a ride back 26 miles to the junction and lose all those miles. So, we came up with a plan for me to get a ride back to the other side of town and save myself an hour of roadwalking. From there, take Highway 1 for a mile and then take Highway 569 south, which—after 16 miles—would bring me back to the traditional CDT route and on my way.

By the time the trail angels David and Robin dropped me off, it was close to 11. Onto Highway 569 I went—completely sun-exposed with no shoulder, cars flying by at 70. About six miles in, I took lunch under a tree on the side of the road. Laid out my sleeping pads, took off my shoes and socks (pavement can do a number on your feet, especially with a heavy pack), and chilled for a bit.

As I was enjoying my pepperoni and Easy Cheese wrap, a truck drove by slowly, the woman driving staring at me. It pulled down the next dirt road, and I didn’t think much about it. Ten minutes later, it pulled back out and again went slowly. As I was packing up, a red pickup pulled into the parking lot next to me, and sheriffs got out. They looked like they were straight out of central casting from the show Yellowstone—button-down plaid shirts, cowboy hats, ranger jeans held up with big ol’ belt buckles, Stetsons, and the attire would not be complete without a big-ass revolver sitting on their hips.

They moseyed on over and asked what I was doing. I explained my hike and the reroute because of Rambo. They told me they had gotten a call about a suspicious-looking character.

“Well, I am thru-hiking the CDT. We all kinda look weird.”

They laughed. Apparently, that Karen in the truck had called the cops. Now, I’m not the sharpest tack on the corkboard, but I’m pretty sure if I had just shot and killed four people and was hiding from the cops, I don’t think walking down a highway in the middle of the day and taking a leisurely lunch on the side of the road would be my move. I mean, I’ve heard of hiding in plain sight, but that’s just redonkulous.

They ran my ID, and Barney Fife and company took off. Another first: being mistaken as a quadruple-murdering crackhead.

I wasn’t thinking about water after this, but I should have. Luckily, I stopped into Stockton Outfitter, a snowmobile and hunting guide spot. Jay, the manager, gave me a soda and let me fill my H₂O. I told him what had just happened, and he thought it was hilarious.

Another seven miles, and I was on the red line heading southwest. Met a family camping around some back roads, and we talked for a few minutes. I continued my day, finishing about nine miles or so from where the two trails intersect.

I had four solid passes to get up and over the next day. The weather was good—not crazy hot—but the area in the Pintler Wilderness did remind me a little of Section J on the PCT: big ups and big downs.

Oh, I forgot to mention that morning, half-awake, I got confused as to which direction to go and hiked 2.2 miles back the way I had come the night before. So I added 4.4 miles of useless hiking to start my day. Pushed hard, met a geologist, and we talked for a bit. I’d been trying to outrun storm clouds all day, but they finally caught me at 7 p.m. on my ascent up Pintler Pass. Cold, wet, and tired, I called it at 8 p.m.—a couple hours earlier than I would like, but I was too cold.

The next morning, I pushed hard right out of the gate. Went the right way this time! The trail started to get easier, and the weather was in the 70s with a light breeze and few clouds. Perfect hiking weather. I ended the day with a 42, putting me seven miles from the parking lot and the one-mile roadwalk to the highway into Darby.

I didn’t wait too long. A rancher named Jeremy picked me up, and I was at the RV park by 8. Had a huge, overpriced breakfast across the street, showered, did laundry, resupplied, and charged all my stuff by noon. Picked up a poncho and a pair of pink socks (yes, that’s all they had), and back at the road I put out my thumb.

A dude picked me up but could only bring me eight miles. I took it. He dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, Montana, and I waited 90 minutes before Lisa gave me a ride. The reason it was so hard to get a hitch, we figured, was because the murderer was still on the loose and I was still close to the area.

I finally got to the trail at 2:45, and although it was later than I wanted, I was able to get 19 miles. That night around 8 p.m., a deer came flying down the mountain in front of me and crossed the trail. About 30 feet behind was a black wolf—no doubt going for the kill. He was so determined he didn’t even notice me until he was about 20 feet away. Once he did, he put on the Jake brake and spun around back up the mountain. First wolf sighting!

Water is tough to come by in these parts. Some of the cattle troughs are dry, and the cow flops are many.

What a crazy week! I wanted an adventure, and goddammit, am I getting one!

Total Weekly Mileage: 267.7

CDT Mile: 358

Total Miles: 3,013.5

“Horseshit and Thunderstorms”

Now that the traveling, park permit, and resupplying were all behind me, it was time to crush some miles. I needed a big week to start chipping away at the lame 108 miles I had just done. From past years, I know a couple things about the Bob Marshall Wilderness:

1. It’s flat cruiser for a lot of it, so my pace should be solid.
2. It’s remote—cell service will be sparse, and food options are hard to come by.

I didn’t want to go into Augusta, which is a pain, so I was going to do the 192.5-mile carry straight to Roger’s Pass and head into Lincoln. So, into the Bob’s I went.

The following morning, I reached the spot where I blew out my shoulder—remembered the pain and the hike afterward to the rescue spot via helicopter. I took a quick video and moved on. I didn’t want to stick around; the memory of that terrible and disappointing day was something I wanted behind me. It’s hard to sum up what it’s taken for me to get back to this spot and to be back in position to break another record. Giving up was never an option. When you know something is worth it, whatever it is—don’t ever give up.

Into the Bob’s, I started running into horse-packing outfits. You know, the City Slicker trips on horseback. Hey, I like horses as much as the next person—not as much as my great Uncle Georgy O’ or my friend Thin Lisa—but I don’t normally mind them… except when I’m on trail. These hoofed devils tear up the trail and shit all over it. I had to be careful when getting my water and where I put down my gear. Not to mention the horse flies! These little bastards were buzzing around my head all day, plotting their attack. I must’ve killed a dozen that day. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes they would, but it was driving me mad.

Finally, they went away—because a massive thunder and lightning storm came through. Then the sun came out. Then another storm. It had been less than one week since I started the CDT, and I’d already been rained on more than during the entire PCT. The good thing is the rain helps prevent forest fires, and being rerouted because of those is such a pain in the tail.

My days were 40-plus through here. I hiked until 11 one night and, unable to find a site, just cowboy camped right on the trail—a 45.5-mile day. The next morning, I was moving by 4:50 a.m. I had 41.6 miles to make it to the road into Lincoln. The hitch into town can be tough—a double lane in the middle of nowhere. I knew if I wanted to get into town that night, I couldn’t be at the road any later than 8:30. Other than the 41.6-mile distance, I had over 9,000 feet of ascent and 8,700 feet of descent. Tough day. I was caught in one storm and outran another. Limiting my breaks and pushing hard, I was at Roger’s Pass at 8 p.m. on the dot. 192.5 miles in four and a half days. Might be my best, but I can’t remember.

It took 45 minutes to get a hitch. Luckily, a dude named Shane spun around and picked me up and dropped me off at the motel. Thanks Shane! I checked in and headed to the restaurant for dinner. They were closed. I went to the next one—also closed. And the third—closed as well. My only option was a dive bar/casino three blocks away. Other than a few drunk locals and a wall of one-armed bandits (slot machines), they only had their fryer going. Fine by me. Anything besides ramen, oatmeal, and peanut butter was fine by me.

I got the fried platter to go and took it back to the room. This meal of absolutely terrible things for you consisted of tater tots, fries, mini tacos, wings, onion rings, a mini burrito, mini corn dogs, and something resembling fried chicken gizzards. I was in heaven. The greasy pile hit me hard, and I died in the bed soon after—too exhausted to even take a shower. I know, such a hiker trash move.

It took me a hot minute to get back to the trail the next day. Another 45 minutes of hitching. Luckily, a retired forestry dude named Ernie picked me up. A big climb out of the pass—the trail was really enjoyable. No storms, but they were in the forecast the next day. This triple storm came through when I was completely exposed on a forest road. I still have some PTSD from the Yellowstone storm of ’21 (see GWL 2021 for that gem of a story). I badly wanted 270 miles for the week. Unfortunately, this storm forced me to ditch into the woods an hour early and wait it out. Settled for 267.

Total Weekly Mileage 108.4

“Cars, Trains and Rain”

I know what you’re thinking: “108 miles? What’s wrong with him? Is everything okay? Why is it half the normal mileage for the week?” Allow me to explain.

Once I tagged the PCT monument on the border, I had to hike 30 miles back to Hart’s Pass. From there, it was a one-hour ride on a pothole-filled dirt road down to Mazama. I arrived at 4:30. Now, I could have rolled the dice and tried to hitch the two-plus hours to Wenatchee and maybe make the train at 8 p.m., but I had a guaranteed ride the next day. Also, I was tired.

That was Saturday, and none of the 30 miles counts towards anything, just bonus miles. After spending the night at the hostel, hanging out with a German named Vampire (who pronounced it “Wampire”) and a newly ex-Jehovah’s Witness named Louis, the next day Kelley gave me a ride to the station. That’s Sunday—no miles.

The overnight ride to Glacier was fine, although I never sleep well on those—I’m too long for the seats. Arriving in Glacier the next day at 9:30 a.m., it was in the high 40s and pouring rain—not a good day to start. So I decided to take the day and wait out the bad weather.

At the hostel, I met Blindspot from New Zealand, Simple from Maryland, and Lucy from Australia. Lucy is an unusual case—she started hiking from Venezuela in 2017 with her dog Wombat, and her goal is to finish in Alaska. She had been at the hostel for a couple of weeks waiting for a “parcel,” as she put it. What kind of package would take someone out for a few weeks? Who knows.

Anyway, she had access to a car left by someone hiking in the park, so she’d been shuttling hikers around and offered to bring me up to the Ranger Station to get my permits for Glacier. The permitting here is different from other national parks. You can’t just walk in and camp around—you have to pick specific spots with limited sites, and, being the middle of summer, a lot of the campsites were full. It’s even harder for me because I’m trying to pick places spaced 30-plus miles apart to keep up my MPD average.

Once the spots were chosen, the ranger had to override the system because normally they only allow 15 hiking days. But I’m a special case. After that, a 15-minute safety video on bears and a $25 fee. Voilà—an hour later, we were headed back to town. We stopped at the store for a quick resupply and a frozen TV dinner, and then we were back at the hostel.

While I was enjoying my Hungry Man TV dinner, Luna (the owner) showed up with a platter of fresh vegetables and fruit and two salmon burgers for me—what a sweetheart! After stuffing my face, I still had to deal with getting to the border. It’s an hour and a half away. Last year, I paid $100 for a shuttle service. Luckily, this year there were Belgians staying at the hostel and they had a rental car, heading to Calgary the next morning. So, I hopped in with them.

It was raining pretty hard when we arrived at the border the next day, but I couldn’t take another zero. I thanked them and took off. The trail was a mud pit. Horses really tear up the trail, and with all the rain it was slick and messy. By 5 p.m., I had made it to Many Glacier after a detour through the Ptarmigan Tunnel, cutting out 14 miles. Given the conditions, I figured it was better to get warm and dry and make up the miles down the trail somewhere.

The hotel is huge, with a fire in the lobby. It was completely crowded with people drying out their things. I decided I’d have a hot meal and wait until the rain slowed down before pitching my tent across the parking lot. This was a temporary site behind the employee housing while construction was being done. Whatever—as long as I was inside and drying out.

I met some nice people in the restaurant—Neal and Dave and their family. We talked for a bit, and when I went to pay my bill, Neal had already picked it up. Thanks, buddy! I also met a couple of dudes from Alabama and saw them the next morning at the AYCE breakfast buffet. We took a picture together and then I headed out onto the deck to take in the views.

My next campsite was only 28 miles away at Red Eagle Lake, so I figured I’d linger around the hotel for a bit before taking off—I didn’t want to get to camp too early. I ran into Neal and his boys and thanked him for dinner, talked with them and a school teacher from Iowa for a bit.

At 10, I took off. It didn’t take long before the overgrowth car wash started—I was soaked within 15 minutes. But the sun was out, and it was going to be a nice day. Some spots were muddy still, but manageable without the rain. The park was packed, being the middle of July, and some sections of trail were crawling with people.

I thought for a moment about hiking beyond my designated spot and trying to get as many miles as I could—until a ranger stopped me and asked for my permit. I decided to scrap the idea and stopped at Red Eagle.

The next morning, I was out by 5:30 with a five-mile, 3,000-foot climb up to Triple Divide Pass. I reached it by 9. From there, a long downhill and cruise trail until heading back up for 2,000 feet to Pitamakan Pass, then down forever again and cruising to Two Medicine Campground—and finally back up a three-mile climb to a scenic point, then down and out to East Glacier again.

I dropped my bag at the hostel and ran down and ordered a large BBQ chicken pizza at Brownies Bakery. Hung out with Just Greg, Lucy (she was still waiting on her parcel), Blindspot, a foreign dude with a messed-up eye (I didn’t ask), and a Mainer named Friendly.

The next morning, after shaking the earwigs off my tent’s mesh door, I resupplied and took off at noon. I was ready to launch, and now I didn’t have any permitting issues until Yellowstone. I allocated three days of travel—anything quicker would’ve been gravy.

It’s on to the Bob now—and the spot where I blew out my shoulder a year ago. Excited to make it back!