1998
by Curt Bush
A trip of great memories began with a dream and a wish and a plan. With the organization, leadership, and help of Gardner Ellis, founder of Wilderness Connection, the plan became a reality. Our group left Friday evening, September 12, for north central Montana and the Missouri River.
There were nine of us; a mixed group. Seven men and two women. Writers, artists, entrepreneurs, business and blue collar, working and retired. Along with Gardner and myself were Dave Poulin, Kevin Peterson, Tim Sundquist, Betsy Kuth, Dorothy May, Dan Ammerman, and Basil Loney.
We left Gardner's home in Duluth about 5:30 pm Friday. We were looking toward a thousand mile drive to Fort Benton, Montana. We moteled it in Valley City, North Dakota the first night. Gardner had us up and gone by 7:30 the next morning. That was 7:30 am. Duluth timeI think. There were beginnings of confusion about times and time zones. But we knew Gardner had it straight. I think.
Loved the scenery through North Dakota and Montana. Imagined the millions of bison roaming the grasslands of the prairie as well as the basins, the buttes, the table lands, and the river bottoms. Reached Lewistown, Montana, Saturday afternoon. Got gas, Dairy Queen's, and bandanas at Surplus Bob's One-Dollar Bandanas. Reached Fort Benton that evening, the oldest town in Montana, the farthest the steam paddle wheels could go, the rough and tumble destination of goods and services to supply the western reaches of the continent. Passed Square Butte on our drive from Lewistown to Fort Benton. A massive natural landmark situated between the Judith Mountains and the Highwood Mountains, Square Butte is a landscape feature we would see again and again as we hiked to the canyon rim, high above the river that was to be the canoe route.
Walked around the town of Fort Benton after our long drive. Felt good to walk. Walked along Front Street where the saloons, gunfights, and bawdy houses had been. Settled into the Frontier Hotel for the night. Either by Montana time or Duluth time we were up early Sunday morning and headed for Coal Banks Landing, our-put in. I could sense the fervor with which we unloaded the van and trailer then situated our gear in the canoes at the river bank. We wanted to feel the flow of the river. We needed to be under way.
The river was moderately high. The current was swift. There was a brisk head wind. We were off.In order to avoid the head wind of the open river, I took a lesser channel to the right of a half-mile long island. Surely the wind would be less severe along the cliff face on the right bank, so I steered my little high-tech solo canoe toward calmer water. Bad choice. I quickly learned that canyon winds don't follow standard wind rules. They intensify and did things I didn't understand. My bow was too light. The wind spun me around. I was going down rapids backwards. I was scared. Out of control. In the river's grasp. I got my body turned completely around without tipping. Wave tops blowing in my face now. Fierce wind.
Finally partly in control. Dave caught up to me and said I sure looked to be loaded bow heavy. Ha! Little did he know that wasn't my bow! Good he hadn't seen my escapade with the wind and rapids and my 180 in my tippicanoe. At least I wouldn't be the object of fireside conversation that night.
After shifting around packs and gear the canoe behaved much better and around a couple of more bends I caught up with our group. They were having a leisurely lunch on the right bank. Lunch completed, we forged our fleet of canoes and one kayak ahead into the teeth of an east wind. With a better trimmed canoe and by sitting on the floor to reduce wind drag, I was able to easily keep up with the group. A small snake was swimming across the mighty Missouri right across the bow. Beautiful intricate diamond-like patterns adorned it's back. I let it rest on my paddle while I photographed it. Probably a king snake I decided. Non-poisonous, without the pit viper's head shape. Took an early camp that afternoon on the right bank. Early camps were a delight because it left plenty of time for a late day-hike. These hikes were rigorous but always rewarding with vistas of white rock canyons and great photo ops. From the rim, the Missouri Breaks displayed their ruggedness, their vastness, their color contrasts in evening light, and provided that sense of insignificance with which the "Big Sky Country" rewards its admirers. Human arrogance seems so out of place when standing on the canyon rim. Early morning's half light brought some clanks and chunks, the sounds of campers moving, stretching, preparing, packing. Some before others. The early risers are the camp alarm clocks. Their sounds encourage others to leave their warm cocoons and venture forth. No wind this morning. Easy paddling on the swift Missouri. Stillness, except for bird sounds airborne and water sounds against the prow of the boat.
First stop, the Eye of the Needle, Montana's landmark. Lewis and Clark's natural cairn. Guidepost of native Americans for a millennia. Just a few months before us some others had climbed up to the natural arch high on a bluff above the river with tools and hammers and smashed the eye to the ground. Who knows why. Just another symbolic act of a society without purpose?
Still no wind around noon. Warm September sun, brisk current and good companions. Miles melt behind us as we take in the shoreline rock formations. Wow, I would say to myself, quiet enough so others would not hear. What scenery. What an idyllic day on the river. Past Labarge Rock. Then the Citadel and dark intrusive rock dikes so stark against the lighter, softer sandstone in which they were once encased.
Part of our party, Dave and Kevin, were to break off from the rest of us in order to take a more leisurely trip to Judith Landing about half as far as most of us planned to go. There they would get Gardner's van and trailer and drive downriver to meet the rest of us at Cow Landing. With a threatening sky we again made an early camp just past Citadel Rock and just above Hole-in-the Wall. As we set up camp the wind picked up rapidly. Things began to blow out of beached canoes. Tents were difficult to erect. The wind intensified. A water spout flew down the middle of the river. My canoe was flipped over by the wind. As suddenly as the wind came up, it began to die down. Others in our party caught up with us and set up camp. All had been ashore when the gale took hold and all were safe. At this landing were log shelters in which to erect tents and make camp.
The after-supper hike was spectacular. Views from the rim were made special by late-day sunlight streaking through dark clouds. The evening campfire brought conversation, humor and serenity, and a fitting nightcap to a day of diversity and drama. And oh, what a moon; full over Hole-in-the- Wall. Even dramatic night time scenery was with us at this camp.
Lying in my tent, the gray of dawn making the tent walls barely visible, the first sounds of morning reached me. The unzipping of a tent here, a pot clank there, the thud of a footstep. Those were my signals to arise.
As I prepared my breakfast, I had thoughts of Dan's eye. It had become irritated and red and was watery and painful. I thought some tiny particle of tenacious western vegetation was lodged in his eye, maybe a tiny seed desperate not to lose its warm, moist hold on a future. The evening before Dorothy had irrigated his eye with about a pint of water from a squeeze bottle.
Another camp closed, another adventure on the water began. We left behind only a token of thanks for the shelters provided, a wooden totem, a small work of art patiently carved by Gardner from a chunk of firewood.
Our first stop, Hole-in-the-Wall, and a hike up to this natural landmark high above the river. Very windy at the top, but what a view. Too large and substantial to be toppled like the Eye-of-the-Needle, it should remain a landmark for ages.
Dan's eye had improved; not watering any more. Dorothy's irrigating with the water bottle must have dislodged the irritant. Good news. Dave and Kevin separated from the group here, their purpose to hike and photograph at a leisurely pace and meet us later. A brisk tail wind whisked us along. We rafted up four canoes and sped along without a paddle stroke, only a rudder, for miles it seemed. Canoeing does not get easier than this, or more relaxing, or with better companions. We shared some snacks and conversation on our raft as well as our appreciation for the vistas.
We paddled and drifted and sailed with the wind and the current and the miles of river approached and were left behind. Took an early camp again on an island thick with long grass and cottonwoods. Time for bathing after camp chores. Then supper and the evening hike. This evening's walk to the rim was very strenuous. Distance and altitude sometimes fool me in the western landscapes. I seem to underestimate them. The view from the rim was worth it though. The canyon of the Judith River was to the east and our old friend Square Butte toward the setting sun.
Then our descent back to camp. Down a challenging canyon studded with white rock formations, loose footing, and prickly hand holds of juniper. Back to a welcoming campfire and the rapture of Tim's songs and stories. Wednesday, September 16, broke with a chill but also with the promise of warmth when the sun rose over the rim of the river's cut. Off toward the mouth of the Judith with Basil and his kayak. An osprey in a cottonwood, geese overhead, ducks on the river and some antelope on the bank. A stretch of the legs at Judith Landing campground and the first encounters with vestiges of modern civilization - a highway, a bridge, a motor home, a satellite toilet.
Ah, back on the river. More miles melt quickly and easily. Some standing waves where the river narrows whisked us along. Old abandoned ranches where hardy homesteaders eked out a living, but not a future, were visible on level shelves of land along the banks. Another early camp on the right bank. Democratic camp was it's name. Lots of cow pies and sand and sage here. As we looked it over for its potential as our camp, there was a minor dissenting voice or two in regard to its desirability. For these reasons a vote was taken on whether to stay or look for greener pastures. The last and deciding vote, cast by our guide Gardner, sealed this as our last night's camp on the banks of the mighty Missouri.
Tim being the clever and caring camper that he is, designed a "chip flipper" to clear tent and campsites of cow pies. This, from an old board and some creative ax work, he fashioned and freely loaned. Tim also had been fortunate on earlier hikes to have found some neat little white bones and deer antlers and I had found none. Later that evening on my pillow in my tent I found a small, neat white bone wrapped in paper towel. I had finally found a little treasure, albeit with a little help from my friend! Hikes and a campfire by the river. Black beans and rice for supper and the balance of the potful for breakfast.
Thursday, our last day on the river, and Basil and I broke camp early with only fourteen miles to Cow Landing and journey's end where Dave and Kevin were waiting. An easy day was expected with lots of time for short hikes and photos.Our first hike brought us past the menacing stare of a very large bull; we walked through a prairie dog town, one eye on the bull, the other on our destination, a huge faulted rock, outcrop. From the top of the rock we saw the extent of the prairie dog town and also saw our travel companions paddling by on the river below. We waved but got none in return, not expecting to be seen but hopeful. Again, a tail wind and swift current whisked us along with little effort and lots of time to check the banks for abandoned homesteads, wildlife, and the majesty of western landscapes. Basil and I stopped at several broad shelves extending between the steep river bank and the cliffs and canyons of the bluffs. Many shelves had long-abandoned homesteads through which we wandered imagining the stark and strenuous life of settlers one hundred years past. Strong crosswinds and gusts from all angles made paddling this afternoon more difficult. We stopped at Cow Landing camp but it was soon obvious this was not our take-out. No van. No road. No recent sign of human activity. I became a little concerned now, not knowing how far behind the main party we were or where we might find them. We decided to put on miles now as quickly as we could, to find some answers before nightfall. We trained our gaze on the left bank for sign of our party, a road or a campfire. Side gusts played havoc with my attempt at straightline paddling and my little Bell solo became a challenge to keep on course. Basil was dropping back, struggling with the wind I suspected, so I slowed in order to keep him in sight. I tried to keep within a half-mile of him and his kayak was but a speck at that distance. I saw mule deer on a green island with cottonwoods and tall grass. A coyote came down to drink at the left shore. I was thinking of paddling to Kipp's Landing yet this evening, some fifteen miles or so, if we didn't find our companions waiting for us on the left bank. We could easily spot a campfire then. These were my thoughts when I was startled by hollering high on the left bank.
There was Dave and Betsy hailing, beckoning, welcoming. Surprise and relief. Here was our group. Kevin and Dave had found a road down the canyons to the river, a road to an old abandoned power plant built to supply power to a mine on an Indian reservation far to the north. Five days on the river drew to a close. Some one hundred miles of the broad green water of the Missouri had carried. The buttes, bluffs, draws, canyons, shelves, rocks and geology imprinted on my memory. Wind and rain and sun and moon and that glorious Missouri River landscape will stay forever with me as well as eight fine companions who shared in a journey that couldn't be made better.
