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In View Of Bacon
Ridge
Bob
Kloskowski
The snow continued to pile up on the
sidewalk. It was mid February as I glanced out of the library window and
thought about taking the snowblower out of the garage and putting it to
work I had just completed the application for a Yellowstone National Park
backcountry permit for August. Applications are submitted to the
backcountry office and then are chosen in a random drawing. The dates for
my backcountry adventure were flexible but my choice for a campsite was
not. My favorite campsite sat on a small bluff just feet away from one of
the finest meadow streams in North America. Just above the creek was an
unusually featured mountain that appeared from a distance as a slab of
bacon. To all that fish this area regularly the area was know as Bacon
Ridge.
Ten miles from the trailhead along an
old road was the only means to access this area. The first quarter mile of
trail was the worse then it leveled off and was pretty easy
going.
I had invited a few friends along for
our trip this year. We all met in the parking lot at the trailhead to
start our ten mile trek on this rainy August morning. It was about 9:30 AM
when we started up the trail. The clouds were starting to break and the
sun was peaking through. What looked pretty dismal on our drive over from
Bozeman now looked good.
The fifty pounds of backcountry and
fly fishing equipment felt heavy as we began our second mile. We stopped
several times to remove our packs and give our shoulders a
break.
The campsite was just as I remember
and there was Bacon Ridge just above the creek. We stopped to enjoy lunch
while filling our souls with the beautiful views. By mid afternoon our
tents took their position on the bluff over looking the creek and we were
ready to wet a line.
Terrestrials proved to be the
preferred delicacy of the cutthroat trout that inhabited this wonderful
creek. We fished beetles, ants and hoppers for the remainder of the
afternoon. As we made our way back to camp a member of our party thought
it best if he were to test the bear spray that he carried as it had been
more than a year since he purchased it. Against the advise of others, Dave
took out his bear spray, pointed it toward an open area and squeezed the
trigger. Out shot a red stream of pepper spray which was partially pushed
back into Dave's face by a gust of wind. For the remainder of our three
days in the backcountry Dave's eyes were swollen and the only relief that
he found was from a water soaked bandanna that now adorned his
face.
Toward the end of our third day we
noticed the weather changing. The wind had increased and clouds were
moving in from the west. That evening the campfire felt good. As I zipped
the sleep bag and prepared for the evening, I could hear rain drops on the
tent which lasted until I drifted off to sleep.
Morning seemed to arrive very fast.
It was our last morning in the third meadow and most of it would be spent
packing. As I open the fly on the tent I was greeted with 2 inches of
fresh August snow. Moose tracks were everywhere. The storm had apparently
pushed the animals from the higher elevations and down onto the meadow
floor. Shorts and "T" shirts which had been our choice of clothes for the
previous two days weere stowed and polar fleece would be on the agenda.
Our hike out in the snow would be as unforgatable as Dave's encounter with
bear spray.
End.
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Copyright @ 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005,
2006 by Bob Kloskowski |
