Recently I spent a day hiking in the Beartooth
Wilderness near my home in Billings, Montana. I chose a favorite route that
begins in a canyon. The Stillwater River moves so swiftly over massive boulders
that it seems to boil. This time of year it appears almost harmless because of
low water, but in the spring the passage is dizzying, made more intense by the
cacophony of water pounding against granite. It’s an entrance to a different
kind of world from the prairie below, and the trail, bordered by a canyon wall
on one side and the torrent of water on the other, is narrow with little margin
for error. Above, the canyon opens into a valley and the stream grows quieter.
It was mid-week. There were only four other cars in the
parking lot when I arrived and as I continued my journey up to Sioux Charlie
Lake and beyond, I met four groups coming down the trail. Eventually, I knew
that I was the only one around for at least a few miles on every side. I was grateful for this. The
world I came from in northern Montana was sparsely populated, and I learned
early to hike alone and appreciate solitude.
I stopped briefly along the way at an aspen grove where the
undergrowth was thick and the white-barked trees, each a manifestation of an
ancient root system below, offered contrast to the surrounding lodgepole pines
that border much of the path. Later, I paused beside an Engelmann spruce, which
is wide and singular compared to the colonies of aspen or the repetitive
lodgepole. I put one small cone in my pocket.
After four or five miles, my turning point was a wooden
bridge over the Stillwater. I stretched out on the ground to contemplate the
clouds and thought of circumference. In that moment I was the pivot of the
compass or Stevens’ jar,
and the wilderness rose up all around. But soon the horseflies found me and
drove me off, and it was getting late enough in the afternoon that heading back
down the trail seemed like the best idea. Three deer, several species of
butterflies, bright yellow and black caterpillars, five garter snakes, two
chipmunks, and a red-shafted flicker crossed my path that day, but there were
no more humans until I neared the trailhead.
I had Stevens’ The
Palm at the End of the Mind in my backpack, and I intended to reread “Credences
of Summer” during my journey. “Green’s green apogee” is what I remember
best, but on the way down the idea of resting on rocks a few feet out into the
lake or the stream seemed more appealing than opening the worn pages. The
water sailed around me, sun glinting off ripples. If I turned my back to the
nearest shore it seemed like I might be farther towards the middle.
Had I stayed longer and settled into a camping spot for the
night, I would have read the poem there, but I was savoring the place and the
distance from daily routine. When I finally returned to the poem several days
later, I found, in section III, “the old man . . . / Who reads no book.” This
person inhabits “the point of survey, green’s green apogee,” which the speaker
later calls the “Axis of everything.” I understand why the old man doesn’t read.
Crouching on a rock in the stream, I was happy to listen to the water and turn
toward the oncoming rush.
When I entered the canyon, two men were fishing in the
roiling water. What fish, I wondered, could think about food while plummeting
over granite? And then, when I was nearly to my destination, I saw seven teenaged
girls in long, royal blue, patterned skirts, white blouses, purple vests and black
polka dot bandanas. They were Hutterites from a nearby colony. They wanted to
know if this was grizzly country, if I had seen bear. I told them that grizzlies
could be here but there were no bears on my hike. “Don’t worry. It’s beautiful.
You’ll enjoy it,” I said. And then, a little farther, more young women, and
more and more. Probably 25 young women, all with the same question. Did I see
bear? Did they need to worry? I could tell they were excited, and I was happy
for them that they had, for the first time apparently, been able to visit this
place so close to where they live. I told them over and over not to worry, to enjoy
their time. Finally, I met a group near the trailhead. This time two adults, a
man and a woman, were with them. “There
are so many of you,” I teased, “no bear would come close.”
The young women were dazzling in their deeply saturated
color and large polka dots, such a vivid surprise in an already colorful world,
and their voices, like the roiling water, a perfect transition out of
wilderness solitude.