Traversing the entire Yellowstone National Park from west to east we landed in a National Forest Campground called Soda Butte Creek. The creek here in the campground is small and tumbling down out of the mountains. You can step across it in most places here. As it enters the park and joins the Lamar River at the mouth of the Lamar Valley it strengthens quite a bit. This whole northeastern quadrant of the park is much quieter than the rest of the park. The magnificence of the area is not outdone by the geysers and other “draws” that the park encases in its other quadrants. It just doesn't seem to have the same cachet to most tourists. There are no stores or busy visitor centers up here, just the rawboned unbounded wilderness of the place. That’s just fine by us.
This particular campground had a Grizzly killing back in 2010 where a man was eaten. All that was found was his ribcage. So, they closed this campground for a number of years, I suppose to let time heal some wounds. Still, to this day, the lower section of the campground is closed. When we arrived the camp host spent a good 15 minutes advising of us of proper campground habits that would limit our liability towards Grizzlies eating us. He was deadly serious, too. We listened. Through our stay here we did not see any Grizzlies in the camp. Bald eagles, ground squirrels too numerous to even count, and mule deer all welcomed us throughout our stay here...but no Grizzlies. That’s good.
This particular area has a lot of history invested in it. Typically, most of the the country does, to be frank. But, this area’s historical figures are more famous than you might usually find. This is mountain man country, the home of Colter’s Hell and his wanderings and searchings for Natives to trade with at Manuel Lisa’s fort in 1807-8. The narrow, steep valleys have a myriad of creeks, streams, and rivers lacing their way down the rocky precipices and escarpments. Beaver used to be too numerous to count in these streams, that is, until they all became hats for wealthy Europeans. Beaver drove the trade in those days, which, in turn, drove the early explorers, who, in turn, opened the trails for droves of settlers, squatters, and land-hungry emigrants from the east. The various tribes of this region were not about to give up their way of life without a fight. Colter, Droulliard, Potts, Chouteau, Lisa, Menard, DeMenil, all St Louisians, pushed their way through these mountains and passes braving everything that nature and the Indians could throw at them. Some survived, some did not.
The native tribes, too, had their own heroes in massive battles against each other here. Some counted coup on the white trappers and traders before killing them. Somehow it seems, to a point in time, nearly everyone who inhabited this area was attempting to take it for their own. And why not? The game was big and plentiful, the water pure and always flowing. Resources for life abound, even today. We could feel those ancients’ footsteps wherever we traveled here. It doesn’t look much different at all from those days. A lacey two lane road pierces the wilderness like a discarded ribbon from a birthday present and there a few houses and ranches scattered around, but the essential land and its wildness is intact. It is not hard to imagine what Colter was thinking and feeling when he saw this area for the first time.
Miners were some of the first to arrive here as part of white civilization. Here, in Moore City, MT. They fanned out into the mountains searching for gold and whatever other valuable minerals might lay beneath the earth. A few found it, most did not. In our campground te. We had such a great conversation, the four of us. We were all from different tribes so to speak, here lies a cemetery with some of their remains, marked with whatever remains of their original tombstones. Some are worn away, blown down, or just not there any longer, but they are here, those pioneers. We took Quicksilver, our Jeep, up the mountains on a series of gravel roads. Several times I thought of turning around. The roads were steep, loose, and filled with big chunk rock. Blown tires were my main concern. We found old caved-in log cabins. We found the remains of several mines, various machinery rusting in the few flat places available on the mountains. Overhead, hawks screeched a greeting as we drove up and up towards Lulu pass. Some crystalline lakes appeared in sharp valleys. The views become more and more eye-popping as we climb. It’s so exhilarating. The Beartooth mountains are emerging so clearly to the south of us, scratching their names in the passing clouds. There is no sign of the 21st century, save for us.
Finally, when we reach the crest of the mountain, we find we are joined by another car carrying two individuals like us, but not like us. Being the people-loving guy that I am, I strike up a conversation with these folks and come to find that they are natives, tribals. A couple, seemingly romantically inclined, they are both tribals, but from different tribes. The young lady is a Northern Cheyenne from central Montana and the young man is Blackfoot. We talked with each other for about a half an hour, maybe more...time disappeared like vapor. Among other things, it turns out that the young lady’s great grandfather was an infant who survived the Sand Creek massacre. This same infant, later, at the age of 15 or so, fought Custer at the battle of the Little Bighorn. He lived through both historic encounters. I asked the young man what the correct spelling and pronunciation of his tribe was. Should I say Blackfeet or Blackfoot? I’ve heard it said both ways. Blackfoot he replied, from the original language of the tribe. We had such a great conversation, the four of us. We were all from different tribes so to speak, English/Irish, German/French, Northern Cheyenne, Blackfoot. Yet here we were on this summit in one of the most gloriously adorned areas of the planet appreciating each other as Americans.
We made our way down the mountain along a different route than we took to arrive at the summit. It was just as chunky and at times we were sort of gliding downwards sideways until the four wheel drive could correct our path. We wanted to find this one particular lake that we could plainly see from our vantage, but we could not for the life of us find the right road or path to it. We finally ended up back on the road to our camp and we called it a day, enjoying a campfire in the evening cool. It was a perfect day and one I’ll always remember.
The next day we drove over the pass on the Beartooth Highway, hailed as the most beautiful road in the US. Believe it! For most of our journey on this day we followed the course of the Clark’s Fork River. This was THE main path through these parts during the time of Colter, both for white men and Indians. Colter came through here. To this day it is still somewhat lonely along this road, along this river. Perhaps it’s the time of year, being after Labor Day now, or perhaps it’s just out of the way for most folks. For us it was marvelous. The Clark’s Fork in the fall is not a roaring river, but a beautiful but rock-cutting sluice. Cottonwoods, Aspens, and various pine species line the riverbank and splash the mountainside with the full retinue of brilliant, as well as muted fall colors. Occasionally, a cow or two wander along the road. Horses might dot the hillside. The fall and descent from the pass is steep and winding. I think it just might be the most beautiful drive in the US. We’ve seen a lot of them, but this is special.
After a while you come to a beautiful and broad valley, Sunlight Basin, that is framed by purple mountains all around. At the southern end of the valley you come to a very steep hill to climb through a series of switchbacks. The summit of this southern end of the valley is called, “Dead Indian Mountain”. It was named so because during the flight of the Nez Perce before the US Cavalry they climbed this mountain to gain some distance between their tribe and the soldiers. The Cavalry found a dead Nez Perce here, perhaps too tired, hungry, and spent to continue on with the rest of the tribe with Chief Joseph. It’s a glorious spot to stop and behold the valley and the surrounding landscape that is beyond my scope to describe adequately. It is also one of the windiest spots I’ve ever been to. Gale force, maybe hurricane force winds will nearly blow you off your feet. The wind rushes through the valley gaining strength until it meets the mountain front where it turns its energy skyward. It’s a “power spot” if ever there was one. Our powers were recharged here. We’ll surely return one day. It draws me like a powerful magnet. The core reason why we started our Vision Quest was manifest here as it has been many times prior.