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Last weekend, Sagar, Carter, Pat and I summited Granite Peak. The Beartooths–running from central Montana down into central Wyoming–are beautiful, certainly, but I’ve never been in a more awe-inspiring mountain range.

Departing Bozeman around 7:00 a.m., we arrived at the West Rosebud Trailhead by 10:00 a.m. on Saturday — packs packed, bottles filled, and eager for the trail.

By 10:30 we had crossed in to the Absoraka-Beartooth Wilderness, and by 12:00 we crested the view of Mystic Lake–an agrandized version of a once smaller lake, thanks to the 1920s era Mysic Lake Hydroelectric Dam (still pumping out 11 megawatts, 80 years later). Along the trail, I was thrilled to find a wild raspberry or two, growing here and there. (No one else in the group seemed as thrilled as I, but how fun! — not only to find food growing in the wild, but to find such tasty food, too!) We dug out the gorp (good ol’ raisins and peanuts … a.k.a. trail mix) on a sandy stretch along the lake and rested before the switchbacks.

Two hours later we bid farewell to trees and crested the Froze to Death plateau. We had lunch by some running water and put on our rain-gear for our four-mile trek across plateau. The rain started around 3:00, and stayed with us the rest of the day, making for a cold and grey afternoon. We pitched our tent in one of many rock bivouacs on the plateau, near the start of the summit trail. We ate dinner, huddled in Sagar’s tent. I retired for the evening with a few pages of Ayn Rand, and drifted off to fitful sleep.

We awoke to a breathtaking tundra dawn in the company of Froze-to-Death’s perennial mountain goats. We left camp just after 7:00 a.m.; the sun quickly melted away the morning chill.

Leaving the plateau, we descended some 1,300 feet to the crest of the saddle between Tempest Peak and Granite. The “trail” (usually marked only by the occasional cairn) was a treacherous slope of jutting talus and granite, making me glad for my sturdy hiking boots.

The ascent includes four or five pitches of Class Five–“technical”–climbing. The climbing gear we had with us proved unneeded, but I understand why it was recommended to have.

We summited just after 10:00 a.m.. The morning sun had driven away the clouds in the Western sky, and we were greeted with what might be one of the nicest mornings every recorded on the peak– warm, sunny, and amazingly calm.

Despite the haze (from forest fires in Idaho and Utah, primarily), the view from the top was humbling. “Beautiful” would be the wrong adjective; we were surrounded, as far as the eye could see, in a 360 degree panorama, by a terrain of rugged, jutting, and harsh rock, glacier and alpine lakes– a testament of geological forces and stupifying violence. Standing there, I found myself in awe of the forces that could form such an immensely forceful and violent landscape.

Coming down, we rappelled two or three pitches, and down-climbed the rest. By 2:00 p.m., we were back at “base camp”. Another group of mountain goats joined us for lunch along with a marmot or two. Pat left ahead of us, wanting to make it back in time for work the next day.

Having accomplished that which we set out to accomplish (pardon me, that…), we elected to hike out the same day, rather than stay another night. We crossed the tundra, and began our descent back to the 6,500′ elevation of the parking lot.

The trip out, invariably, seems somehow longer than the trip in. Conversation is exhausted and feet are weary. Nevertheless, we descended as dusk settled over the plateau, the lake, and the valley.

We stopped for a beer in Roscoe at the famous Grizzly Bar–dirty, smelling of sweat, but with that bright-eyed air of accomplishment–and, at last, drove through the cool night air back to Bozeman.

Pictures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/markegge/20070730GranitePeak
http://picasaweb.google.com/patrick.dyess/2007_07_29

Yaar. Yaar! And huzzah! It’s another day in paradise.

In the absence of something more witty, I suppose I ought to at least plug in a little about my life, as of late.

First: being 21 rocks. It’s not even the ability to buy alcohol, to go to bars, whatever. It’s just the simple fact of being 21. It’s a comforting feeling. Maybe it’s just the lack of restriction, suddenly. The absence of “no”– from restaurants that could serve me beer; from cops that tell me what I can and can not do; the bringing to light something that’s been long repressed. Yeah. That’s probably it. The sudden withdrawal of authority (authority being something that I really enjoy). No more fear. No more hiding. No more “you can get me in trouble”. Huzzah!

(There was an interesting in the paper this morning (that I read while eating tasty bagels with Sagar and Carter on their way out of town) about people injuring themselves jumping off cliffs. Cliffs like this one:
But, actually, not “like” that one. That one. The one that Sagar, Carter and I jumped off a couple days ago. Never-mind this incomplete thought…)

Pizza escort service no more. THAT is exciting. I really fouled up this summer, in terms of employment. Working at Papa Johns this summer was profoundly awful. The only point that mitigates the awfulness of working with a bunch of dead-beats and underachiviers was the exiting realization of “never again…”. Never again will I have to work a dead-end job. A spikey, thorny, ow! dead-end, at that.

While working my dead-end job, though, I’ve been enjoying teaching myself some low value skills. Like how to to use a torque wrench. Or how to use a breaker bar. Or repair lawn mowers. Things that, in a few short years, the opportunity-cost of my time will be sufficiently high that it’ll never make sense for me to apply those skills. But somehow it’s good. In a if-I-ever-get-stranded-on-a-desert-island sort of way.

On a more melancholy note, Ingmar Bergman–one of the best, and most important, directors in the history of cinema–died yesterday. It’s melancholy, except for the fact that his output as a film-maker basically ended in the eighties. And I get the sense that he ended his life with as much dignity as he ended his career. n

21. Er, yeah. Finally. It was a good birthday. Thanks to everyone for the gifts, for driving up from Cheyenne, for the drinks, and to everyone that stopped by to help mark the occasion.

In little more than five hours I’ll be up again, packing the last of my things for Granite Peak. We’ll be on the mountain two or three days, then back in Bozeman for a few.

Ooh. That needs some attention. I look, and notice the corner of the room, along the ceiling, is quite literally crawling with bugs… flying things, crawling things, ants, moths… etc. I guess that means we might need to start shutting that screen door. Most of the time, the door to the H.Q. is just wide open… day or night. It works out, with the odd schedules we keep– even with only three of us here (Ken pays rent but … yeah, lives at the Castle), usually someone is up– Andrew creating some new 3D alien, or Ben destroying the barbarian hordes of Warcraft III. Of the three of us, I think Ben is the only one with keys to the house. Heh.

Anyhow. Every once in a while, there shines a brilliant moment of epiphany. Tonight I’ve experienced one such moment.

Working at Papa Johns this summer has been absolutely miserable. Talk about a mistake. The management is a bunch of lame ducks… collecting a paycheck, no ambition. (Funny story: there is ONE manager, Derick, that I actually like. He’s not a very good manager, but at least he brings some ENERGY to the work environment. Well, I haven’t seen him lately, so I ask Nick, “say, is Derick still working here?” “Oh, no,” Nick replies. “He’s in prison.” I cast a quizzical glance. “For being Black, in Bozeman, on a Thursday,” Nick explains. Well, par for the course. It’s not the first time I’ve seen PJ managers come and go … in and out of prison.) The store just doesn’t … care. And that’s been killing me, slowly. (That, and Bozeman’s AWFUL traffic systems…)

So, while driving the drive (I’m in the pizza escort business, after all), I’ve been increasingly day-dreaming about starting a store– a pizza business, perhaps? Some sort of chain business (not the first chain I’ve day-dreamed about). Something like that. Just some sort of business opportunity.

And then, I’m the new director for MSU’s Procrastinator Theatre (a second run movie theater, a.k.a. “dollar theater”), which has been systematically driven into the ground over the last five years. So it hits me: this is my business opportunity. I’ve got a big operating budget, an existing facility, and complete discretion about how the theater runs.

So this is my epiphany: make the Procrastinator my business venture. Rather than just trying to maintain the P’s pathetic status quo, why not build sales? Revive the theater. Reintroduce concessions. Cut costs. Make the theater worthwhile again…

And the timing couldn’t be better. Next spring, the theater is moving into a new facility–complete with digital projection, sound, etc. Which makes the time ripe to make good…

So yeah. That’s kinda random, but really exciting.

—

Ah, Bozeman. What a flurry of activity it’s been! I’m burried up to my ears in ambitious projects, and making slow progress on most of them. Slow progress, mind you, amid float trips, hikes, games of Settlers, parties, dirty dishes… ah, but it’s good.

say, has anyone seen my bike (as in … my pedal bicycle)? I’m worried about the fact that I haven’t seen it in some days…