On the Lolo Trail, Finding the Clark Tree

Clark Tree,  2011

My wife Louise and I continued on our journey on the historic Lolo Trail, heading east.   We camped at the Lolo Creek Campground the night before.  After we drove to Musselshell Meadows we  backtracked along Lolo Creek, to continue our trek, following the Lolo Trail made famous by the Lewis and Clark Expedition and the Nez Perce.  We drove upstream following a winding Forest Service road, headed for the hiking trail that leads to the Lewis and Clark Grove where the Clark Tree is located.  A telltale wisp of dust curled up from the back of the truck.   The lush smell of cedar and fir drafted through the windows.  

 This has been a long delayed trip for me.  Dreadfully late.  I worked at Musselshell Work center for a entire summer some 30 years ago.    It was on my list back then.  Visit the Clark Tree.  Never did it.  Guilty as charged.   The crime;  not visiting probably the most important tree in the northern Rockies.  At least as far as my Dad would have been concerned. 


We stopped at a sign that indicated we were at the trail head for the Lewis and Clark Grove.  The host forest for the evasive Clark Tree.  The terrain was rolling and heavily timbered.   We hiked on a well marked trail which crossed through an old growth stand of Douglas Fir, Western White Pine, Grand Fir, and Western Red Cedar.   The trees are very tall with many of them over 150 feet, because they are very old.  Perhaps 400 or more years on this earth.  An emerald jewel of a forest. 



We crossed a small stream, named Cedar Creek, over a fine foot bridge. It's waters slowly meandered down a narrow channel, lined with lazy ferns hanging over the banks.  The forest floor was a flush of green.   Most of the summer colors were gone. Heartleaf arnica, ferns, twin flower, queens cup trillium had all finished blooming.  I spotted some Oregon grape and they had small blue berries on their stems and some of the leaves have started to turn a reddish color.  Prince's Pine or Pipsissewa formed a miniature forest on the ground. 


The trail traversed a small ridge and there was the sign, that pointed to the Clark Tree.  It was dead.  Cold stoned.  Snagged.  Wasted.   Murdered.  A victim of that ruthless European marauder Cronartium ribicola.  Otherwise known as white pine blister rust. Some of the branches were intact but the bark was starting to slough off.   There was a spot five feet off the ground on the uphill side that might have been chopped on or carved.  Axed.  By William Clark or recent day vandals. Pranksters.  Who will ever know for sure. 


On  September 19, 1805 William Clark wrote (after traveling 22 miles through the rugged snowy mountains and half starving to death):

“passed over a mountain, and the heads of branch of hungary Creek,
two high mountains, ridges and through much falling timber (which
caused our road of to day to be double the derect distance on the
Course) Struck a large Creek passing to our left which I Kept down for
4 miles and left it to our left & passed [down the] mountain bad
falling timber to a Small Crek passing to our left and Encamped.”

Capt. Clark and several men had arrived at Cedar Creek where they camped on the night of September 19th.   Capt. Lewis and the bulk of the Corps of Discovery passed by Cedar Creek on September 21st.  This is the location of the present day Lewis and Clark Grove.

Folk lore has it that William Clark carved on a large western white pine, possibly his name but some say it was only a hoax.  I stood at the base of the ruse tree, and looked upwards at this majestic snag, its lifeless branches clutching the sky.  I tried to discern any kind of letters or symbols on the bare wood, that Clark might have knifed into its surface.   There was nothing that stood out in any way shape or form that was created by the hand of man.    

I was disappointed but it felt good to have finally have visited the Clark Tree.   The hike through the Lewis and Clark Grove was well worth it just to see the ancient forest.   Perhaps the Clark Tree is a fake but it makes for a good legend, wrapped in a mystery.    

Ghost Cabins on LoLo Creek, Lewis and Clark Trail, Part 2

Gold Miners Cabin

Musselshell Meadows

Daylight.   Day 2 on the historic Lolo trail.  Sept. of 2010.  The smell of aromatic cedar filled my nostrils as I emerged from the camper.  I stretched and yawned and was greeted by whispering water, coursing over cold granite cobble and river rock.  The Lewis and Clark expedition trekked through this region in 1805 and covered the same territory in 1806 on their return back east to St. Louis.   

The morning sun rays arrowed through the surrounding fir trees, and grudgingly surrendered a feeble warmness.   Filtered by 150 feet or more of tree branch.  Old growth forest. If your socks were wet you could hang them on a branch and they might dry by late afternoon.  Maybe.  I found some newspaper and wadded them up and placed them in the fire pit.  A layer of white ash was all that remained of last nights blaze.    


I took my axe and split some kindling off a piece of cedar.  Easy, effortless and uncomplicated.  Like chopsticks 18 inches long and painfully dry.    I laid the pieces on top of the dry newspaper and struck a match and ignited the newspaper.  The flames nibbled at the news and chomped at the wood, like wolf teeth on elk bones.  A bonfire emerged to give real warmth to the cold.           


After breakfast we headed towards Musselshell camp, where I had worked my first summer with the Forest Service back in 1975. The road followed Lolo Creek, in a north westerly direction, coiling and curling in the confines of the narrow canyon.
 
We noticed couple of old buildings near the creek about 3 miles into our trip.  There were two old log cabins in a small clearing surrounded by tall fir and pine trees.  Logs harvested from the nearby forest then neatly notched to fit together then neatly stacked to form walls.

Probably erected by gold miners a few decades back, to give them shelter while the working the placer gold in the creek.  Little bitty pieces of gold dust and larger nuggets sifted from the gravels. Claims then abandoned after their diggings ran out of pay dirt.  The placer gold was all panned out and and riches hauled off.  The cabin roofs were sheathed in tired tin, stained with streaks of brown rust.   

Small fir trees had started to move in and grow tight up against the cabins, hugging the timbers.  The tin roof on one cabin was partially ripped away, by the gales of winter, tearing away at history .  The forest will fully reclaim this meadow in the next 20 years and the cabins will slowly rot into the ground.  Slow oxidation.  

Mounds of gravel poked out here along the sides of the stream, and they were being slowly devoured by brush and small trees.  The damaging detritus of placer gold mining.  The historic marks of sourdoughs at work with pick axe, shovel and gold pan sluicing the sands and gravels.  Turned the creek upside down.  I am glad the gold miners had gone bust and moved on, letting nature slowly shake off the damage to this beautiful valley.


Within an hour we spotted Musselshell Meadows, a lush prairie surrounded by tall trees.  We drove by the Forest Service work station, a small cluster of buildings with several vehicles parked on the gravel.   It looked completely unfamiliar to me, after a 36 year absence.    There used to be a cluster of old bunk houses with a nearby cook shack but they were gone or unrecognizable and had probably been torn down to provide better lodgings.

Musselshell Meadows brought back a flash fire of memories, like brilliant gold nuggets emerging from the sand.

Lava Mountain Traverse

Fields of Indian Paintbrush

Granite fin

Mountain Wildflowers

Lewis Woodpecker

Late summer.  The arrowleaf balsamroot's were finished blooming and the leaves dried out.  I brushed my boot against an arrowleaf it made a sound like a diamond back. Rattlesnake that is.  The chokecherry and service berry shrubs were covered with berries but they are still bright green.  A few sun weeks away from being ripe. A coming delight to the birds and bears. 

It was a good day to be out in the Rocky Mountains, on the Lava Mountain Trail in the Boise Mountains.  The temperature was perfect at about 80 degrees with cerulean blue skies, dappled with smokey quartz haze.  I spotted a couple of thunderstorms to the south probably over northern Nevada, framed by the Jarbidge Mountains.  

The Lava Mountain trail follows a clear mountain stream that carves the bottom of Russell Gulch, then switchbacks up a south facing slope to a low ridge.   Past some whale fins.   Wedges of sheer granite thrusting up from inner earth.  For some unknown reason.

The dust clung to my boots as I traversed higher, and I soon crossed a lofty ridge where the prairie dwindled, replaced by forest.  One of the main spurs of Lava Mountain.    The canyon to the north  burned over a decade ago, killing many of the trees. A hawk joined me, cruising on the thermals above the ridge. 

I found a suitable log to park on and have lunch.  No reservation required.   A free view with an unobstructed panorama.  I heard a woodpecker and finally located him in a snag patch.   A Lewis woodpecker. 

The Lewis woodpecker has a dark red face with a black hood and a black back, whitish breast and a light red belly,and a white ring around its neck, with a characteristic dark colored pointy bill, perfectly adapted to drilling trees. And snatching secretive bugs from under thick tree bark.   The Lewis Woodpecker was named after the explorer Meriwether Lewis, who first spotted this previously  unknown species on July 20th, 1805 in the Big Belt Mountains of Montana near the Missouri River.

I enjoyed the company of the shy woodpecker, hearing his calls and watching the winged forays through the trees. The woodpecker seemed to linger in the same area and would fly off, only to come back a few minutes later.  A bit later I heard the calls of several nestlings, which had to be baby woodpeckers that the Lewis was feeding.  

The young birds were hidden away in a snag, in a hallowed out cavity in the wood, that had an round entrance about 3 inches across, some 20 feet off the ground.  I walked slowly over towards that dead tree but once I got close the youngsters fell silent. The birds knew a predator was about.  The adult Lewis woodpecker became very agitated, and repeatedly emitted a loud shrill chirping sound, and stayed fairly close to me.  No more than 100 feet at any time.  

I continued my hike hike and was soon at at the top of Lava Peak at 7,800 feet.  Lava peak is surrounded by meadows and the glades, and it was ablaze with wildflowers.  Reds, yellows, oranges, amber.  The view was incredible in all directions.   The wide prairies of the Great Basin dominated the scene to the south with the Danskin Mountains marking the edge of the flats.  Trinity Mountain loomed over the eastern horizon, some 6 miles away at 9,451 feet.  A spectacular pyramid shaped mountain. Trinity Peak is capped with a lookout tower, and a road was visible that gave access to the tower.  The bulldozed road made an ugly scar on the mountain.  It would seem to me that it would have been easier to hike that last mile to the tower and instead of building a road across such a narrow precipice.          

I lingered for an hour and strolled along the rolling ridge.   On the north side near Lava Peak there was a drainage that formed a small bowl, like a miniature glacial cirque.  The bowl was festooned with Indian Paintbrush in a blush of red and purple fields of larkspur.  Blood red and purples.  It was so bright it appeared like the woods were a fire with delicate flames.  

 

Lava Peak used to have its own lookout tower but the actual building is long gone.  There were a few artifacts left over.  Rusty nails and broken glass.   A metal pipe driven into the rocks.  A short ways off the peak there was a sandy area that was all churned up by the elk.  Perhaps a wallow.  There were elk tracks everywhere.  

In the waning light with long shadows I headed back down the trail.  The mountains changed shape and form as the sun drooped towards the west, mending sharp ridges.  Peaks and forests adjusting to finicky light.  It was a great day on the mountain. 

     

LoLo Creek; On the Nez Perce and Lewis and Clark Trail

     In early September my wife Louise and I traveled a section of the historic Nez Perce and Lewis and Clark Trail, in north central Idaho.  It's also called the LoLo trail and it hugs a high mountain ridge, above the Lochsa River.  The elevation of the much of this trail is around 6,000 feet and the Lochsa River is 5 miles to the south at mere 2,500 feet.  The LoLo trail follows the old Nez Perce Indian trail that has been used over the millennium by the American Indians, traveling from the Palouse country, east to the Great Plains.   The Indians followed this trace to hunt buffalo in the plains country of what now is eastern Montana.   The mountains in this region are incredibly rugged and heavily forested and winters snows hang on well into June some years. 
      Our first camp was on LoLo Creek, which flows to the west and merges with the Clearwater River.  The campground was empty so we had our choice of locations and we found the perfect spot.  Right on the creek.  LoLo Creek is a silver ribbon of painfully cold and clear water, surrounded by old growth forest.  Western Red cedar, western white pine, Douglas fir, and grand fir.  A grand ancient forest.  At our camp there were several rounds of fire wood scattered about.  Western red cedar.  Dry.  Ready to burn.  Splitting maul required, which I just happened to have stowed in my pickup.  The cedar split with ease.  Butterwood.    I soon had a roaring fire that spit fire brands in several feet in every direction.   Like so many  incendiary rounds which were a real nuisance.  I deployed the tent and walked down to the creek, to check out the water hoping to see a 40 pound King Salmon darting up the swift water.  A finned silvery torpedo of muscle and brain, cruising its home waters, after a long trek from the Pacific Ocean, some 400 miles away. There were no fish to be seen. 
     Lewis and Clark traversed this area in 1805 on their way to their coastal wintering area, where they constructed Fort Clatsop on the lower Columbia River.  In 1806 the Corps of Discovery left the coast headed back for the St. Louis Missouri, and camped in this region for more than a month.   The deep snows on the LoLo trail in the Clearwater Mountains and the distant Bitterroot Range kept Lewis and Clark in camp for a month.  The expedition members spent their time trading with the Nez Perce and hunting deer, elk and bear and fishing for salmon and trout. By mid June the snows had melted enough that they were able to cross the Bitterroot Range.  
     We relaxed that evening, and the breeze carried the pleasing smell of spruce and cedar, while LoLo Creek played a symphony; water rushing over pebbles and tumbling over stubborn stone.   The next day we would drive to the east and begin the climb to the main ridge line. There were still several rounds of cedar firewood left the next morning and I smuggled them aboard my truck.          































its

A blur, A Stir, A Hawk, Feathers in Flight

A blur, A hawk, Feathers in Flight

     I left the house about 4 today.  For a short hike.  Light snow was blowing under gray-skies of November.  It was melting on the road as fast as it fell.  I was overdressed and started to sweat and I was soon unzipping the 3 layers I had on.  A fleece shirt. A fleece vest.  A heavy coat.  What was I thinking to wear such heavy cloths. 
     Just over the ridge I stopped to check out the Red Tailed Hawk nest along the creek.  100 yards down the hill.   The nest was gone.  I was stunned.  The gales of November must have snapped off the tree, and tumbled the intricately constructed nest to the ground.  I peered down for a longer look and realized I made a mistake.  It was the old nest that had been toppled, which was in a snag.  A dead tree.   Last March the hawk pair built a new nest in a green tree, about 50 foot from the old one.  A smart move. Genetic imprinting perhaps; knowing to avoid homesteading on ancient branch wood.
     A Kestrel peered at me from a nearby power line.  I have seen that same Kestrel in this area dozens of time.  I like to think its the same hawk I have been seeing for a couple of years.  Maybe not.  Probably.  The sparrow hawk flew off, veering away from me, landing in a small spruce tree just down the hill.
     I continued down the road into the canyon and a movement caught my eye.  Just above the ridge line.  It was a pair of soaring hawks, about 1/4 mile from the nesting site.  Settlers hanging around the old farm?  Honyockers.  And a third.  Another hawk was flying just above the pair, but holding pattern in close proximity.  Red tails?  I looked again but didn't have my binoculars so it was impossible to tell.    Two of the hawks seemed to be flying quite close to each other, almost bumping tail fins.  Or just wings. 
     Farther up Rocky Canyon there was snowpack on the gravel.  Just a couple of inches.   Fresh and pure white.  At one bend in the road I had a good view of Cottonwood Creek.  I walked to the edge of the creek.  There was sky blue waters, tumbling over the rocks.  Not an unpleasant sound. 
     I had to get back home before dark and turned to retrace my path.  The light was rapidly waning.  The full moon was hidden in an oncoming storm, and its beams were of little use.    

Bull Snakes in the Bull Pines

     Early October.  I decided to find a quiet hiking trail on the Blacks Creek Road, and I picked out two trails on the map, but when I arrived at those locations, both parking lots were busy and abuzz with  motorcycles and all terrain vehicles (ATV's).  Dusty and noisy.  

     I wanted peace and quiet not flying dust and the racket, clamor and clatter of engines. The smell of oil and exhaust.  Scaring wildlife away for miles in every direction. 

     I continued on and down the road, heading farther back in the mountains, and found another trail head at a place called Corral Creek. A tributary of the Middle Fork of the Boise River.  A fork of the fork.  I parked my truck in an open area and readied my pack and filled my canteens.   

     There was a fence line that ran across the base of the canyon and the gate was down. Had been for some time.  That was the trail head.  There were recent cattle tracks, and no human footprints but there was a fresh set of tracks from an ATV. The sign at the gait stated "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed".   Obviously ignored. 

      The sky was halved.  A bright blue sky to the east and with low clouds scudding across the western skyline. Like flocks of cotton-puff sheep. The crickets were holding a big chirp and it was obvious they were enjoying the warm days of early fall. A Pow-Wow.  Fresh sunshine probably helped power this shindig. 

     I looked at the gate and it had obviously been on the ground for some time.  From the looks of it.  I thought about putting it back up.  Bridging the gap.  Closing the trap.  I decided to leave well enough alone.  

     I started up the trail which followed along the creek bottom and it was very sandy.  The brown, black and gray crystals of decomposed granite.   Bedrock remnants from the fringe of time.   It felt like I was walking on a bunch of pillows, which was easy on the feet but unstable. 

      The canyon bottom had the appearance of being the recipient of some large floods in the past 10 years.  A clear water creek about 6 foot wide coursed through this drainage, lined with water wallies or willows.  The willows appeared to have reestablished themselves in the past few years, in the fresh gravels of the deluge.   

      The trail left the creek bottom and contoured along the south side of the drainage.   The rushing stream gurgled and poured over rounded boulders keeping up a racket.  Natures symphony.  I stopped for a short rest and noticed the hillsides bore the sign of a large fire in the last 10 to 15 years.  I sat and listened to the waters and enjoyed the view.  There were widely scattered stands of mature Ponderosa Pine here and there. Old growth. Yellow bellies. Pumpkins.  Most of the trees killed in the fire had already fallen to the ground, obvious victims of epidemic wood rot. Waiting for the gales of November to topple them.The south side of the canyon was forested with pole size pine about 10 feet tall.  Lush and green. Progeny of the fire.

      
     The ATV tracks disappeared, a mile up the canyon.   It was obvious why the trespasser had retreated. The brush had gotten to thick and impenetrable. Fast growing shrubs are the hikers best friend and may they forever grow several feet a year and plug all access for motorized gas guzzlers, or just make their ride pure hell with branches constantly scrapping their arms and legs. Faces. Taking the paint off their gas tanks. Tearing off mirrors, gun cases, throttles and bottles. Goggles.  Revenge can be had.  In defense of ATV riders most are law abiding and follow the rules and its the minority that wrecks it for the rest.

     I heard a squirrel chirping and chattering somewhere across the canyon. A tree squirrel by the sounds of it. Somehow the squirrel is managing to eek out a survival.  With the lack of mature pines and fir trees in this area pine cones were certainly at a premium.  And pine nuts for fodder. 

     The canyon was quite beautiful and scenic, a great place to hike.  Then came the cattle.  And the cow pies or manure.  Piles and piles of it and you had to step carefully around it much of the time.  There were several angus cows that seemed quite afraid or me, and for some reason they decided they had to flee directly up the trail in front of me.  The terrain was open so it was quite irritating to have them running in front of me.  After a couple of hundred yards they finally veered off the trail to the south, and stood there looking at me.  Fearfully.  No reason to be afraid of this bipedal hominid.  At least at the moment.  Until I can find a  sharp piece of obsidian and attach it to a 4 foot dogwood stem.     A spear comes to mind.  The grass in the narrow valley had basically been chewed down to the nubbins by these bovines and they had overstayed their visit by a month or more.   To be even more perplexing the gate was open at the trail head which gave these cows a great deal of room to roam.  And make them very hard to keep track of and safe.
      I continued my hike up the trail without my hoofed escort.  The canyon narrowed and became more rocky and the creek flowed right next to the trail, with a narrow buffer of water wallies.   I jumped back when a bull snake shot across the trail in front of me, not slowing down for a minute.    I saw another object on the trail.  A long stick.  I looked at it.  It never moved.  It was another bullsnake.  Hissss hissss.  The sounds like a rattle but it was only a good impersonation.  But a beautiful snake.  A real mouse killer. 
     The day waned and I was running out of time so I headed back down the trail.  It was a great day to be out.   Corral Creek is a beautiful chunk of country, in any regard.  A place to be safeguarded and treasured.

  
     

Double Woodpounders

July in the San Juan Mountains on Cimarron Ridge, above the Cimarron River.  9,000 foot elevation.  I saw a black shape dart through the trees.  Black backed with white belly and a dangerous sharp bill.  Awl like.  Not owl like.  A spot of blood on its head.  Bright blood but not real.  I grabbed my camera and took off in pursuit.  The shadow hid behind tree after tree and winged rapidly through the stand of quaking aspen trees.  I kept up my stalk and closed in but the bird kept shifting its position to the back side of the trees it was clinging to, on the side facing away from me.   It seemed to have an uncanny ability to stay hidden.  Sneaky.  Stealthy.  A very uncooperative bird.   

I finally got close enough for a shot, and tripped the shutter several times.  I nailed a good picture of a Hairy Woodpecker.  At closer examination of my pictures I was astonished to see two woodpeckers in one of the photos.  I had no idea there were two birds in the vicinity so it was a nice surprise. 

The first documentation of a Hairy Woodpecker was in the journals of Lewis and Clark on April 8th, 1805 on the Missouri River, in what is now in North Dakota.  This bird was seen at winter camp near the Mandan Indian villages. The sighting was never confirmed but experts think it was either a Hairy Woodpecker or a Downy woodpecker, which have much the same colored plumage and differ mainly in size, with the former being larger.  The bird may have also been the Yellow Bellied Sapsucker, but there isn't enough information in the journals to make a determination.  Both the Downy and Hairy woodpeckers are year round residents of the forests along the Missouri River, in the stands of Plains Cottonwood (Populus deltoides var. occidentalis). 

The mountains of the Cimarron are perfect habitat for foraging woodpeckers, with lots of old growth forest and many snags to feed and nest in.   The high peaks above the valleys are jagged rock with pointy crags and towers like columns.  Like ancient fortress walls.   Its a great place for birds.  Even bears. And naturalists and campers who can run through the woods for no obvious purpose or reason.  Crashing the aspen.