Photo Essay: A Traverse of the Bob Marshall Wilderness by Foot and Packraft

We spent our first night at the Benchmark Wilderness Guest Ranch, enjoying the hospitality of the Heckmans, which included meals served family style, stories from past generations, and these rustic accommodations. It was good to be out of cell phone range and off the grid.

The Heckmans packed us and our gear for eighteen miles to the Stadler-Hoadley divide and the crest of the Continental Divide. Here, Bridger's horse, like us, anticipates some trail time.

Product testing for the manufacturer of the lightest ridin' shoes on the market!

Danny and Matt begin their descent of the Continental Divide from the pass. Six miles later, we'd reach the Danaher Creek valley and scout a put-in for the packrafts.

Our first camp on Danaher Creek after a long day on the horses and trail was welcomed with fire and food.

The next morning, we meandered down Danaher Creek to put in below a big logjam.

Matt's first time in a packraft. He's now twenty-five miles from the road, probably thinking, 'Oh man, am I really going to do this?'

Danaher Creek is a sleepy, meandering float over cobbles, interrupted here and there by logjam portages, willows, and a curious bankside grizzly bear.

I used a GoPro Wide Helmet camera to take packrafting (and fly fishing) video. You can find a link to the review here.

Unsettled weather provided dramatic and beautiful natural light as we floated downstream.

The trout fishing on the South Fork Flathead is spectacular. Every tributary, and the main river itself, is full of fat cutthroat. This was my first long backcountry trip where I relied exclusively on a Tenkara rod (read the review here). I can no longer imagine fishing any other way in the backcountry. My name is Ryan, and I'm a Tenkara addict. So much so, in fact, that Backpacking Light and Tenkara are partnering to develop a brand new version of the Tenkara rod designed specifically for backpackers.

After twenty miles of floating, we pitched camp on a high bank overlooking the South Fork Flathead below its confluence with the White River. Soft evening light and the sound of the gentle riffles - it was an amazing experience in what might otherwise be a river corridor with roads and trophy homes, if not for the Wilderness Act of 1964.

Breaded trout cooked over the Zia Titanium Grill. Everything tastes better when cooked over a camp fire.

My shelter and sleep system on this trip consisted of a bivy sack and quilt and … that's it, I suppose. The weather varied wildly throughout the trip (Montana proverb: If you don't like the weather, give it five minutes.), so I chose my campsites carefully. Sleeping under this pine was my favorite, reminding me of trappers and cowboys that may have traveled through here 100 years ago. Maybe one of them spread their bedroll near here, too.

The view upstream from my sleep site. The White River, another exceptional wilderness float, flows into the South Fork on the left.

This was to be my final trip with my last remaining pair of Montrail Vitesse shoes. Long a staple of my backcountry excursions, I held on to them for months, waiting for an adventure that warranted their graceful retirement.

A cold and stormy day down splashy rapids sent us scampering into the woods to warm up at one point. Our teeth were chattering and our hands and feet were numb. Being in a packraft when it's 45 degrees and raining is nothing short of pure misery and truly makes you appreciate the gift of fire.

The western slopes of the Continental Divide in northern Montana are lush well into the summer season, when much of the rest of the state starts to toast a golden brown. Mossy brooks and shades of green dominate the forest here.

Being able to reliably count on fish for dinner means that you can reduce your food weight significantly. Whenever I expected good fishing, I cut my dinner rations to two ounces of spicy potato breadcrumbs for trout cakes. I and my belly are happy to report that my gamble paid off.

Our camp at Mid Creek was dark, chilly, and wet when we arrived. This may have been the most welcome fire of the trip, and we built it big and inviting.

Mid Creek crashes into the South Fork amongst some of the most beautifully colored cobbles I've ever seen. The riverbed here is painted pink, orange, and green.

The staple of my summertime cook kit: the new BPL 900 pot. This one is a prototype that we hope to bring to market in 2010. It's more durable and has a nicer finish and a pour spout - improving upon the old design without a weight penalty.

While hiking, I stowed my Tenkara rod into the handle of my packraft paddle.

Gazing downstream from the mouth of Mid Creek, I was wistful about running the Meadow Creek gorge on this trip. Instead, we'd travel up Mid Creek and cross the mountains into the Spotted Bear drainage.

Forced into this camp by an encounter with a grizzly bear and her cub that blocked access to the upper canyon, we initially agonized over the possibility of a windstorm and blow-downs. Fortunately, the weather was fine, the night was still, and the eerie pillars reminded us of the power of nature. I woke the next morning satisfied to have spent the night here, and the experience was one of my favorites of the summer.

Collecting water from upper Mid Creek, wondering if the mama bear was spying on me from the thick willows guarding the riverbank.

I don't dream a lot, but long after this trip was over, I still find myself waking up in a cold sweat thinking about this day. We were ants trekking through matchsticks at the rate of three hours per mile (hpm). Frustrating and painful, it highlighted those features a map leaves out.

Once we broke out of the deadfall, the slopes steepened, but our spirits rose. Our burn camp from the night before was well down the valley to the right.

Upon reaching the ridge, we experienced our first sweeping vistas of the trip. The hypothermic chills, the saddle sores, the blowdowns - all was forgotten as we surveyed the lay of the land from what felt like the spine of the world.

The euphoric high did not last long, however. We were faced with a difficult descent down a gully of razor sharp limestone scree and talus that tore at my shoes, my pants, my hands, and my pride.

After a harrowing descent of the shown ridge (our route is a nondescript steep line just to the right of the center high point), we entered the worst bushwhacking of the trip, not making it into the Silvertip Creek valley to camp until late in the evening. Climbing the next ridge (from where this photo was taken), we looked back and felt proud to have battled the climb, traverse, and descent with grace and humility and hardly any cursing.

Crossing the next pass after yet another morning of steep bushwhacking, we were pretty excited to be among high, jagged peaks. It was so far removed from the low forest and water of the South Fork that the boats and paddles tucked into our packs seemed the height of incongruity.

Entering the Amphitheater - one of my absolute favorite places on the planet.

Once inside the Amphitheater, we shifted gears from trekking to ambling (moseying, if you will). We must have spent two hours walking one mile. The terrain wasn't difficult, by any means - we were walking on soft tundra meadows the entire time - but the magical remoteness of this place was refreshing, and we immersed ourselves in it. At this point, Danny simply closed his eyes and just listened. Yes, Wilderness has a sweet sound to it.

Our camp in the Amphitheater was nestled among small stands of subalpine fir. We bedded on buttercup-laced tundra.

Storms came in that night, and the absence of big trees to shelter my head meant that I had to set up my packraft for a little extra protection. Having a fully inflated packraft far from any floatable river was a bit surreal, though my dry head was glad for the very slight shelter I managed to eke out.

Exiting the Amphitheater, we were once again reminded of the power of nature's wrath when we had to cross huge swaths of fresh spruce and fir leveled by an avalanche only a few months prior.

Back on a high ridge, we have been off-trail for three days at this point. Matt surveys the lower elevations - thick forests that we will be forced to reenter that afternoon as we plan our exit from the wilderness.

Sweeping panoramas of the mountains of the northern Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex, accentuated by storm clouds and invisible-though-keenly-felt high winds, reminded us that we're pretty small people in an awfully big place.

As we descend, we find ourselves bushwhacking yet again, winding our way down steep, chossy, limestone cliff bands. Matt found himself in a precarious spot here, noting that the security of a foothold is more illusion than reality, and that I was busier taking photos of him trying to descend than actually helping him do so.

After four days of bushwhacking, we are relieved to be back on trail, if only to avoid the prospect of limestone cuts and sidehilling in soft shoes. As we descended a small creek canyon towards the Spotted Bear River, we discovered this fascinating crime scene, which would occupy our detective skills and storytelling prowess for the next several miles.

Upon reaching the Spotted Bear River, I finally came to the realization that our trip would be over soon. Psychologically, this is the hardest part of any expedition for me - those last few days of easy, downhill travel are often anticlimactic, and a reminder that expeditioning is only a temporary novelty in my life. Through the years, however, I've learned to cope with reentry better. As my relationships with my wife and son have deepened, my eagerness to come home to them overpowers the depression that comes with a wilderness exit.

On the last night of a trip, is it too much to ask for a little sunshine? Still, I slept like a baby, and I remember falling asleep looking up at the packraft gently bobbing in the breeze, like the swinging watch of a hypnotist.

On our way out, we passed this fellow coming in with his trusty donkey. They'd clearly both traveled their fair share of miles here. We asked him about his itinerary, and he replied with no hesitation, 'Oh, I reckoned I'd just fill up these boxes and wander around til they were empty...' At which point I finished his sentence, '...and then head on home, eh?' He squinted at me kind of funny and corrected me, saying 'No, son, that's when I'll start fishin'.' I could tell he was a kindred spirit.