Anaconda Range
#Location/US/Montana #Area/Woods #Sounds/Rumbling
The summer of 2008 was a rough time to graduate from college. I had just spent four years getting a degree only to find that the job market had all but dried up. As bummed out as I was about being unemployed for the foreseeable future I found a deep appreciation for backcountry camping and hiking that summer. Growing up in the Rocky Mountains and graduating from a college in Western Montana I was not a stranger to hiking or camping. But that summer it became an escape to the point of an obsession. Going on daily hikes and camping beneath the stars really helped my mental health while I worried about my life's purpose and my future.
It was June and unseasonably cold, wet, and cloudy. The daytime highs barely touched 50 degrees and at night it dropped below freezing. Despite the weather, I had planned to hike around the Anaconda Range that week and I wasn't going to let that deter me. My plan for the week, funny enough, was to hike from Storm Lake (lat/long: 46.0718071737, -113.2668812968) over Storm Lake Pass and down to Upper Seymour Lake (lat/long: 46.0366836013, -113.2702866528). Storm lake (actually an alpine reservoir) is a challenge to get to and requires a 4x4 pickup and some skilled driving. The road is a narrow two-track winding its way through thick pine forests. The way was slick with rain, but I made it to the top with little heartburn. I set up camp on the north shore of the lake and decided to do some fishing.
The fishing was miserable. It was cold and nothing was biting. But the best thing about bad fishing is that my thoughts were free to wander while I sat on the shore. The rain was a constant light drizzle and created a natural white noise. Time passed and my daydreams were cut short as a low rumble from up the canyon overtook the sounds of the rain.
The rumbling was not unlike a distant diesel engine. There are no roads that go beyond where I was camped. No machinery or vehicles could be up that canyon.
"Maybe it's a plane?" I thought, looking up into the rain clouds.
But the sound wasn't getting closer or farther away. And the sound wasn't above me. It came from beyond the lake and up into the canyon. The sound was stationary and constant. This was most certainly not a plane, or a truck, or a bulldozer. All of this wasn't outright scary, but nonetheless my hair stood on end while I sat there listening. After twenty minutes the rumbling faded away and I was left again with only the sound of rain drops.
Soon enough I caught a decent-sized trout, cleaned it, and headed back to camp to get ready for dinner. The fish cooked up fine, but to be honest, I hate trout. It's edible, sure, but totally unappetizing. They taste like mud. I ate as much as I could stand and tossed the rest into the lake.
Building up my fire for the night, I sat back to enjoy the evening with a bit of whiskey. Night came fast. The mountain ridges put the sun to bed early and the rain clouds obscured the starlight. It was dark. Really dark. The sounds of a crackling, warm fire and the rain bouncing off my tent were a great comfort and starting to lull me to sleep.
I reminded myself I needed to build up the fire before bed. I walked over to my pile of scavenged firewood and grabbed an armful. Being away from the fire's crackling I could pick up that all too familiar rumbling rising in the background. It was growing louder than before. And closer.
I may have had a few too many pulls of whiskey and was tired and grouchy. This noise was ruining my camping trip and my buzz. Frustrated, I yelled into the blackness of the night "HEY! SHUT THE FUCK UP! ASSHOLE!".
Like a switch being flipped the rumbling stopped... and so did the rain. My heart skipped a beat. I realized that was not a convenient coincidence. There was an intelligence out there. Something sentient. Observing me and responding to my screams. And I wasn't getting the most positive vibes from it.
I threw all the logs on the fire and retreated back to my tent. More on edge than ever I just sat there. Listening. Listening to the fire crackling, to my rapid breathing, and beyond that to the silence of the darkness. Before this moment I had felt alone but safe. Now I felt alone and vulnerable. Beyond where the fire light faded I felt there were a million eyes in that dark watching me.
My paranoia began to subside when the rain suddenly started again. Not a drizzle, but a massive downpour. I was glad I had built up the fire or it would have been snuffed out for sure. My tent was being pushed down by the force of the storm. I thought about bailing to the truck, but knew I'd be soaked to the bone instantly. Risking injury or death over getting wet is the kind of logic only whiskey can produce.
I could feel the rainwater pooling and moving under my tent. This storm wasn't letting up. The urge to get in the pickup and drive away was ever more tantalizing. I could get my stuff tomorrow in the daylight and spend a few nights in town. But I'd had a bit too much to drink. Driving, especially on that slick, muddy two-track road, would have been a death sentence. But I still needed a safer place to sleep than a wimpy tent. Grabbing what I could I ripped open the tent flaps and ran for the truck.
I was soaking wet by the time I settled into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. Turning the heat on full blast, I hoped that would dry me out. It was going to be a miserable night though. I reclined my chair and tried to calm my thoughts with deep breaths. The rain wasn’t letting up. I was warm from the heater. And I was riding the crest of a good whiskey buzz. The fire was still raging despite the rain and kept the campsite well lit. I remember the truck’s clock reading 1:06am.
I blinked.
It was only a moment, but when I opened my eyes the rain had stopped. It was foggy and quiet. The once raging campfire was just embers, and there was morning twilight to the east. The truck’s clock now read 5:45am.
It was morning. That couldn’t be right. Almost five hours gone in the blink of an eye. I must have passed out. My head was killing me. I didn’t feel like I had drank that much to justify that kind of hangover.
I turned off the truck and stepped out to survey the night’s damage. My tent was completely flattened. The tent poles were shattered to pieces. Everything was soaking wet. Smothering the remains of the fire I dragged all my junk to the pickup and tossed it into the bed. My hike over the pass wasn't happening today, that was for sure. It was around 6:30am before I finished picking up camp. As I climbed into the cab of my truck I heard the rumbling again through the morning fog. I drove out of there as fast as I could down that muddy bobsled track of a road. Not once looking in the rearview mirror once. I have never been back to Storm Lake. I probably never will.