The fence line on my left stretches to the horizon while the caffeine from a small-town cappuccino continues to elevate my heart rate. I woke up in Whitehall’s municipal building and relished packing up warm, dry gear. A pile of hikers, including Hush, Sideview, Caveman, .3 and I, made our way to the Tex-Mex diner across the street and overwhelmed the small staff with our ample breakfast orders. With a pile of chilaquiles in my gut, .3 and I began the short walk to the west side of town, where we could resupply. On the way, it became apparent that his knee hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s strain and there was no way he would be walking out of town today. We paused at a coffee shop to discuss his options and decided to split up. I would walk the 34 miles to Butte solo. He would take the day off and meet me there for a subsequent day of rest. Not an ideal situation, but one where we both get what we want.

It was late morning when I left .3 at the coffee shop; my cappuccino in a too-big paper cup and my backpack loaded with the luxuries only a 1-day food can provide: a bag of salad, greek yogurt, a ripe nectarine, a spotty banana, and fruit smoothie. The first dozen miles west of Whitehall followed an interstate frontage road and a few slithering ranch roads. With ear buds in my ears, I called a few friends and passed the miles catching up on the lives of those not walking 14 hours a day.

The pavement faded slowly into gravel, then dirt, and eventually a messy network of 4×4 trails. Grey clouds threaten rain but only a few drops fall. My legs are heavy but I am determined to make it to Butte before dark. By 7pm I’ve covered most of the distance and rejoined the official CDT. An hour later and I’ve made it to I-15, where a local trail angel is waiting to give me a lift into Butte. I catch up to .3 at a shabby Motel 6 in a run-down part of Butte and inhale some mediocre Chinese food. The 34 miles my legs put down, linger heavily in my muscles, and I can tell the day off tomorrow will be thoroughly enjoyed.

The zero in Butte was a hodgepodge of curious experiences. Half the locals I spoke with encouraged me to carry a gun. A short bus ride to the grocery store included a stop at the Emergency Room, so a passenger in the throes of a bad methamphetamine trip could get medical attention, and a beertender, who happened to hail from Wisconsin, invited me to dinner and ended up shuttling .3 and I back to the trail the following day.

The rest proved enough for .3’s knee to sufficiently recover, so we packed our bags with 3 days of food and set off for Helena. Despite an afternoon start the miles flew by and by the time we stopped for dinner, we’d managed to get 25 miles closer to Canada. My back against a lodgepole pine, I spread a healthy quantity of cream cheese onto an everything bagel. As I began to top my carbohydrate and fat sandwich with crumbled bacon, the raindrops started to fall. The forecast foretold of rain but I was unprepared for what followed. Hastily, I loaded my pack and donned my poncho. I walked while I ate and kept my eyes peeled for sheltered camp sites. Thunder boomed and lightening struck, a bit too close for comfort. Cold rain ran in rivulets over my eyes and darkness settled in. My hands ached as rainwater sapped the heat from my skin. No campsites were to be found.

When I finally spot a patch of ground worth pitching a tent on, my headlamp has already been in use for half an hour. I dig my shelter out of my backpack and try to set it up while keeping the rest of my gear dry. Occasional lightening strikes illuminate the scene, though the added light does little to warm my aching hands. When I finally crawl under my tarp and change out of wet clothes, I couldn’t help but think of the man in Jack London’s short story, ‘To Build A Fire’. For the first time on this trail, I am concerned my skills won’t be enough to keep me warm and dry.

By noon the following day, the cold and wet had been long forgotten. I hadn’t slept particularly well the night before but I stayed warm and dry enough to see the sunrise. A few brisk miles of walking brought the feeling back into my fingers and toes. The trail wandered across high flat ridges and wove through dense young groves of lodgepole pine so thick, it felt like walking through a maze. Water was scarce, so the combination of burn scars and logged-out forests, meant hot walking and a backpack heavy with H2O.

As soon as I hear the traffic on Mac Donald pass, the soreness in my muscles intensifies and my stomach starts to grumble. I’m ready for rest. When we step up to the road, my gut tells me this hitch is going to take a while. Surely we will bake in the sun for hours as hordes of drivers blast past, their truck beds and back seats entirely passengerless. Fewer than 5 cars pass when a black pickup truck pulls over and motions for us to hop in the bed. Crisis averted.