Author on Granite
The air on Granite is thin, dry and often cold. The roof of Montana, the highest peak, Granite is deep within the Beartooth wilderness. Aptly named, the range is jagged, sharp like its namesake, however also throughout the region are Grizzlies, denizens of the diverse, wild scape.
The year was 2000, my brother, 3 close friends and I decided to attempt the highest peak in the state. We were young, the oldest being me and our average age being no more than 17.
Being a harsh fire year we were on restriction as to what we could carry into the wilderness. My meals would consist of a few bagels dried goods like jerky, Cliff bars and little else. My pack for the trip would weigh in at around 68 pounds on the day of departure.
Day one we hit the trail at roughly 2 or three in the afternoon, only hiking a few miles into the East Rosebud where we set up camp for the evening on a small creek. With fire restrictions we had to forgo the comforting glow and flickering light of a campfire and late night conversation, instead turning to our sleeping bags and tents for rest.
Day two was a slow and steady incline, an arduous climb to Froze to Death Plateau. The hike from camp led us on a rocky trail along the stream and slowly out of the shaded protection of the forest canopy and riparian moist environment of the lower Valley.
With the ascent we soon found ourselves above tree line exposed on top of a large, vast plateau rittled with ankle twisting stones, large monolithic boulders, alpine grasses, snowfields and stagnant pools of water. I believe the story goes, that a fur trapper many years in the past had frozen to death quite literally on this very plateau.
We went out of our way to climb the peak known as Froze to Death Mountain, more of a walk up really, just a large pile of boulders that rises from the plateau.
It was here we encountered our first mountain goat of the trip, who seemed to enjoy the solitude of being on this pile of rocks by himself until we showed up, when he then slowly ventured away walking on the rocks with ease, appearing annoyed. We paused for water and lunch taking in the vistas on the mountain named Froze to Death.
At approximately 11,000 feet in elevation we could feel the lack of available oxygen, the heat of the sun with the thinner atmosphere allowing its rays to redden our skin.
We trudged on, our packs growing heavier our legs fatigued, lungs burning, dehydrated but cheerful with adventure. After pushing perhaps 15 miles we made it to where we would camp, below the mountain called Tempest, yes named after storms, maelstrom’s, high winds, driving rain, sleet or snow, ice and any imaginable formidable conditions. August snow is never a rarity on this plateau and destructive winds are the voice of this range.
After pitching tents several of us begin constructing semi circle stone walls to protect the flimsy modern domiciles from Highwinds that already began to creep up as evening approached. Soon these Highwinds became hurricane force, whipping and bending pushing the tents nearly to the ground. Sleep was broken and hardly had had by any.
During the moonlit night that seem to almost become more calm, a herd of goats ventured into our camp and it appeared that they had arrived merely to lick our urine from the places in the rocks that we had gone the evening before. This activity was not uncommon as they seek minerals or nutrients that are rare in this environment.
Morning brought with it a majestic sunrise casting an orange glow of light on our goal the peak; Granite Peak the steward of this range, appearing as if on fire. The air was cool, the sky clear with no clouds to be seen from horizon to horizon. Distant wildfires polluted what would have been a pastel blue with hints of dirty brown.
After a bland but necessary breakfast we descended to the ridge between Tempest and Granite. Following the descent we made it to the famous place called the snow bridge, where one misstep could lead one to a perilous fall and uncontrollable slide to the boulder field below. Here we crossed one at a time.
Most of this day consisted of seeking the proper routes, safe routes, exploring only to be turned back by impossible climbs or dead ends. We were fortunate to have a guidebook that explained some of the path yet were not comforted to know that the earlier attempts in the 1920s resulted in multiple failures by skilled mountaineers on this very Summit.
date on camera was not correct, pre cell phone era
Eventually we identified the key hole above us, another landmark location proving one was on the right path, the right route I should say. Negligently without ropes or without helmets we climbed near vertical faces and cracks finding, footholds and hand holds, assisting one another and using teamwork to make the difficult ascent less dangerous.
The uplift of stones forming Granite is purported to be the oldest stone in Montana. Carrying hues of orange to coffee with a splash of cream, the frigid stones carry upon them millenniums of weathered wear, polished smooth by eroding winds.
Final moves to attain success required a focused strategy of placing extremities, communication among the cadre, and a refusal to accept failure or defeat. We were entirely committed to standing upon the highest point in the greatest state - Montana.
One by one, we made the final holds, pulling our oxygen starved, exhausted bodies to the 12,799 ft. summit. We stood proud, amazed by the distance our eyes beholden. Pouring over maps, while seated on this cold and ancient crown of wilderness we scanned for distant landmarks identifying peaks; the Sawtooth Spires, Mt. Douglas, the very distant Grand Tetons!
After a sparse meal and moments of peace taking it in, the perilous, ropeless descent began.
Upon return to our camp, a few decided to summit nearby Tempest, as a way of saying, “We’re not whipped yet!”.
The sun set behind distant peaks, the air grew cold, darkness enveloped the wild. Tommorow would bring a death march. We slept.
Wearily did we great the next days rising sun. This day we knew, would be long, rugged and arduous indeed.
Staggering over endless fields of glacial erratics, over moraines of tumbled rock, we painfully, exhaustively marched over the plateau. Sometimes I sing odd tunes or hum when I trek, not here, not now, not this time.
In the humid forests below, the heat sweltered upon our fatigued, mortal frames of young men. A point I remember was a change in vision, a blurring of reality, a numbness to the present. I staggered on. Sweat, pain, exhaustion, our feet feeling tortured by the demand upon them, we lumbered onward. Only progress could bring reprieve.
This last day was a full push, from base camp to car. When the vehicle came to view, a sense of comfort and pampering came with it. A soft seat, no longer a need to carry a burden, traveling at speed over gravel with ease, we welcomed the sight.
Making our way to Roscoe Montana, we staggered into the Grizzly bar and took a seat with our worn disheveled bodies. Here a woman in her 30’s or 40’s perhaps looked upon us as if we were refugees. As she left to pay her bill she offered our table of vagrants her remaining half rack of ribs. This lovely lady earned a permanent place in my mind for eternity. We stared at these ribs, smoked, dripping with glaze and swallowed what little saliva we had. Equally dividing the meats, we shared in what sparse amount, equated to us as a feast for kings.
This was Granite. A place to which I shall one day return.
