Trails to a Vanishing Frontier

Too soon after, we lunch and load. For this afternoon we are headed to the “wild” section of the Upper Missouri River — the Virgelle sandstone formations of the White Cliffs. Paddling down these rising, misshapen, ghost-like monoliths I wonder how much different, if any, they appear now from when Lewis and Clark first saw them. I’m reminded of time spent in Arches National Park and it only whets my appetite for our afternoon hiking excursion to Neat Coulee, a section otherwise known as the Narrows. The 10 miles we paddle go by quickly. I would gladly have paddled double the miles just to experience the White Cliffs one more time. It’s mile 56, and we reach the Eagle Creek Boat Camp, our first overnight stop and the trailhead to Neat Coulee.
Once again, the hike begins on a rising short-grass prairie, this time white-sandstone cliffs create a backdrop in the distance. The elevation changes subtly, as does the vegetation. Indian rice grass gives way to junipers and box elder. They soon multiply and are accompanied by Douglas fir and Ponderosa pine. Those once distant bone-colored cliffs now surround and herd us like cattle through progressively narrowing compartments of pure sandstone. I look up and through a small opening of the towering walls, glimpse only a slice of shockingly blue sky. Far below, we make slow progress on the sandy path as it twists and winds its way deep in the eroded gorge that is increasingly more difficult to traverse. All of us have to turn sideways and suck in our stomachs through the narrowest sections and cup our hands to provide footholds to climb over other tight sections. After an hour of navigating this maze of alcoves, nooks and crannies created over millennia, the walls widen and the sandstone takes on shapes that are both beautiful and grotesque. With Nelson in the lead, we find ourselves climbing up from this deep barren valley, jumping up well-worn steps created by over 60 million years of geological history.

Our guide stops to point out a morning dove nest. Matyas delights at finding a sculpted turtle that someone has formed from the rocks and we stop to take a breather at the top on a formation of sandstone rock piles built up 4- to 6-feet tall. After two hours, no one is anxious to leave. Nelson tells of the herd of wild horses that once roamed these parts. As day wanes, the sun begins to set in bursts of dusk-rose colors over the Bear Paw Mountains to the east. Silently, we follow the well-shod path and make our way back down to the cottonwoods’ shade and the campsite on the river.

Neat Coulee, which I will forever call by its other name, the Narrows, sparked my enthusiasm for the next day’s hike at Hole-in-the-Wall. At mile 63.8, we pull into the Hole-in-the-Wall Boat Camp. I wasn’t sufficiently prepared for the sheer, rock cliffs we would be climbing at its top. Far above us, sitting upon a steep grass-spattered rock-encrusted hill was a solid walled cliff abruptly extending upwards so high, that I truly questioned my sanity on embarking upon this particular journey.

At its peak overlooking the river, this formidable wall sported a nice big fat round hole — our final destination (gulp). Again, the trail took a circuitous route to the top, innocuous at first, then progressively gaining in complexity and required guts. Mine, unfortunately ran out just before addressing the hole. Perhaps I should have chosen to hike the Dark Butte area just a few short miles downstream where the breathtaking views don’t come with a warning label.

By this third day, my shoulders ache from paddling and my feet are as clean as I can get them with a baby-wipe towlette. Today we search for Nelson’s disputed buffalo jump. This last night we camp with Lewis and Clark at Slaughter River — the site the BLM mentions as the pishkun, or Buffalo Jump, but it’s not the one that Nelson is after. I get goose bumps considering that with each step I may be treading in the footsteps of the illustrious explorers. As I’m wondering how the ancient Blackfeet made their way to this historic passage, Nelson pulls his canoe onto a muddy cow-laden shore. “It’s here,” he calls out to us, though I see nothing except a mess. As we make our way between the cows and up the bluff, Nelson tells us about specific entries in Lewis and Clark’s journals. How they speak of bones piled high and wolves gathering among them. He leads us up a worn trail, in many areas cut to over three feet deep. As we reach the top, he pulls out his research and points out the particulars — including this specific view of Slaughter River. Yes, in my mind’s eye I cannot only see it, I can feel the ground shake and hear the thundering hooves of bison bearing down on us, stampeding to their demise over the top of this well-eroded cliff. Such was their circle of life.

Judith Landing, mile 84.5, is just a few short paddles before us. Instinctively, I slow down my pace (which still doesn’t take much), my eyes taking in as much of the Wild and Scenic as I possibly can. I’m not ready to leave the river and the land that holds it. Hiking this primitive country, we somehow managed to slow the clocks and step back in time. It’s the closest I’ll come to experiencing the West of our earliest inhabitants.