A Smug Winter Walk
by Bruce Gardner
Photography by Dave Inks and Bruce Gardner
For a sure sense of feeling smug, just take a winter walk in the woods. My friend Dave and I began our jaunt with packs full of warm clothes and good things to eat, feet shod in sturdy boots, torsos wrapped in layers of polypropylene, and heads filled with superior thoughts. As we covered the miles, slogging through a foot of fresh snow, we stopped often to catch our breath. Standing together we each pretended to be merely pausing to admire the mountain stream along which we walked, gasping audibly only when the other was not watching. During our pauses we regaled each other of our past exploits—long runs, high climbs, cold weather braved. Our tales helped to dissipate the present tiredness brought on by our now being a bit older and less conditioned.
The trail Dave and I traveled is one of my favorites in the Bitterroot Mountains. Deceptively called Warm Springs, the trail threads through a narrow valley bounded by talus slopes and gently rising mountains. Warm Springs Creek, this December day, was not completely frozen over and its murmuring voice could be heard clearly. Long tongues of flame had reached this valley in the fires of 2000 and the blackened trunks of lodge pole pine made countless vertical stripes against the white background of fresh snow. The contrast of black on white reminded Dave of the paintings of Bev Doolittle, Nez Perce braves mounted on paint horses, neatly blended into the snowy background.
As we covered the miles the snowfall dwindled and the cloud ceiling lifted just enough to brighten the day. A layer of fresh snow makes it easy to observe the passing of the critters that share the trail. Pine squirrels were the busiest of the bunch as they sought nourishment beneath the snow cover. Few birds were about and most were heard rather than seen. We did watch a downy woodpecker as he made a living by exploring the bark of a fire-damaged spruce. A trio of brown creepers, a secretive forest dweller, crossed our path as they worked a grove of trees in their customary bottom to top explorations. A dipper sang his spring-like tune from cover at water’s edge and a pair of reclusive Winter wrens made a brief appearance. A coyote had passed our way sometime in the early morning hours. We observed no deer, elk, or moose and surmised they were holding tight to cover, waiting out the passing storm.
By two in the afternoon we were hungry and stopped beneath a great fir tree, the ground beneath bare of snow, to heat a pot of water and enjoy a hot meal. Dave carries a double walled pot on all his excursions, the same pot he has carried throughout the world for the past twenty years. This pot, perfected by Aussie shepherds, has a hollow center that serves as a chimney. A small fire is kindled in an attached pan beneath the pot, water is poured into a chamber surrounding the chimney, and a quart of hot water is the result in two minutes flat. We sat together beneath the great fir on the bank of partially frozen Warm Springs Creek and dined on hot noodles, stove top stuffing with brown gravy, and frothy hot chocolate with a splash of bourbon for added character. I cannot remember a finer meal in the backcountry.
It was during this fine lunch that our smugness began to recede. Our conversation turned to one of thankfulness rather than privilege. No person save the two of us had traveled this trail since the snows had come to the Bitterroots. We had the mountains to ourselves. We ceased making snide comparisons between our day walking and another poor bloke’s day stuck in traffic or shopping in a department store. Amidst the soft hum of the simmering pot and curling steam from mugs of seasoned chocolate humility returned. On that late afternoon Dave and I agreed that we could think of no other place on the planet that we would rather be.
The value of how one has spent a particular day can be measured by the vividness of the memory created. Simply recalling those days that bring the most pleasure in their remembrance is a sure-fire way to use the past to plan the days of the future. I once was proud of the fact that I do not watch television—a kind of smugness. I am now merely glad that I do not feel the need to do so. I have a good book to read, a piece to write, a knife to sharpen, a trout to chase, or a walk to take. And I am thankful for it.
I’ll be seeing you out there.
December 29, 2002
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