Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
Hiking to the top of Cha-paa-qnBy Bob Wire, 8-30-09
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| This was taken just after I was bitten by a deer fly in a tender spot. | |
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I don’t know what it is, but there’s something in the murky depths of my psychological makeup that triggers a desire to get naked outdoors. This has caused more than one awkward moment on a family camping trip, but surely I can’t be the only person in Montana who’s afflicted with Buck Naked Disorder.
The most recent occurrence was the best. We awoke on a gorgeous summer day in early August, Barb’s birthday. She always takes that day off work, so the kids and I huddled around the breakfast table and peppered her with questions.
Rusty: “What do you want for dinner?”
Speaker: “If you had an iPod, what color would it be?”
Me: “Should I shave? Will there be sex?”
All three of us: “What are we going to do today?”
Barb sipped her tea and gazed out the living room window, across the verdant, vibrant Missoula Valley. “We’re going to climb Squaw Peak.”
It’s not called Squaw Peak anymore, of course. That derogatory term has been replaced with Cha-paa-qn, a word no one knows how to pronounce without clicking their tongue and hawking up a loogie. So in the we-know-it’s-wrong-but-we-still-call-it-that privacy of our own home, we use the old name.
On most days you can see the peak, to the west of town. It’s a perfectly pointy little mountain, and the Indian Cha-paa-qn means Sleeping Woman. Makes me wonder if it’s surrounded by Areola Meadows. Whatever it’s called, we were going to fulfill Barb’s longstanding desire of summiting this baby.
We packed a lunch and piled into the Subaru Grocery Getter (mistake #1). The drive was uneventful until a couple of miles past the Ninemile station, where the road turned to crap. We crawled along a one-lane track that was studded with sharp boulders embedded in the dirt, waiting to gouge out our oil pan. The car does not have much ground clearance, especially when it’s loaded down with four people, a fat ass dog, 30 gallons of drinking water, half a dozen large sandwiches, two Nintendo DS’s, three cameras, and no sunscreen. We had a couple of scrapes, but no lasting damage. We finally reached a wide spot in the road that was marked by three signposts that no longer contained signs.
We all swigged down some water, ate half a sandwich, and started up the trail. Barb had actually hiked up to the peak before with her parents, but that was 15 years ago and her memory of the trail details was pretty hazy. But we figured this must be it, and pressed on.
It was steep. Well, for indoorsy types like me, that is. Then it got steeper. After half an hour, Rusty began to slow and started to have trouble catching his breath. I’d forgotten to bring his inhaler (mistake #2). “I think I’m sick,” he announced, sitting down on a rock. I could still see the car through the trees. Barb attended to him, probably promising a trip to Game Stop on the way home. He rallied, and we continued up the trail.
The trail is a little over two miles, and consists of a series of one switchback at about the halfway point. We finally got to something of a junction, where other, longer trails wound in different directions around the mountain like veins on a giant breast. We ran into a guy hiking solo, coming back down the trail. “Those rocks are pretty dangerous up there,” he warned us. “Better stick to the trees.”
Once we broke out of the tree line, I wondered what the hell that joker was talking about. The last quarter mile is nothing but a huge pile of huge rocks, but it was the most fun part of the whole hike. We all scrambled up the boulders like a bunch of mountain goats who’d forgotten their sunscreen, and before we knew it we were at the top. The kids and I pulled back and let Barb summit first, seeing as how it was her birthday and all. Plus, there might be snakes.
We clambered up onto the flat peak, which is roughly the size of your average driveway. Someone had piled up a large mound of rocks at one end, obviously trying to push the 7,996-foot peak over the 8,000-foot mark. The wind was whipping, and for some reason there were flies everywhere. Horseflies. Deer flies. Houseflies. Flies that looked like bees. There wasn’t one garbage can or pile of dog crap for miles, yet here they were. Very curious.
Overwhelmed by my shameful BND, I soon stripped off all my clothes except for my shoes. I broke out my cell phone to call my buddy Steve. “Hey, dude, can you see me? Look out your window; I’m on top of Squaw Peak!”
“It’s not called Squaw Peak anymore, Bob. Let me get to the telescope. Yeah, I can see you! Wow, it must be cold up there.”
“Very funny. It IS cold, damn it! Must be sixty degrees here, with the wind chill.” Then I lost the call. No matter. I turned back to my family and two more of them had joined me in my glorious nakedness. We frolicked around the peak like a bunch of Warm Springs fugitives, until we’d had enough. We got dressed and headed back down to the trail.
Something about standing up there, butt naked, surveying the vast panorama around us made me feel all spiritual and lightheaded. Perhaps it was the elevation, maybe a touch of dehydration. All I know is that it wasn’t until hours later when I realized I’d put my underwear on backwards.
We finally pulled into the driveway, worn out but happy. I was unloading stuff from the back of the Grocery Getter, and my neighbor across the street waved and asked where we’d gone.
“Cha-paa-qn!” I said it loud and proud.
“Geshundheit,” he answered.
[Bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire and check back every day. Make it a compulsion.]
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