Mileage: 24.6 miles (2329.2-2353.8)
We woke up at 5:30 to the foul smell of rotten eggs. The lake, which had no inlet or outlet, was slowly venting gases and the drought had only exacerbated the odor by making it all the more concentrated as the parched air and earth sucked up the water drop by drop. An eerily red moon was setting above us and the no-see-ums swarmed at our headlamps.
We heard the other guys about 5:45 walking back around the lake towards us, but they didn't stop to say hi, only howled at us as they passed. Me and Commando each took advantage of the privy and got walking a quarter after six. After the fiery moon set, the sun, equally ablaze took its place in the sky.
Once again I heard the call of the Sandhill Crane, perhaps warning me about the day to come. He's a friend from back home and has watched over me throughout my travels. His otherworldly squawk brought me back to the Platte River and earlier years and home.
We caught up with the other guys taking a break on the road, which had become paved a few miles into our walk that day as we got closer to Augusta. We began walking with Stabby, Banjo, Sanjay, and Rafiki, though Rafiki was like a madman on the road, probably walking more than four miles an hour, so we didn't see much of him besides a fading black dot in the distance.
We arrived into Augusta by about 11am, laughing a lot along the way, joking about everything from the Serial podcast to the crazy things we'd seen on the trail. The mood was lighthearted, mostly because if it wasn't all we'd have to do is complain about how unfair and miserable it was that just two days before we got to one of the most spectacular parts on the trail, it was closed. We had to joke as we didn't have much else left.
We all got burgers at the Western Bar and a few of us got a beer as well. We all enjoyed sitting after even the half day we'd had enough of road walking. Since I was the one who'd mailed my passport to the Wilderness ranch, which we hadn't walked to, I was the one who ended up spearheading the job to recover all five of our boxes.
The problem was all of our packages were all at this ranch, thirty miles away, on a road which had been closed by fires. So, first I walked over to a group of firefighters at the bar and asked if they could giver a ride. "Not today, but most likely tomorrow," they responded. But they said I should definitely go by the Forest Service office and ask if they had anybody heading up that way. So, I walked the three blocks to the office building and explained the situation, especially emphasizing my passport was in the box.
A med guy who was headed up that way volunteered for the task, though I was a bit worried because he didn't even know where the ranch was exactly and didn't seem all that sure of himself. But, he was the only option I had so I wrote all our names down and gave him instructions.
When I walked back to the guys they were getting beers tossed at them by locals and didn't seem too worried about the boxes. I told them we had to wait until 4:30 and some of them lamented and thought about taking off without their box. In the grand scheme of things it was only a few hours so we all went to the park and rested for a few hours.
When I called Kim, the forest service lady, around 4pm to check-in she said the guy had been to the ranch but didn't find the boxes. In fact, he couldn't even find the bear boxes where they were stored. So, we were back to square one. I pleaded with Kim that we needed a solution and I couldn't leave my passport and she took my number and said she'd call me back after she talked to the guys delivering dinner to see if I could get a ride and go myself.
I couldn't believe it, but she called back five minutes later saying we had a ride. Just meet him outside the Lazy-b Cafe. I took Sanjay with me but as the guy pulled up we realized only one would fit, so I went, since it was my passport and the rest only had food and fuel in their boxes.
It was a long, but beautiful drive up and down a gravel road. We spooked a black bear cub near the road, as I'd spotted him right before we passed him. We slowed to take a look and knew momma must be nearby watching. We drove for a half hour, passing cliffs and wound our way up a canyon to the Benchmark Ranch. I admired the beauty I wouldn't get to walk as we passed through the County Sheriff checkpoint a few miles from the ranch near Wood Lake.
We passed the airstrip and he pointed out different manned fire lookouts on prominent ridges above. I peered longingly deep into the Scapegoat Wilderness, and fantasizes what lay just north, the Bob. All the stories I'd heard from southbounders, the choices I'd make so I could take my time there and all the worries I had were for not. Mother Nature had decided for me. I was not going there.
Maybe if it was earlier in the hike I would have fought it harder and gone through anyways, just avoiding the fire. But it wasn't safe and I wasn't going to risk my life. Plus, no one was going with me.
We got to the ranch and went to the cabin, with the green roof, and opened the black bear box. There were hiker boxes insid: unfortunately, none were ours. I grabbed a girl's, Kiddo's. We searched the rest of the ranch, looking for Darwin, the owner, and found nothing. This Forest Service guy, who I'm sure had plenty else to do, had basically taken me on a jeep tour. He didn't seem too mad, while I fumed about Darwin and that he hadn't answered his phone for two weeks, despite all the messages we left him, and emails, and contact forms filled out. Where the hell was my box?
We got back into cell reception and Jay's phone dings. Kim, the receptionist had called him. Darwin had just dropped off our boxes at the office as we were headed for the ranch. We must have missed him by a few minutes. I felt very stupid, but also like it was a journey I had to take. If I wouldn't have gone I had a distinct feeling our boxes would have never arrived. And if I did, it would turn out just like it did. We picked up the boxes in Jay's truck and drove back to the campground semi-victorious.
Despite everything, I did have everyone's boxes. They didn't think to save me a beer from the case they'd bought even though I'd just done all that and probably saved them each at least thirty bucks. I tore mine open and momentarily forgot about the passport. I got all the food out and the maps and was busy trading and giving away things I didn't want.
Then, I suddenly realized, I hadn't seen my passport. I tore through the box and then my maps and then the trash I hadn't even visited. I looked on the ground and asked everyone if they'd seen it. Then I knew, of course, the passport was never in the box. It was the only suitable ending for what had become the biggest fiasco on the trail. I can't say how many hours I worried about my damn passport burning up. Kiddo gave me a shot of Jameson to ease my worries.
I called my mom six times frantically in succession but she wasn't picking up. I texted her to check my Helena box, as Commando suggested, but didn't hear anything. I got a beer for the road and we headed out for a river down the road towards Choteau. I figured now there was literally nothing I could do.
My mom called about an hour later. She said, "I have it." And I felt relief like I hadn't felt in a very long time. A weight had been lifted. And I knew I should learn something here. Not about packing boxes, but about fate, about knowing that sometimes you have days where everything you do is wrong, no matter what. And that the only thing you can do is accept it - that sometimes maybe you shouldn't fight against the tide and understand that when the world is telling you something, you should listen.
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