North Idaho Adventures: Bushwacking

For several months I’ve been looking at these rock outcroppings in the distance, wondering if I might discover some new, undeveloped, rock worthy of establishing some climbing routes.

I’ve hiked trails that climb the same ridge, wondering how close I could get. I’ve stared at Forest Service maps and Google Earth. Finally, I concluded that my best option was to drive as close as I could, then bushwhack.

Over the years I’ve had some pretty epic bushwhacks.

There was the time I convinced a few buddies to paddle a local creek during spring runoff. None of us knew what we were doing. I had just bought my first whitewater kayak and I wanted to paddle harder water than I had been paddling in the inexpensive and ill-suited kayak I bought from a sporting goods store.

One of my buddies, who had never done anything like I was proposing, asked me before we left what type of shoes he should bring. I confidently told him that sandals would be fine, we were going to be in boats after all. I would later regret those words.

We drove into the mountains and started following the creek upstream. At a spot where a bridge crossed, we decided to put-in. We gathered our boats and gear on the cobble beach, and without the slightest hesitation, pushed off into the meltwater swollen creek. Just seconds later we rounded a blind corner and began paddling down one of the many channels presented in front of us…. which quickly vanished into a vast maze of stinging nettles and marshland.

It took many exhausting hours to drag our boats out of that valley, and after less than two minutes of paddling. We tied our boats behind us like sleds and struggled through the impenetrable terrain.

My buddy, who had that morning been concerned about his choice of footwear, lost one of his sandals in the mud and had to hike out with one bare foot. That was the last time he ever went on any adventures with me. On our drive out of the valley we discovered that the creek had been blocked by an enormous logjam and forced to flow out into the valley bottom.

If we had scouted at all we wouldn’t have come crawling out of the mountains looking like we’d been mud wrestling with angry mountain lions.

The mountains of North Idaho are well-known for the awful bushwhacking required to move about the mountains’ seldom visited valleys. Vegetation grows so thick, your only chance of passing through requires you to bow your head and lead with a shoulder, forcing your way through the brush. Coats, backpacks, faces and hands have all suffered gnashing tears handed out like merit badges.

For Idaho bushwhacking, there is a direct correlation between “Fun” (on the Y axis) and “Time” (on the X axis). This relationship can be graphed and almost always presents itself as a parabolic arc.

At first, bushwhacking is fun. The destination overshadows the temporary discomfort. The level of fun increases until a specific threshold is crossed, at which point the level of fun decreases, and continues to decrease the longer you have to scramble through the bush, until it bottoms out at zero.

When your bushwhacking “fun level” has reached zero, you enter into a trance-like state where you no longer care about the mosquito biting your ear, or the tick crawling up your neck.

I have, through trial and error (mostly error), discovered that the only cure for climbing out of this condition is dropping your pack at your vehicle and cracking the cold beers you hopefully have stashed. (Note to any apprentice bushwhackers: Stash a few beers in the closest creek.)

Still, while bushwhacking can be miserable at times, I’ve begun to notice that the people I choose to adventure with all have in common the same willingness to bushwhack, which I consider a prerequisite for any foray into the mountains.

These brave individuals can scramble through the Idaho buckbrush for hours and come out with a smile on the other side.

This uncommon attribute was one of the many things that initially attracted me to my wife. She has always lived up to her nickname, “Dozer”. There have been several occasions where I watched her, with dismay, dive stubbornly headfirst into the brambles, knowing that I would have to follow.

Those who have experienced Idaho bushwhacking know that while the suffering is temporary, the stories of perseverance in the face of insurmountable vegetation will live on in infamy.

On my recent excursion to find possibly unexplored cliff faces, I was overtaken by a June rain shower. The sudden downpour was not enough to get me wet above the waist, but because now all the bush was wet, I became a soggy mess from the waist down. Even my waterproof boots lost the battle as the water simply ran down my legs into my socks.

I found the rocks, exactly where they were supposed to be, and I scrambled over boulder fields and through bush-choked ravines before eventually reaching the summit. I found several possible rock faces that warrant further inspection, and an exciting summer “project”.

As I stood above the crags, I looked around, hoping to find an easier path back off the mountain. I found a faint trail which looked as if it hadn’t been used in some time, but it went the opposite direction, so I sighed and plunged back down the ravine with a chuckle.

I was still a long way off from the point of “zero fun”.