Clusterfuck

We've had our share of travel-related catastrophes.

There was the time we got on the trail in the Adirondack Mountains in New York, and got about 25 yards before we were nearly consumed alive by blackflies. Then there was the time in Munising, Michigan that we took the last "ferry" of the day (a bass boat piloted by a guy in his 80s) to Grand Island in Lake Superior. We were there about 15 minutes before we were swarmed by gumball-sized, biting stable flies. And there was the trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico when we got to our budget hotel and the clerk cheerily informed us that, by the way, the water's only on every other day from 8 a.m. to noon.

But for some reason, travel-related disappointments didn't hurt as much then as they do now. Perhaps it was because it was easier to be flexible then. When we were stymied by the blackflies in New York, we just turned around and drove to Virginia, picked up a book on hikes in the Blue Ridge and were on our way. In Puerto Rico, we just shrugged and spent lots of time in the pool.

But there is no help for yesterday's disaster. There just isn't enough time. The grandparents will be here with TK this evening. Here's how it happened.

Trailhead Spouse's ankle has been hurting lately. Now you must understand, TS is never incapacitated. Never sick, never injured, never really in enough pain to mention. As is typical, after confessing the ankle problem the other day, I asked when it had started to hurt -- I assumed it had been the last couple of days -- and TS said casually, "Oh, the last few weeks."

The last few weeks.

Knowing how unusual it is for TS to complain about anything physical, I began to worry about hiking 13 miles in 2 days with full packs. Plus, we had begun to salivate about the possibility of canoeing Kintla Lake to reach the backcountry site, instead of hiking along it. So yesterday morning, we set about finding a canoe to rent. We'd left ours at home, intending to hike and not paddle. By the time we got a canoe strapped to the top of the truck and made it to the southwestern edge of Glacier, it afternoon. Because daylight lasts so long here, we knew we had until about 4 p.m. to put in and still make it to our site by dark.

Then we hit the gravel portion of the North Fork Road. Kintla Lake lies on the very northwestern edge of the park, about as close to the Canadian border as you can get. To get there, you take the Outer North Fork Road through the Flathead National Forest to Polebridge, then turn east to enter the park and continue to the head of Kintla Lake via the Inner North Fork Road.

When the outfitter told us it was a "rough road" we nodded and said we understood. We had traveled 20 miles on the lower portion of the Inside North Fork Road last year and it wasn't horrible. So when someone says the road is rough, you expect that it's bumpy and slow going. What you don't anticipate is a road that appears to have been bombarded by a lengthy shower of television-sized meteors. We continued along this lunar surface for 30 miles, stopping to reattach the canoe every few miles or so. For two hours we bounced and jangled along this way, our brains banging relentlessly against our skulls.

At length, we saw the sign for Kintla Lake. The wind had picked up as soon as we got on the North Fork Road, and continued unabated. But we were so absorbed with making it along the crater-strewn road that we did not perceive a problem until we stepped out of the truck at the shore of the lake.

There were white caps. White caps. Two foot waves were crashing against the edge of the lake. I swear -- and for once, I am not exaggerating -- I have seen oceans calmer than this.

There was no possible way we could have made it. If you have to, you can paddle something like this for a short time. But it was 4:15. It was, by then, too late to try to make it on foot as well. In any event, it would not have been wise to leave the rental canoe strapped to the top of the truck. We had a choice: try to canoe six miles along a lake that looked something like the sea in The Perfect Storm, or face yet more brain damage on the Road of the Damned.

We chose more brain damage. And relinquished a rare and precious night alone in the wild. A storm rolled in, and no doubt we would have been sleeping in the rain. But who cares? We've done it many times before.

Later, we went to Lake McDonald and saw that in comparison, Kintla seemed tranquil. I did get some outstanding photographs of the huge waves rolling onto the southern shore. The wind was incredible, and could rightly be called a gale. I had to push hard just to get the truck door open.

But on the way out from Kintla, I said to TS, "its going to be a long time before this seems funny enough for me to write about."

Yes, I've written about it now. But it still doesn't seem funny. Damn it.