pilgrimage

and was fairly certain this would be nothing more than a scenic tour of the highway. It was cold and cloudy here in the basin, with snow predicted for the day. The high country would certainly be worse, and the side road almost certainly closed.

The mountains themselves were just a dark grey silhouette, with no texture or topography. Above them the sky was a lightening grayish-green, turning orangish as you look south.

The highway runs nearly due east, past the forests and fields where others would soon be hunting. Cattle and horses were just dark shapes along the way. I was surprised at the traffic, passed by one truck soon after leaving town. I met an ore truck hauling bentonite as I crossed the causeway, the reservoir below still as dry as last year, the new growth of shrubs and willow a year taller now. Got passed by a minivan on the east side of the river, and could see headlights halfway down the mountain.

Busy place today. The sunrise is starting far to the southeast.

The texture of the mountains is starting to be seen, steep rocky cliffs and jagged canyons. Topped with dark conifers, with trees hidden in the high crags. The crest of the highest ridges are barren and white with snow. There are no foothills... the mountains just rise straight up from the basin..

The road bears southeast, towards the red scars on one promontory. The switchbacks of the only road to climb this face. Tan, steel terraces jut out to support the road as it hangs over steep cliffs. Those and the round, white FAA dome atop the highest peak are the only visible signs that man has touched these mountains.

Two more vehicles pass me as we start to climb. With all the snow on top of the mountain, I am in no hurry, and stop often to record the sunrise. Unlike the year before, I find no deer along the roadway below the switchbacks.

This is an unnerving stretch of highway. Four-hundred foot dropoffs just past the concrete guardrails. Concrete and wire lining the cliffs above to keep boulders off the road. Signs say a 10% grade, with truck escape ramps about every mile or so.

I reach the first main switchback about five minutes before official sunrise, and start the steep climb.

The turn provides me with a change of view, and I realize I had been missing much of the sunrise over the basin.

And far to the west, nearly a hundred miles distant, folks in Yellowstone country are just beginning to see the sky change colour.

Above the switchbacks, the road continues to climb, but now we are weaving in and out of groves of douglas-fir. My ears continue to pop.

Soon I crest over the shoulder of the mountains, and am surprised to see bare ground. Yes, there is snow here, but most of the ground is bare. And the herds of deer are still up high, feeding on the last of the high country forage before being forced to winter ranges below.

My hopes rise that the road may be open.

I look up at the highest peak, off to my left, and see the red alpineglow just touching the white limestone cliffs at the peak. The FAA dome is right up there, but I cannot see it from down here.

I reach the sign for the turnoff. Yes, there is more snow here, but it is not even a third as deep as last year. The gravel road is bladed clear, and has had recent traffic.

I make the turn.

The road is clear as it hugs the south-facing slopes

but it is a whole different world as I cross over onto the northeast slope of the high peak.

The wind is whipping from the southwest, blowing snow and drifting over the road as I watch. But the gate is open at the 'Y' where the road forks, the uphill track headed to the FAA dome, the lower track across the saddle to the stone circle. Vehicles have been driving the road to the Wheel, and the wind has died down in the lee of the mountain. I follow their lead and tracks.

Conditions are good, until the last grove of stunted trees, a half mile past the 'Y'.

Thereafter the wintry winds are again trying to bury the road in white. But the sun breaks through the clouds, highlighting the ridge that holds the great circle, tempting me to continue.

And I foolishly yield to the temptation. The road is narrow, coated with ice and packed snow, and after only a few hundred meters I find drifts have covered most of the track in places. If I had chains on, perhaps I could break through. But busting through drifts is a risky maneuver, occassionally throwing your rig off to one side or the other.

Not a good thing on a road this narrow. With a steep dropoff on the right.

No, getting thrown off to the right side would not be a good thing. Sometime next May or June, someone would find my frozen carcass inside my frozen truck at the bottom of a horribly steep talus slope.

Discretion wins over. I decide to back up.

But backing up through snowdrifts is no cinch, either. The back end of a pickup is light, and easily slides to the side as you push into the drifts. Too far left and you're stuck, digging a truck out in these arctic conditions. Too far to the right, and you're here until June again.

Digging is better than falling. I bear left. And stall out three times in three separate drifts. And successfully jerk the rig back forward each time, to ram the drift again.

Been a long time since I scared myself so badly while driving. But eventually I back into the safe harbor of the trees. Almost seven-thirty. Supposed to back down in the basin, on the unit thirty-some miles away, at 0900 to read wings. Took an hour to get here.

But I can't turn back now.