The Continental Divide Trail: Are there lodges in Big Sky?

To Bos Ángeles and back

«The university city is a place where the future always arrives and the past always persists.»

– A guy in Bozeman whose name I never knew

There’s a reason people love college towns, and it has less to do with hot sorority girls than you might think.

Bozeman, MT, is a small slice of civilization in a culturally homogeneous and sparsely populated state. Founded in 1864 by John Bozeman as a supply center along the Bozeman Trail to the Montana gold fields, the town grew despite the trail’s closure in 1868 amid conflicts with native tribes. The fertile Gallatin Valley attracted farmers and ranchers, the Northern Pacific Railroad arrived in 1883 to spur further growth, and in 1893 the establishment of Montana State University (then the College of Agriculture) cemented its identity as a college town. That history endures beneath the modern bustle, making Bozeman the bustling outpost it is today. As I said before, we ran into more than one person who referred to the city as “Bos Ángeles”. It is a bustling university town with all its details. Vegetable and herb gardens fill many yards, replacing the usual non-nitrogen-fixing fescues and decorative grasses that have invaded the suburban landscape. Commuters on bicycles weave through alleys and streets, young women in yoga pants swing from coffee shop to coffee shop, and trendy young people wearing Crocs and broccoli-head hairstyles muster up the courage to talk to them. As in all such places, the warm exuberance of the young mixes with the cold wisdom of the local elders, producing a symbiotic whirlwind of energy, making the young more educated and the elders more modern.

But at first we didn’t see any of this. We woke up in our little hideaway near the train tracks and drove through the industrial areas to downtown and the Treasure State Hostel.

Little bells jingled as we opened the door to a hallway filled with maps of the world and small posters filled with dreamy quotes. I liked the place immediately. It had a feeling that only international hostels have, similar to a university city, but filled with the aroma of nostalgia in creation, of expanded horizons, of the avalanche of the novel and the new. Add a touch of ’90s style, the kind of energy that makes a person long for the days when there were no cell phones, when globetrotters relied not on apps but on tour guides, when strangers were an opportunity to learn and talk rather than a screen distraction. Those days may be gone, but in places like the Treasure State, they persist, like the last elves of Rivendell, standing the test of time.

The guy who served us recognized our type immediately. «Hikers?» asked. We said we were. “I climbed the PCT on the 23rd,” he told us. And so we were instant friends. We chatted while he checked us in and gave us a rundown, then agreed to take us back to Walmart the next day to catch the bus back to Big Sky and the trail.

Other than that, we explored Bozeman, primarily the Museum of the Rocky Mountains, with its mix of exhibits on Montana history, dinosaur skeletons, and a small planetarium. I was very nervous about the developed, life-sized model of Sue the Tyrannosaurus. Made according to the most modern data, it requires the effort to imagine what it would be like to see one of these monsters in the wild. I stared at the fleshed-out Sue for a full five minutes, letting my brain cover her with David Attenborough’s narration.

With the museum mission completed, we prepared dinner (baked salmon and vegetables with a side of ice cream, whole milk and fruit) and then went to bed. We were in a four-person dorm, but we had it to ourselves and it was dark. Perfect for sleeping etc.

The next day, Mr. PCT kept his word and took us back to the bus stop. While driving he told us his plans to cycle through part of South America. We wish him luck and say goodbye at the end, traveler to traveler.

Big Sky welcomed us with open arms and cash registers ringing. Some hikers were at the bus stop getting ready to head to Bozeman. They were the first ones we saw in the entire alternative. They had seen Trip and a few others we knew, and told us they were going to do an FKT on some short, dark trail in Montana. Ice Cream and I were invited, but we politely declined. We’re not FKT types for the most part, but we wish them luck.

It was the day of a weekly concert in the city, and people gathered in front of a large stage while roadies and sound technicians fiddled around, casually testing the tuning of instruments with a skill comparable to that of any musician who commanded the attention. We didn’t rush out of town hoping to hear some music, we grabbed some food at Hungry Moose Market & Deli and sat on the porch. We expected to meet more hikers, but that was not the case. Instead, we met Reacher, a giant of a man in his 30s with just a hint of trashy looks. Above all, he looked like a contractor on his day off: a little dirty in jeans and a T-shirt, with a month-old haircut and a week-old beard. He invited us to sit with him and bought us a beer. I don’t remember what type, but naturally it was some kind of craft IPA from far away. Reacher was a character called Dad from his old hiking days with a group of girls his age… Anyway. I had also hitchhiked a lot, which brought us together. I hadn’t met many hikers who hitchhiked for the sake of hitchhiking, as a thing in itself. He had also ranched in Chile and ridden long distances on dirt bikes. He was now working as a carpenter for the wealthy people of Big Sky and trying to be a good father to his son. I wished him luck and suggested he teach his son to avoid petty theft, which Reacher had indulged in here and there in his wilder days. He simply laughed at the suggestion.

It was a while before the concert started and we were eager to leave, so we said goodbye before the music started. While we were doing it, Ice Cream’s belt buckle broke. Bad for her, since she always uses it. The Gossamer Gear Mariposa is not made to be left without hips. We were able to equip it with a carabiner and she ordered a replacement from Amazon for the next city. Then we were off, walking into the dim light through clusters of luxury apartments to the Ousel Falls Trail. A few miles away was a state forest where we could camp, or another bridge, depending on how well we could hide there. I don’t remember exactly which one we chose. You will have to complete it with your imagination or your preference.

The next day we went back up to the alpine area. To our surprise and delight, we ran into Reuben again, the same cyclist who had strongly suggested we take the Tanner Trail into town. We talked for a while and then he pedaled up the mountain. Big sky, big money. Reuben was not young, but he was not old by any means. Even so, he had been retired for twenty-five years and living in Big Sky. As I pedaled, it hit me: maybe it was Tanner’s dad. Nothing drives a man to the mountains like loss, and after all, he had pushed us onto Tanner’s Way.

«Are you sure it’s okay for hikers to go that way?» he had asked.

«Sure. I’ll come home that way too,» he had said. And he had told us earlier that Tanner’s father’s house was right on Tanner’s Way. We never knew one way or another. But it fit and, in my opinion, that’s how the story goes. Tragic and beautiful, as so many tragedies are when they are not ours. Shakespearian cocktails of grief dressed in the color of sunsets and sadness.

Reuben was already gone when we reached the ridge. Replacing it was a squadron of about seven ATVs doing a sort of repetitive Mario Kart race back and forth along the ridge. They would pass us, make us go off the road, stay out for a few minutes and then come back. One time almost hit me while I was looking at a map and I didn’t see it coming. Fortunately, he was going slowly and just brushed my leg with the front wheel. Just then I had missed a turn and we were backtracking, looking for the supposed trail that branched off from the ATV ridge trail. We never found the crossing. Instead, we had to walk down a path where it should have been. In the end we found a way. From the looks of it, it was a rarely used bike path. Very steep – it would have taken skill and big balls to cycle down that path. I slipped twice on a loose rock and fell. From time to time, the road would disappear as roads in the CDT often do. We passed a prize, at least ten points, and a huge grizzly bear track, but no grizzly bears. Later, we hiked up Monument Mountain, which would become one of Ice Cream’s all-time favorite CDT spots, and saw a large herd of mountain goats grazing in the lush alpine pastures.

And then down, down, down, not really into the city, but towards a road and a guest ranch that sold ice cream and sandwiches. And without knowing it, I dreamed for the first time a lasting dream. A child’s dream, the dream of the Golden Corral and its endless streams of mid-level food. That dream of the guest ranch buffet stayed with us all the way to West Yellowstone. Turns out the city didn’t have Golden Corral, but it did have a solid meeting point and a simpler park permit system than Glacier. Small victories on a big road.

Unless I am given express permission to use them, all names and path names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. If you like my writing, feel free to subscribe or buy me a coffee using the Suggest the Author button.