Half a Trip in Montana (Oct 2023)

I will say that Montanan (Montanites?) trail managers do have a good sense of humor.

 

To Zane those are "locked."

 

Some more photos I have from that day.

 

If you're ever bored, and I kind of imagine you never have been in your life... Check out the YouTube channel McNally Official. The man makes opening cheap locks trivial. And by cheap locks I mean literally everything Master Lock has ever made. He does plenty of more complicated locks too but often times he opens Master locks without tools even

 

Weather Turns | Montana #3
Part of the Half a Trip in Montana (Oct 2023) trip.

After a long camp fire, sleep came easy on the edge of the field, 8,000 feet in the Flint Creek Range. And, with Mike @Digiratus and Zane @Speedytech7 tucked into the trees, there was plenty of time for me to send the flying camera up into the sky for an early morning flight before either of them got wise to my shenanigans.

Turns out the meadow in which I'd taken up residence was a little more interesting than it looked from ground level.​

Fred Burr Lake was glassy as I searched for signs of fellow campers. I found none.​

Back on the ground, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse
(that'd nibbled on Mike's bread overnight)!​

After hanging around camp for a few minutes - wondering if the clicking of my camera would rouse my compatriots - I headed back to the meadow to check out the meandering waterways that I'd spotted from above. To my surprise, the water in these was actually moving - fed by a series of springs that were bubbling away - though this late in the year, the flow was reasonably low.

Even with all the water, there wasn't much green in the meadow. What little there was, was close to the ground and covered in frost.​

By the time I wandered back into camp, Mike and Zane were both up, preparations for breakfast underway. Mike, cutting potatoes - a key component of the bacon, eggs, potatoes, and salsa that has become a tradition - shared his memory of the first time such a shared breakfast had been assembled. To my surprise, it was when he, Monte @Blackdog, and I had been atop Dome Plateau on one of the final mornings of The De-Tour. It was a morning I've long remembered - having no idea that it was the first shared breakfast - as it was both my first trip with these guys and perhaps the most spectacular camp site I've ever experienced.

Pan roasted potatoes in the making.​

With everyone contributing, we timed delivery to Zane's tailgate - our makeshift buffet table - almost perfectly!​

Mine. And then, seconds. ​

It was not early when we wrapped up breakfast and finally got on the road. In fact, on any other day at noon, we'd be looking for a place to stop - but not on this day! Today, we were hoping that the road that had foiled our progress to the east would present less difficulty to the west. If not, we'd find ourselves retracing the previous day's path, significantly reducing the ground we'd cover over the course of our adventure.

I felt much more comfortable bringing up the rear, more easily able to stop for photos without feeling as though I was slowing down the speed demons.​

The road slowly improved as we descended towards Georgetown.​

Hitting pavement at Georgetown, we had 50 miles of highway travel before our next trail - a distance that's right on the edge of how far we like to travel with our tires aired down. Ultimately, Mike decided he wanted to put in a few pounds of pressure while Zane and I chose the lazy option, keeping our tires in the 18psi range.

Zane and I putzed around with our cameras while Mike's compressor hummed along next to Georgetown Lake.​

And somehow, Mike managed to get this onto my truck without me noticing. ​

Under sunny skies, we covered ground quickly along MT-1, the Pintler Memorial Veterans Highway, towards Deer Lodge. No longer was Caruthers Lake on our list of destinations for this trip, instead we'd continue east - along Boulder River Road through the Elkhorn Mountains - to check out a remote mine and a mile-long tunnel, before heading north towards Helena where we'd evaluate the weather and decide on next steps.

Of course, I'm getting way ahead of myself as usual - we had more than a day of travel, and some big surprises in store - before any decisions of that nature would be ones we needed to make.

Through Deer Lodge, we headed for the mountains, their low-lying hills covered in the golden blanket of fall.​

Even the aspen were getting in on the show.​

With two possible routes out of Deer Lodge, we opted for the one we'd never traveled before - the excitement of the unexperienced enough for us to add a few miles to our overall route. First though, one of us needed to air up.

That's right, it's 2x less work being lazy. ​

Makes less sense when he's actually driving the Tacoma.​

The roads along the Elkhorns were significantly smoother than those we'd been on out of Granite. Not only that, but with a patchwork of trees and grass, the views here were significantly better than the narrow, rocky tree tunnels - which are fun but not very photogenic - we'd picked our way through the previous day. Speeding along, Mike piped up over the CB radio that, "These are the Montana views I remember." And he was right.

The clouds were cooperating as we looked out over the Deer Lodge Valley.​

Someone's personal little piece of paradise.​

It wasn't just the distant vistas that were mesmerizing. We hadn't run into a lot of color to this point on our route, but - having dropped in elevation - warmer temperatures meant that fall was still hanging on, in places, here in the lowlands. Soon, I was unable to keep up - my foot gravitating towards the brakes as the views unfolded before me.

A pop of color.​

Golden tunnel.​

Endless.​

With liberal use of the skinny pedal, I was eventually able to claw my way back from "Ham radio range" to the more reasonable distances over which the CB radio could be used. That didn't mean I ever caught sight of Zane and Mike, but at least I knew I was still headed the right direction!

Up and over the Continental Divide at Champion Pass.​

An old homestead, once with a commanding view.​

Eventually, we interrupted our route east for what appeared to be a short detour to the north. As with our trail the previous day, distances would be irrelevant here - the terrain would dictate the speed at which we would travel. Our destination in this case was the old Leadville Mine, nestled under a ridge along the banks of Rock Creek. First though, we had to get there.

Heading up into the mountains, the road seemed reasonable enough as we got underway.​

Three quarters of the way up we were still making good time - Zane and Mike waiting for me to catch up, only to pull ahead when I stopped to grab proof that there were three of us on this trip!​

I must admit, I enjoy seeing other Tacomas in the landscape.​

Back in my truck after watching the dust settle on two Tacomas, it wasn't long before Mike came over the CB to chuckle, "I can smell my exhaust. And you know it's bad when your exhaust is traveling faster than you are," to which Zane replied, "They weren't kidding when they said this portion of the trail is unmaintained." Not quite knowing what they were experiencing, I continued to follow, passing the sign Zane referenced a few minutes after another - more recognizable - marker.

It's always fun driving roads that crisscross some of our nation's great trails. I especially liked this carved marker.​

So this is what they were talking about.​

In and out of the trees we wound, the trail alternating between a rocky bumpfest and a more reasonable two-track several times over the course of the two miles we still had to cover in our quest to reach the Leadville Mine. Still, the Tacomas ate it all up, the only complaints coming from a few squeaky suspension bushings that could have used a bit more care on the greasing front.

Popping out of the woods, the rolling hills seemed to extend into forever.​

Eventually - after a rocky ascent - we reached the summit of our climb, only a quarter mile until our destination. As I descended - nearing the waypoint that was marked on our maps - I was surprised to see an empty road next to an old log cabin ruin. It was then that Mike again crackled over the CB, "There's nothing here next to the waypoint we have marked."

"I think you guys passed it - I'm at the log cabin now," I called back, probably only a few hundred yards behind them at this point. "I'm going to get out and have a look around."

One of the old buildings at the Leadville Mine.​

The cabin may be disintegrating, but the window construction has stood the test of time.​

Fully expecting to hear a couple Tacomas come bouncing back up the road, I quickly opened the door to let the guys know that I was setting off on foot to see if there were any other relics or ruins along the maze of roads that led off into the trees nearby. The hunt was on, and I hoped - eventually - to find not just some old log cabin ruins, but hopefully the mine itself!

The next cabin I found was in even worse shape than the first, but at least there weren't trees growing in the middle of it.​

A little further up the road, an old winch - several layers of paint fighting the good fight against time.​

After wandering around for fifteen minutes or so, I was pretty sure that wherever the mine was, I wasn't going to find it. I was also a little surprised that I hadn't seen my buddies, because even though I'd set off on foot, I'd followed roads that were easily accessible via Tacoma. Surely Mike and Zane couldn't be far behind.

Then, I spotted the waste pile. And it was big. Much larger than I'd expected.

Bird's eye view.​

Next to the waste pile, a jumbled mess of weathered wood and mangled machinery littered this little slice of the woods. Clearly the operation here had been substantial.

Despite the name, the Leadville Mine was primarily a silver mine - though some lead and gold were also recovered over the years. Winters have not been kind, and not much remains to explore. Even the old shafts - dropping precipitously into the mountain - are collapsing and have filled with water.

The only recognizable bit of the old machine shop was its door.​

An old ore barrel - bands reinforcing its mid-section - was one of the coolest finds.​

Ingersoll ... Sergeant? Who is this Sergeant and where is the Rand?​

By this point, I realized that Zane and Mike were probably not going to join for this exploration. Figuring that they'd decided to wait for me a little way down the trail, I headed back to the Tacoma and gave a quick shout on the CB.

Nothing.

Pulling out the Ham radio, Mike answered my call to let me know that they were waiting for me, "Just after the tedious stretch of trail" below the mine. No worries, I thought, they're probably just around a corner or two, so I let him know that I'd be there shortly.

In reality, they'd continued on more than a mile, the road rocky and wet as it followed Rock Creek down the mountain, the road and creek often indistinguishable from each other.

Even after half a mile, I hadn't run into anything I'd call "tedious."​

​

I was probably going a little faster than the ideal speed in my desire to keep by buddies from waiting too long.
​

I did eventually find the tedious section. There, a large boulder in the middle of the trail forced a decision: take the high side - throwing the truck off camber until the rear driver side tire could climb the boulder, or stay left - squeezing through a muddy pit that was sure to be the gift that keeps on giving when it came time to wash the truck.

Initially, seeing the tracks Mike and Zane had made, I took the off-camber route. Unfortunately, a combination of my wet tires and their tire-spin digging out a hole in front of the mini-fridge sized stone, meant that I didn't stand a chance in gaining traction over this behemoth. Instead, the truck leaned precariously as it began to pivot, threatening to slide off the hillside and to rest with the boulder under the gas tank. And so, with a sense of mild defeat - and not wanting to repeat the rescue I'd been the recipient of a mere 24 hours earlier - I threw it in reverse and plodded through the mud pit.

​

Not long after that - as Mike had suggested - I found the two of them chatting on Zane's tailgate, and once again we were three. It was 5:30pm, and though we'd planned to make it much farther along our route - perhaps even through a tunnel we'd all been looking forward to - the Rock Creek Road had lived up to its name. It was time to find camp.

As the trail flattened out, a clearing afforded us the perfect opportunity to set up camp.​

​

With the sun below our horizon, it was still strangely warm as compared to the previous two evenings. It was a welcome detail that we chalked up to our lower (6,000-foot) elevation.​

As I transferred photos from my camera to the laptop, Mike whipped up a big old bowl of guacamole and Zane split a bit of kindling to start the fire. Soon, our chairs were out, the fire was crackling, and the usual race-to-eat-the-guac was underway.

If there were an olympic metal for guac-eating, I'd surely be in the running, and while I most definitely slow down whenever Monte's @Blackdawg not around, I'll be the first to admit that there's no way Zane and Mike got their fair share of the green stuff on this particular night. Or any night, really.

Thanks guys, and sorry.

Anyway, just as we were wrapping up the guac and I was bringing out the cookies, a treat that both Zane and Mike declined for the time being - as they were planning to make "real" dinners - Zane noticed a rather ominous looking cloud to the south. Partially obscured by a small hill, it was the perfect opportunity to send out the flying photographer to get a better look.

Well, that looks...wet.​

Luckily (?) for us, Mike confidently stated that, "I don't think we're going to see any rain tonight," as lightning flashed on the horizon. Zane and I weren't so sure, but if Zane was anything like me, he was (a) hoping Mike was right and (b) wondering why in the world Mike would jinx us like that!

After seeing a few flashes, I setup the camera to try to catch some of nature's fireworks. If you look low on the horizon, you can see the - relatively small - bolt that lit up the entire sky.​

A half hour later, all hell broke loose. The wind - which had been the warmest, gentlest, most fabulous little breeze blowing out of the north - flipped 180 degrees and whipped up into 45 mph gusts. Suddenly, sparks from the fire were blowing out of the fire ring and all the way through camp. Both Zane's tent and my own were folded up on themselves as rain started to fall sideways. The front of the storm was literally upon us.

Hastily, tents were reset and rain jackets were donned. After a short discussion, safety prevailed, and the fire was extinguished - a shovel and copious water ensuring that no embers would blow into the nearby forest. And without dinner, we all climbed into our tents.

It was 7:25pm. The weather had turned. None of us knew what was in store, but it most definitely wasn't what we'd expected.

As I tried to tidy up the tent from its unplanned closure, I couldn't find my socks no matter where I looked. They weren't buried in any of the covers. They weren't under the mattress. Had they fallen out? Blown away? Nope, they were just stuck to the ceiling.










.​

 

Rock Creek indeed

 

Amazing Pictures!! Thank you for sharing

 

One Dark Mile | Montana #4
Part of the Half a Trip in Montana (Oct 2023) trip.

After climbing into our tents to escape the oncoming storm, wind gusts and rain continued in fits and spurts for the next several hours. Even with my tent now tied down, a stronger-than-normal gust lifted it - with me inside - six inches, a situation I was forced to remedy during a lull in the storm.

Thankfully however, by midnight, things had significantly calmed down. Winds were in the much-more-reasonable 5mph range, and only intermittent sprinkles fell on our flies. This allowed everything to dry out reasonably well by morning - each of us glad that we weren't putting our tents away wet.

Our earliest exit out of camp, we were ready to go a little after 8:00am.​

After a quick breakfast - coffee for Mike @Digiratus and Zane @Speedytech7; a bowl of cereal for me - we set out to complete the final mile-and-a-half of the "short side trip" we'd embarked on the previous afternoon. But Rock Creek Road wasn't done with us yet.

We'd heard this tree fall the previous evening, but hadn't realized that it'd blocked our path!​

Whipping out my 10-inch folding Japanese pull saw - a fantastic tool that can often eliminate the need to carry a heft chainsaw - I made quick work of the 12-inch trunk, Mike and Zane hauling the tree off the road a mere two minutes after I began sawing.

With open roads in front of us, liberal use of the skinny pedal ensued.​

I really liked the weathered look of this little barn, nestled at the foot of the hills.​

Our route this morning carried us through the remainder of our west-east traverse of the Elkhorn Mountains, the last several miles of I-15 pavement popping us out at the little town of Boulder, Montana. This was a place we'd all been looking forward to, but one that Zane - the most go-with-the-flow guy I know when it comes to the specifics of a route - had piped up to say he was curious about and definitely wanted to run. We were headed through the Boulder Tunnel. Or the Wickes Tunnel. Or the Boulder-Wickes Tunnel. Whatever it was called, he wanted to do it.

It's not often that we head toward a ridgeline with plans to drive *through* the mountain.​

The final approach.​

Records indicate the Montana Central Railway, which constructed the tunnel, called it the "Boulder Tunnel" and "Montana Tunnel Number 6". However, early maps (from 1900) designate it the "Wickes Tunnel". What to call it still causes many arguments among the tunnel's fans.

Work on the tunnel began in March of 1887 and it officially opened on October 25, 1888. On that day, the tunnel was 6,115 feet long - at the time, the longest train tunnel in Montana. In 1893, portals were added to the tunnel, extending it by another 30 feet. Eleven men were killed during its construction, ten of which died in a dynamite explosion in September of 1888.

Construction & maintenance camps existed on both ends, with the southern (Boulder) side camp known as Amazon and the northern (Wickes) camp known as Portal.

After a cave-in in 1891, the tunnel's wooden lining was replaced with one of brick and granite and a six-foot-wide steel beam was inserted into the ceiling. Doors at both ends of the tunnel were intended to stop ice build-up inside the tunnel, though these doors have deteriorated over the years and no longer provide the protection they once did.

The first train that went through the tunnel was on October 24, 1888, a day prior to the official opening. The last train through the tunnel was on January 9, 1972.

Montana Overland & 4x4 Adventures​

Are we really going in there?​

Even from outside the portal, it was obvious that we were in for a wet mile - water pouring through the roof of the tunnel and flowing down the road towards our Tacomas. This wouldn't be a problem - we hoped - but better safe than sorry, and not knowing how deep the water would be, we dug out and donned our Muck Boots before slowly inching into the inky blackness.

Knowing that I'd be stopping for quite a bit longer in the tunnel than my buddies, I was bringing up the rear.​

While long - in fact, much longer than I think any of us expected - the tunnel is perfectly straight, so a small dot of light (at the end of the tunnel) is visible from each end. I can assure you, however, that the dot of light did not afford us any comfort as the water level continued to climb up the sides of our trucks. 6 inches became 12. 12 inches became 18. Soon we were making bow waves in water 30 inches deep.

It was time to stop for some pictures.

Even in the deep water, we weren't the first to have stopped.​

I knew I was quite a way behind Mike and Zane when each puddle I encountered was still enough to reflect the tunnel walls.​

​

Light... or dark?​

After dorking around for much longer than I should have - but still shorter than I would have had I been alone - I stowed the LED puck lights and put away the tripod. Surely this is a place I'd be visiting again - for one reason or another - and I didn't want to keep my buddies waiting any longer than I already had.

We made it.​

Three abreast.​

The tunnel complete, it was finally decision time with regards to the weather. With rain - and rain/snow mix - projected for the remainder of our planned trip, we'd already decided that we'd be heading home by the end of the day. The only question remaining was how we should get there. The easy answer would be to retrace our route to Boulder, hopping on pavement almost immediately. Or, we could follow a route north - on dirt - through the Elkhorn Mountains, to Helena, where we could jump on US-12 before following I-90 the rest of the way home.

After a bit of discussion - and convincing ourselves that we likely had plenty of time to travel the 40 dirt miles before too much rain or snow fell at the higher elevations - we opted for the dirt route. This - we assumed - would take us approximately two hours, as it was a route we'd previously run with Monte in 2018, and neither of us remembered it being anything but reasonably well-graded.

First though we wanted to find a place to have lunch.

Zane's rear suspension doing its thing. And doing it well.​

The clouds were looking nice, but we knew they'd soon run us out of Montana.​

Only a few minutes later, we arrived in Comet. An old ghost town, we had no idea that this place even existed - much less how cool it was - but it seemed the perfect place to do a little poking around and a little lunching.

Rounding the corner to the impressive Comet Mill was more than enough incentive for us to spend an hour looking around.​

Mining began in what would become known as the High Ore Mining District as early as 1869, when a man named John W. Russell began to prospect in the area. However, after working on his claim for five years, Russell sold it to the Alta-Montana Company in 1874, which invested heavily in mining operations and soon a 40-ton-per-day concentrator - a mill process that separates the ore from the dirt and rocks - sat on site. By 1879, the Alta-Montana Company had invested more than $500,000 in developing the Comet and nearby Alta Mines.

However, these efforts were unsuccessful in turning a profit due to the high costs of transportation. Still, director - and major stockholder - of the Alta-Montana Company, Samuel T. Hauser, was determined to make a go of the Comet Mine. So, in 1883, he formed the Helena Mining and Reduction Company, purchasing the assets of the struggling Alta-Montana Company to once again invest in the Comet Mine.

Almost immediately a new smelter was constructed in nearby Wickes along with a 100-ton concentrator at the mine site. At first, silver and lead ore were transported to the smelter by wagon, but a year later a more efficient rope tramway began to carry the heavy loads. When the Northern Pacific Railroad opened their line between Helena and Wickes in 1887, mining operations began to grow.

The town of Comet was officially surveyed and platted in 1876, and its first post office opened the following year. Through the 1890s, Comet and Wickes held a combined 300 people, including a 20-student schoolhouse, numerous homes and businesses, and nearly two dozen saloons. The mine became profitable enough to weather even the silver panic and depression of 1893.

As is always the case, the richest ore didn't last forever. By the turn of the century, the accessible ore was beginning to play out, and the mine sold several times over the next several years, eventually falling into disrepair.

Things changed again in 1927 when the Comet and the Gray Eagle Mines were purchased by the Basin Montana Tunnel Company. A 200-ton concentrator - described at the time as “the most modern in Montana," - was constructed using ore modern techniques and soon the mines were buzzing again, once again employing about 300 men and weathering the depression years. During the 1930s, the operation was the second-largest mining venture in Montana (second only to Butte), and mining operations continued until 1941, at which time most of the equipment was sold, the people moved away, and Comet became a ghost town for good.

Over its lifetime, the Comet mine produced some $20 million in lead, zinc, iron, copper, silver, and gold ore and was the richest mine in the district.

History of Comet, Legends of America​

With the main structure we wanted to check out - the 200-ton-per-day concentrator - clinging to a hillside, and with Mike's leg bothering him enough that he wasn't going to climb the loose rock to the top, Zane and I set off to explore while Mike pulled out a chair and his longest lens to watch from below.

Before getting to the concentrator, an enormous boarding hall immediately next door shown bright in the mid-day sun.​

Upstairs, a series of identical rooms all fed the same hallway.​

​

Seriously Zane?
(don't fret internet, this was not *our* Zane)​

After poking around the boarding hall, it was time for what would be our main event. Not knowing the history at the time, I'd referred to the building that stretched more than 300 feet up the hillside as the mill, and I fully expected to find mill-related machinery in the reasonably well-preserved shell.

Unfortunately, it was just the opposite - with the exception of collapsing timbers, the interior was nearly empty - only a few old concrete sluiceways and an old canvas-belt-driven steel winch inhabiting the space.

The only piece of machinery left, this old winch must have been harder to move than its value in scrap.​

Of course, the requisite disrespect was also on display.​

Above the concentrator, a few workshops - similarly devoid of machinery - also clung to the hillside. Strewn amongst these were two old rusty elevator cars, each laying on their side, but a cool discovery, nonetheless.

This would have hung from a cable, transporting men and equipment down - and back up - through the vertical shaft that led to the heart of the mine.​

Our exploration complete - or at least, as much exploration as we were going to do today, as there are many more buildings and structures to poke around in the old ghost town of Comet - we headed back down to our trucks and had a leisurely lunch in the sun, filling Mike in on the details of what we'd found.

And then, as clouds began to fill the sky from the south, we headed north.

We wouldn't outrun them forever, but we did avoid the initial sprinklings of water that passed through Comet a few minutes after our departure.​

Initially, the road towards Quartz Creek was as we'd expected - a reasonable two-track flowing from one hillside to the next - allowing us to make good time as we attempted to outrun mother nature. For the second - or perhaps third - day in a row, we crisscrossed the same set of transmission lines that we'd been following east, their high voltage conductors crackling loudly overhead - a reminder of the lightning we'd experienced the previous evening.

I don't often have the chance to capture a Tacoma disappearing into the distance, so even as I'd catch up to my buddies, I'd quickly fall behind again as I took advantage of this opportunity.​

Plent of bracing to keep the conductors from getting frisky in high winds!​

Winding amongst the ridgelines, the sky adding some interesting atmosphere to our route.​

When the sun broke through, the colors exploded before us.​

The further north we got, the less we recognized the route over which we found ourselves passing. This was strange - especially given the fact that I'd clearly marked three camp sites along this route - since the last time we'd visited, we'd come from the north, access to the southern end of the route blocked by snow! Whatever the reason for our disorientation, we also found the terrain becoming more and more rugged. Combined with the first few drops of rain from the sky, we found ourselves wondering if we'd made the right call in trying to squeeze in one more dirt road before calling it a day.

Of course, the answer - as it always is - was yes. There's always time for dirt roads. We don't melt in the rain.

As the trail entered the woods, it narrowed.​

Catching the last of the fall colors as we headed north.​

We certainly weren't pushing 30mph anymore.​

Luckily for us, the slower section of trail didn't last all that long - perhaps an hour, tops - and after rerouting our way around an unexpected, locked gate - we soon found ourselves back on the dirt highways that would deliver us to Helena.

A winter stash, soon to be buried under a blanket of snow.​

It's never fun running into a locked gate on one end of a 45-mile road, but with less than a mile of backtracking, we soon discovered a route around the closure.​

The rain that'd passed through earlier in the day had only dampened the roads, leaving them fast and dust free!​

Just after 3:30pm, we wound our way down through Grizzly Gulch, stumbling unexpectedly on the Lime Kilns shortly after hitting pavement. It was the perfect place to air up, so as our compressors hummed away, we wandered across the street to soak a last little bit of history before heading home.

​

The dished hearth of one of the kilns was a nice piece of workmanship.​

Lime manufacture was an essential industry for building in brick and stone in the nineteenth century. The Grizzly Gulch outcrops, and the kilns below them, supplied the entire region with lime of the highest quality. Joseph O'Neill built the first of these kilns in the late 1860s. Hewn timbers, hand-forged metal braces, and finely laid fire brick shipped from the East illustrate the kilns' sturdy construction. Workers blasted or quarried the limestone out of the hills behind, conveyed the rocks on handcars to the kilns or tumbled them down the embankment, and dumped them into the tops of the chimneys.

Pine fires in the furnace beneath burned constantly. After several days, workers shoveled the powdered lime into the cooling shed adjacent the kiln and teamsters hauled it to the building site. Each kiln could produce some 20 tons of lime every eight hours. Irish-born James McKelvey later leased and then owned the kilns, supplying the mortar for the construction of the Montana State Capitol. Lack of railroad access eventually forced closure circa 1910 although one kiln operated again briefly in the 1930s.

Information sign​

Red, white and green, transforming from dirt eaters to pavement princesses. Or something.​

Back in civilization, we were the center of attention as we sped along US-12 - three, nicely spaced, fully outfitted Tacomas racing along at 72mph - towards I-90. Up and down through several passes, I did my best to keep up with my supercharged and turboed counterparts, my engine screaming several hundred rpm higher than theirs at the same speed.

Cresting one pass, a wildfire to the south was likely the result of the storm that'd passed through our camp the previous evening.​

It'd been another fun trip - most definitely not what we'd expected in terms of participants or length - leaving us with the best feeling of all: we wanted to return, to finish what we'd started.

That, though - with winter on the way - would have to wait.








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