AdventureTaco - turbodb's build and adventures

Yeah, this is one of the things I'm wondering about. Time will tell I suppose. Obviously an Air 3 is much quieter than a Phantom due to size, but it's still not silent when it's nearby.

 

If I said it was annoying AF, I wouldn't be lying. Some parks yes, others no. Some places don't allow you to even have the thing in your possession.

 

I like being in close proximity to an airport, keeps people from flying them near my house.

 

Not really. I am within class C airspace with SJC and an uncontrolled helipad. Levi Stadium for good measure. Yet some Ahole keeps rippping thru the neighborhood...

 

Is it illegal if you don’t get caught?

heavy sarcasm

 

I suppose that's true with a lot of the off-brand ones. If it's a DJI it literally won't let you take off

 

100% illegal. Clearly he doesn't care. There are hoops to get past geofencing but it can be done with DJI.

 

Used to work at a towered airport, Fridays afternoons were always good for drone battles in the hanger. They'll be finding drone parts in the rafters of that place for years.

Thank god they didn't have this phone-home geofence nanny crap back then... FFA would have busted down the door and taken away our kegerator!

Don't worry, I decorated the inside of the bucket.

 

Commercial pilots have reported numerous "interactions" with drones around airports. Personally, I wonder if they can tell the difference between a bird and a drone--there just are not as many drones as reports would imply. Regardless, that's why you end up with restrictions, registration, and banning. But like my neighbor, flying around peeping people's homes just isn't cool. Peeping Toms are not welcome--there are a lot more documented cases of that.

 

Monte's Out | Montana #1
Part of the Half a Trip in Montana (Oct 2023) trip.

Since my first fateful trip with "the guys" from TacomaWorld in 2017, we've tried our best to get together every summer for an adventure. That's not to say that things haven't changed as some of the young guns - once carefree as school let out for the summer - have grown into jobs and families, our two-week jaunts shifting to five days of paid time off, our summer outings shifting into fall. Still, our friendships have persisted - and grown - and this year we are heading back to where (for me) The De-Tour started it all: Montana.

As always, trip preparation was tackled differently for each of us. Mike @Digiratus was ready to go several days before blast off. Zane @Speedytech7 and I took care of a few small tasks each day but were never anxious that we might not be ready to go. And of course, Monte @Blackdawg waited until 24 hours before departure to even glance at his truck.

Still, as Monte looked over Igor and swapped out the various bits and pieces that needed attention, everything was going smoothly - too smoothly we'd all reflect as we look back now - as evening fell and we readied ourselves for adventure.

Even the weather was looking good, the weather guessers predicting that a solid week of wetness would end just as we were crossing the state line.

Then, three hours before my departure - and eight hours after Mike had blasted off to meet up with Zane - everything changed.

There's the wrench we're used to! ​

I’d already gone to bed by the time Monte shared that little tidbit with the group, so I didn't discover it until 3:00am, as I headed east towards Zane and Mike in Spokane. At that point, there was nothing to do but drive through the night - decisions impossible to make now - hoping that the trip was still on.

It was just before 8:00am when Zane let me know that they were only a few minutes behind me. Pulling off the highway so they could catch up, I poured a quick bowl of cereal and enjoyed the brisk sunny morning.

After warm hellos and only a couple minutes of catching up, discussion turned to the inevitable. It seemed strange to explore Monte's home state without him, so ideas were floated that would take us to warmer weather - south to the red rock of Moab, the Owyhee of Oregon, or even somewhere in Idaho.

Of these, only Moab would have nicer weather than our current plan, but a 20-hour drive to get there put a bit of a damper on the idea. And so - at least for the first few days of nice weather - we decided we'd continue with our original plan.

Heading east, I took up my favorite position. One where I don't have to worry that I'm slowing anyone else down.​

It was near noon as we rolled into Missoula. After a quick lunch of liquid dinosaur for the Tacoma's, it seemed only reasonable that we eat as well. Luckily, we'd mapped a route just out of town to the top of Blue Mountain, where a fire lookout an observatory would surely provide spectacular views as we downed our first trail meal of the trip.

Still fully aired up, we hit the dirt.​

Fall was in the air, larches still clinging to the last of their summer green.​

Turns out that the final mile - and 1000 vertical feet - of road to the lookout is closed to vehicular traffic, and while it seemed like there could be other roads that might allow us to bypass the locked gate, we opted for a quick lunch on the side of the road, allowing us to continue on towards a small ghost town outside of Philipsburg - our destination for the evening.

We made good time along the Skalkaho Highway, each end of it paved, the middle consisting of well-graded gravel.​

Admiring Skalkaho Falls.​

Dual cascade.​

I think it was Zane who spotted the ghost town of Granite and suggested it as the spot those of us coming from the west could meet up with the one of us coming from the east. And, though there was no longer such a location needed, we figured that it might make for a nice camp area for the first night.

Up we went, quickly climbing from 5000-feet to 7000-feet. Still fully aired up, the roads here were a good bit rougher than those we'd encountered earlier in the day, and airing down would have been the right call. So, we didn't.

Just below the old Granite townsite, a tower from the Bi-Metalic Aerial Tramway was slowly deteriorating. Built in 1889 to carry ore from the Blaine shaft in Granite to the Bi-Metallic Mill near Philipsburg, the tramway was the longest in the United States - dropping 1225 feet over a distance of 9750 feet - at the time of construction.

Information Sign​

One of the wooden towers, still sporting the rollers that once supported a large cable that the tram cars were attached to.​

Shortly after passing the tram tower, a plaque welcomed us to Granite.​

Granite was often called the "town without night." Its round-the-clock mining activities created prospective customers at all hours. Many businesses operated 24 hours a day. For over a decade this town of 3,000 reigned as one of the richest and busiest sites in the West. It was Montana's "Silver Queen."

Both the Granite Mountain Mining Company and later the Bi-Metallic Mining Company operated side by side beneath the town. At the height of the operations, output from the mines ran between $250,000 and $275,000 per month. In the years between 1885 and 1892, more than $30 million in gold and silver was taken out through the Granite portals.

Charles McLure, a seasoned mining man and foreman of Philipsburg's Hope Mill is credited with taking turning the early, modest, mining successes on Granite mountain into the enormously profitable venture. With the help of his brother-in-law Charles Clark and risk capital from St. Louis business interests, McLure built the Granite operations to legendary status. Initial investors were paid back their investments within a year. They later split more than $11 million in dividends. It is estimated that McLure and Clark each made more than a million dollars from the claim.

The collapse of the silver market brought on by the repeal of the Sherman Act sealed Granite's fate. On August 1, 1893, the mines' shutdown forced a frantic mass exodus of most of the town. Word has it that a mining foreman tied down the chain of the mine's whistle, and its mournful, one-note dirge accompanied the now unemployed down the mountainside and away from Granite forever.

After the collapse, Granite Mountain Mining Corporation combined with the Bi-Metallic Mining Company as a smaller scale operation for the next three decades, but try as they might, the mines never achieved the successes seen before the crash. In 1934, the combined company ceased all operations and dissolved, leaving nature to quietly reclaim the mountain peak.

Information Sign​

In the distance, the hillside was covered with tailings from what I'd later discover to be the upper aerial tramway terminal of the Ruby Shaft. This tramway extended east rather than west, and was 8750 feet long.​

Finding a spot for our trucks along Main Street, the question wasn't so much if we were going to explore Granite, but rather for how long. Unfortunately, Mike's leg was acting up a bit, so as Zane and I headed up the hill towards the Ruby Shaft, Mike hung out along the main drag.

We got the best parking spots.​

Several buildings still stood along main street, but none was more grand than the Miner's Union Hall. Built in 1890, this three story building cost $23,000 and was the social center of town. The first floor was constructed primarily of granite quarried locally, while the upper stories were brick.

The second floor housed union offices, a library, and a large hall with an 18 ft. ceiling, wallpaper and a special maple "spring floor" for dancing. At the back was a stage. 500 folding chairs provides seating for concerts, operas, and theatricals. The first floor was a recreation hall for the miners, with billiards and card tables. On the third floor was a meeting room used by clubs and secret orders.

Information Sign​

The multi-material construction seemed strange, but certainly added a unique flare to the hall.​

Accented window headers.​

The tin roof on a nearby building, similar to that which once covered the Union Hall.​

Leaving Mike, Zane and I headed uphill towards the mine itself, following a small footpath we found through the woods. We'd later discover that a larger, Tacoma path, would have delivered us - with Mike - to the same spot with less exertion, but after a day of driving, it was nice to wander under our own power, noting the numerous stone foundations of long-collapsed homes, churches, and storefronts that once clung to the hillside.

And then, through the trees, we caught sight of a building that looked much too new. With similar stone-and-brick construction as the Miner's Union Hall, this was the Superintendent's House. Recently renovated by those who maintain this place - preserving what they can and rebuilding what can't be saved - it sported a new roof and cupolas, the new wood still bright in the early evening sun.

The super's place.​

By 1889, this house stood at the head of Magnolia Avenue, or "Silk Stocking Row, " where the elite of Granite lived. The first floor housed living quarters for the Superintendent of the Granite Mountain Mining Co. The second floor may have originally housed the mine office, accessed through a door at the back reached by a plank bridgeway from the hillside. No inside connection has ever existed between the two floors.

From 1889 to 1893, Superintendent Thomas Weir lived in this house. A capable manager, Weir did much to improve living and working conditions for the miners. Sweat soaked miners would emerge from the 1,000 ft. shaft into winter's bitter cold, prime candidates for pneumonia. Without antibiotics, the death rate was high. Weir built a "drying house" and a hospital, had bunkhouses cleaned and fumigated, and gave the men one day off a week and good wages... $3.50 a day.

Information Sign​

From there, we wandered a bit further, hoping to see the upper tramway terminal that we'd seen from the other side of the ravine, but soon realizing that it was several hundred feet higher up the hill - atop a tall pile of tailings - an endeavor that would have required more time and effort than we were ready to expend.

And so, it was back down to Main Street where we met up with Mike and set off in search of camp for the night.

Zane had noted a couple places from the satellite view, but with limited depth perception from outer space, it was no surprise that what we'd considered to be the prime location was anything but. A washed-out-road, on a 30-degree slope, with no view to speak of, was not our idea of an ideal camp site, and so after a quick radio exchange, we decided to split in order to speed up the search for an alternate location.

Selfishly, I volunteered to search further up the hill - along the road that Zane and I had discovered on our way back from the Superintendent's House - to see if there was something up at the mine site worth considering. Perhaps a tailings or waste pile that would afford spectacular views of the hills to the west, or a sheltered granite cove with an explorable adit. At the very least, I hoped to see that tramway terminal that'd eluded me so far…

Heading up to the top, I passed the remains of Mills A and B.​

The Granite Mountain Mining Company constructed two mills adjoining the mining operation known as the Ruby Shaft. These structures, Mill A and Mill B, housed a total of 70 stamp mills which processed ore. Crushing ore to be separated by amalgamation with mercury, the mines and mills all operated six days a week.

When the production of the Ruby Shaft exceeded the capacity of Mills A and B in 1889, the Granite Mountain Mining Company built a mill in Rumsey to handle the additional ore.

They named this new operation Mill C.

Information Sign​

What little wood was left was likely the supporting structure for a handful of the 70 stamp mills that once echoed across the mine.​

Proceeding past the mills, I finally reached the enormous ore chute at the top of the Ruby Shaft.​

At this point, I have to admit that I was both looking for a camp site but also doing a bit of sight seeing. The later was semi-rushed however, for two reasons: first, I knew Zane and Mike were waiting for me, and second, there were a couple guys with a semi-automatic-rifley-gun hanging out, looking at their phones, and enjoying the sunset. It was enough for me to hear one of them say, "I should probably turn the barrel around so it's not pointing at you," for me to decide that this might not be the safest place for us to setup camp for the night.

A small workshop below the ore chute was still in pretty good shape.​

The amount of wood that went into this ore chute-tram terminal was impressive, but it's not going to be here forever!​

A commanding view.​

After a quick look around for somewhere that was a little more protected from errant ammunition, I called back to Mike on the Ham and reported my lack of success in finding a place for us to call home for the evening.

He and Zane hadn't had much more luck, and the route they'd taken had been rough. Mike suggested that - rather than following their track - I should head back down to Philipsburg the way we'd come up, where we'd meet up and then head to a camp site about an hour north. It was a site that Mike, Monte, Devin, @mrs.turbodb and I had camped at on the last night of our spring trip to Montana some six years earlier, and one that I'd marked on our maps as "great camp site: on a ridge, with views of the Crazies."

And then, just as I was at the fork - where I could go back the way we'd come or follow the fun route that Zane and Mike had explored - Mike came over the radio to let me know that Zane had found a site that he thought "would work."

It was the understatement of the day. Or maybe the trip.

Heading down to rendevous, I arrived to find both of my buddies with their tents deployed, chairs arranged, and a fire ring in the process of being rebuilt. Around us, a cluster of buildings - in various states of disrepair - nestled into the trees. I found a flat spot and knew that this was going to be something special.

A bright yellow aspen behind an ore chute that I was sure to investigate before we broke camp!​

With the light waning, I wasted no time in looking around a bit before setting up my own digs for the night. Directly behind camp, an enormous hole in the ground - a collapsed vertical shaft - was strewn with beams more than 18" square. A little further on, a machine shop and bunkhouse - nestled spookily into the trees - were going to be on my short list for morning exploration.

I headed back towards camp. And on arriving, I couldn't help but gather up the small puck lights that Mike @mk5 had introduced me to, so I could get my first Halloween photos of the year.

Haunted bunkhouse.​

Brimstone Boiler.​

Darkness setting in, I gathered up my ominous lighting and made a beeline for the safety of the camp fire - now crackling away next to what would become my dinner: a big bowl of Mike's famous salsa.

Spectacularly spicy, I scooped chip after chip into my mouth. Conversation meandered from one topic to the next, log after log sustaining the warm glow that kept the chill of the night air at bay.

It was a little after midnight when we - or at least, I - finally called it quits. It'd been a strange first day, but it was only the first of a series of days that can only be described as strange.







.

 

Thanks for the post. After 30 days I was getting the Jimmies!

 

Dan's Stuck | Montana #2
Part of the Half a Trip in Montana (Oct 2023) trip.

Having only gotten a few hours of shuteye before setting off on this adventure, the cool night air of western Montana - somewhere in the low 30s °F - made my cozy down comforters the perfect place to snuggle in for one of the best nights of sleep I've had in a long time. I'm not sure if I woke up at all through the night, only realizing when the sky was beginning to brighten that a thin layer of frost covered not only the exterior my tent, but also the top of my bedding.

Knowing that I still had a couple hours before my compatriots - Zane @Speedytech7 and Mike @Digiratus - would be making their way down to ground level, I did a little reading of the Jason Bourne series on my Kindle Paperwhite, and copied photos from the previous day from my camera to the laptop - so as to avoid losing them as I had a few months earlier (Curse of the Pahranagat).

Camp was looking nice with a couple bright aspen and a pastel sky.​

Frosty tents and lots to explore in the morning light.​

Hearing feet on the ground a few minutes after the sun crested the tree line, I wrapped up whatever chapter I was reading and began the defrosting process by moving the tent into a patch of sunlight. It's amazing how quickly a little sun can dry things out, and after following my lead, Zane and I headed off to explore the nearby buildings.

On our way out of camp, we noticed this really cool old wire-wrapped wooden water pipe that'd been exposed as a vertical shaft collapsed.​

Turns out that the mine we'd camped at along Contract Mill Rd was the Huffman Copper Mine. There's not much - or any if you're me - information about this old place to be found on the internets, but I'm all ears if anyone has better search-fu than I do!

Wandering from ruin to ruin, the two most interesting were the spooky old bunkhouse I'd photographed the previous evening, and a fantastic machine shop that rivaled some museums. That's where Zane and I spent most of our time, completely unaware that a little further up the hill were the ruins of a rather large mill!

With corrugated metal walls, the machine shop was reasonably well preserved.​

Quite the motor for these two beastly winches that once pulled ore from the nearby vertical shaft.​

Cable was in good shape; bearings were still as smooth as ever!​

Two-piston steam engine turned a generator that powered the place.​

I think Ingersoll-Rand powered almost every mine in the west.​

It was 11:00am by the time we got back to camp, broke everything down, and got on the trail. Our plan for the day was to drive from Granite - on the western flank of the Flint Creek Range - to Caruthers Lake on the eastern side. Our route - or at least the one that'd been mapped out on our GPS - suggested heading back down to Philipsburg before making our way through the mountains, but I had a "better" ideal.

You see, while searching for a camp site the previous evening, I'd noticed that the road from the Ruby Shaft at the top of Granite appeared to - eventually - meet up with our mapped route, so I suggested that we could save a bunch of miles by giving it a try. Those are - we all know - famous last words, but Mike and Zane were game, and we were out to explore, so up the mountain we climbed, my companions getting their first taste of the even-better-in-morning-light views.

Up we go.​

We could have camped here with a view, but I think the spot we found was actually better.​

Looking out over the Ruby Shaft Aerial Tram Station / Ore Chute towards Philipsburg.​

Silver (with-a-touch-of-gold) mining. "Low impact" on the surroundings.​

Soaking it all in.​

It was 11:30am when we started out County Road 169 in search of an intersecting route that would - hopefully - usher us through the Flint Creek Range. This wasn't just any county road, however; from the get-go this road promised fun and excitement!

Unsafe you say? Yes, please!​

Having aired down before leaving camp, we immediately put our soft tires to use, bumping our way over basketball-size-and-larger rocks, climbing from 6,000 feet to 8,300 in a matter of a few miles. It was here that we stopped at some point - for photos and perhaps a short bathroom break - that Mike and I got to talking, and he mentioned that we were on a route that could take all day given our current speeds.

"It's only another mile or two to the road that Monte mapped," I replied, smiling.

Turns out I must have had the scale on my map zoomed out more than I thought - a couple miles turned into three, and then five, until 8.5 miles later, we finally reached the intersection with County Road 1592. It was lunch time, but I surely wasn't going to mention that to my buddies, because it doesn't take "until lunch" to travel just a mile or two.

There wasn't anything overly technical, but it was still slow going.​

Zane's truck was performing flawlessly.​

We spent most of those eight-and-a-half miles picking our way through the trees - no ridges, overlooks, or even reasonably open areas presenting themselves for photo stops - so when we happened on a cabin in the woods, there was no way we were just going to pass it by without stopping.

Dueling chimney's.​

Initially I thought this was just a hunting cabin - and that we'd find it mostly empty - the owner carting their gear in and out each year as they set out to fill their tags. But, on opening the door, the entire thing was stuffed to the brim with furniture and supplies, all of it covered in several inches of rat feces. I shut the door quickly, and we didn't linger.

As we continued through the property, we quickly realized this was an old mine, its owner once planning to return. (image: Google Earth)​

Having reached the summit of the trail just before the cabin, we continued on a mostly downhill trajectory, Mike calling out over the CB radio that my "one mile" estimate was woefully short - a detail that couldn't be argued (though I surely tried), despite the fact that there was nothing we could do about it.

The real question now was whether the trail we were going to intersect would be faster or slower than the one we currently found ourselves plodding along. Mike was pretty sure that it'd be a nice, graded, four-lane county road; I thought it looked an awful lot like that which we were already traveling. Only time would tell whose map tiles were more accurate. Until then, we picked our way down long-forgotten rocky roads, wondering if - at any point - we'd be forced to turn around entirely.

It really was a lot of fun working our way through the forest.​

Zane dove headfirst into this mud bath, a higher-than-it-looked five-foot drop.​

We considered lunch at Racetrack Lake but opted to push on to "the next one."
(Which we would never reach )​

A bit after 1:00pm when we turned east onto County Road 1592, our hopes for a high-speed thoroughfare were quickly trounced. The road here was similarly rough to the one we'd just completed, our only hope that it would improve as we got closer to Deer Lodge and civilization. Still, we held out hope for a lunch at Fisher Lake.

For the mile-and-a-half - or what I would later call a "quarter mile or so," we made slow but steady progress. Rocky and muddy, the trail wasn't anything that caused us any concern, our spongy tires and suspension absorbing the bumps in stride.

Certainly, we weren't running into the kind of trouble that this guy did. Hard to run a trail like this with no wheels or engine.​

It was only as I approached a particularly steep section of trail that things really got interesting. Here, the trail was steep enough to get washed out by seasonal rains, and a narrow chute had developed at the top of the slope. The washout continued further down, but there a reasonably safe line - downhill at least - seemed more obvious, or at least, less off-camber.

Radioing back that I wanted to take a look, I - soon followed by Mike and Zane - hopped out of the truck to pick the best line through the initial obstacle, mentioning as I did, that, "if we make it down this, I sure hope we can make it through - with all the loose dirt, it'll be even harder coming back up!"

Hoping to catch the action as we each navigated the trickiest section of trail we'd encountered, I setup the camera to snap a photo every second and headed back to give it a go.​

A line agreed upon - and with Zane spotting - I climbed back in the Tacoma and inched my way forward. The plan - should everything go as we expected - was to keep the driver side high on the chute and drop the passenger side down into the bottom, using the slider to keep from hitting the vertical wall of granite that would otherwise chew up our passenger side panels.

Initially, things went as planned. The driver side stayed high, the passenger side dropped down, and soon I was three-wheeling my way down the mountain.

Always a "fun" feeling to feel the truck tip forward and right as it nearly rolls into a granite wall.​

Assured that the paneling on the passenger side didn't appear to be in any real danger, I pressed on, my slider grinding away on the granite for several feet before getting captured by a divot in the stone. No worries I figured - this is why I have an ARB front locker - I'd just pop on the front locker and pull myself through.

Except no.

Even with the front locked, the amount of weight pushing the slider into the granite was just too great, the Tacoma wouldn't budge. It was then that Zane noticed something else. The driver rear tire was back on the ground, but it wasn't happy.

Be it the skinny tires, or a line just slightly too far to the right, I was about to lose my bead.​

With the rear still unlocked, I tried backing up. It was a big nope on that as well, the front tires unable to find purchase in the loose dirt at the bottom of the notch.

Stuck.​

As someone who generally travels solo, I was very glad to have a couple buddies along at this point. Not that I would have gotten myself into this situation as a single vehicle - I know enough to generally avoid situations like this when I'm alone - and, I probably could have winched myself forward - even if it meant losing a bead or a bit of body damage - but it was reassuring to be able to work through the problem with some friends and know that we'd be able to pull me back out the way I'd come.

And so, naturally, that's what we did - Zane pulling his truck into position and winching me back out of the notch.

This first pull didn't actually work, the slider was just too wedged into the rock. We ended up using a snatch block and a nearby tree to pull the rear end to the left, freeing the slider.​

Extraction complete, it was time to evaluate our options. Ultimately, not knowing what else was in store for the remaining 15 miles of the route, we decided that the smart move - even with three vehicles - was to head back the way we'd come, stopping for lunch at a nearby opening in the trees, before making our way towards Georgetown, where a paved route would take us to Deer Lodge and the remainder of our adventure.

And so, after a leisurely meal of sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, we headed west, eventually passing the intersection that'd delivered us from Granite, once again hoping that the road would get better as we made our way toward civilization; knowing that if it didn't, we'd be retracing our route from the morning, all the way to where we'd begun our day.

And that's when we found a really nice camp site.

It was only 3:00pm when the forest gave way to a broad meadow, a couple fire rings already nestled into the trees. Always on the lookout, Mike admitted that it was even a bit early for him, but that, "It's never too early to find camp." So, we did!

Mike and Zane opted for the shelter of the trees, I for the open skies above.​

Finding camp early turned out to be fortuitous. To this point, we hadn't really figured out what our overall plan for the trip was going to be, but we knew that with Monte @Blackdog unable to join in his home state, and rain forecast in a couple of days, we probably needed to figure out (a) exactly what we wanted to do, (b) what we wanted to save until Monte could join, and (c) whether we wanted to suffer through the rain or run south - or home - for cover.

Camp was looking nice in the warm afternoon sun.​

And so, after procuring a nearby standing dead tree for our campfire using Mike's extremely convenient battery-operated Milwaukee chainsaw, we sat down to figure out our plan, and to check out the area around camp with the flying camera.

It was as we stared down at the little screen on the DJI remote control that we realized that we could have used this new contraption earlier in the day - to scout the trail to the east - perhaps allowing us to continue on our way if no other obstacles presented themselves for the remainder of the route.

The yellow larches on the hillside were on fire as the sun raced towards the horizon.​

A mile away - and barely visible from camp - a radio installation was perched high on the ridge line.​

Camp was closer to Fred Burr Lake than we realized, the water glassy on this clear evening.​

Even as we were nestled into the trees, it was fun gain a little elevation with the flying camera, affording us a nice view of the layered horizon.​

Our plan for the remainder of the trip sorted, we dug into a big bowl of Mike's guacamole as the campfire got started. Having eaten a reasonably late lunch - and having decided that we'd do a big group breakfast in the morning - guac, chips, and chocolate chip cookies would be our dinner of champions.

Not that such a dinner would ever be anything else.

The fires we had on this trip were never starved for fuel.​

We hung out around the fire - toasty warm - until it consumed the entire tree we'd harvested. After a strange day on the trail, it was nice to fall back into our routine and a sense of normalcy. Not that the next day - or remainder of the trip - would be normal; this one had surprises around every bend.

 

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.










.​

 

I just spent some time in the Manti-La Sal mountains. I had been feeling a little "home sick" you could say and your recent Utah BDR trip didn't help to discourage that feeling so in part I should thank you


You may recognize a couple of the peaks in this one

 

Obviously I shouldn't be surprised given the time of year, but wow, so golden! Glad you had a chance to get back there, and hope you enjoyed your time!

 

we definitely enjoyed the trip you could say it was a blast, literally, I got to shoot my first Grouse with a shotgun that was given to my father when he was 11 and then passed to me when I was 12. The blueing has been warn down by the hands of three generations out putting food on the table as an excuse to enjoy the back country and the sounds of silence.

 

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.








.

 

Im starting at the beginning.

 

You've got some rough initial posts to get through, sorry!

 

Headed South... to the Arctic | Connect the Dots #1
Part of the Connecting the Dots in Nevada (Oct 2023) trip.

It was refreshing 6°F as we emerged from the tent on the first morning of our trip. Without a doubt, @mrs.turbodb's statement the previous afternoon as we pounded away the miles in the warmth of the Tacoma - "We're headed south to the Arctic" - was top of mind. I'd ribbed her at the time - geography is her thing - but there was no question that the trip was off to an auspicious start.

So, I'd better give a bit of background on how we ended up here.

There isn't any *good* reason to "be" in temperatures like this.​

No matter where we travel, there always seem to be more to see than time to see it. The result - inevitably - is that areas are left un- or at the very least under-explored, leaving us wanting more; urging us to return.

Nevada is no exception. One of our first introductions to this fantastical state was along the Nevada Backcountry Discovery Route (NVBDR), a route that surprised us both with its beauty. Since then, we've returned several times, each time uncovering more and more that this underrated state has to offer.

But this time was a little different. Rather than heading to a specific region, we'd be looping through the state, jumping from place to place that we've discovered but - for one reason or another - have been unable to visit.

We were hoping to do it before the whole place was covered in snow, but we'd obviously missed our window with Lamoille Canyon.

The previous afternoon...

We'd crossed into Nevada - after stints in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho - in the Owyhee region. It's a favorite of ours, but we've not spent much time in the portion that reaches into Nevada - something we'll have to remedy on a future adventure.

As @mrs.turbodb napped, I snapped a quick photo of a familiar name, the hillside covered with the first dusting of white stuff we'd encounter.​

The landscape didn't appear any warmer as we continued south.​

Soon, we found ourselves climbing through Wild Horse Canyon, the roads clear, but the hillsides becoming whiter even as our elevation barely changed. Around a bend we stumbled on the Wild Horse Dam, built in 1969, and a striking structure that we knew we had to investigate in a bit more detail.

​

After wrestling to get a good angle with my camera, I realized that this was the perfect opportunity to break out the flying variant.​

A boy with a toy, I couldn't help but to play around with angles and perspective a bit.​

Wild Horse Reservoir - bigger than you might suspect; certainly bigger than we thought when we arrived at the dam.​

After playing around with the drone for a few minutes - the first time @mrs.turbodb had seen it and more interesting than I think she expected - it was back into the warmth of the Tacoma as we continued south towards our first destination.

With the days getting shorter, we were still a few hours from camp as the sun set and the moon climbed into the sky.​

Knowing that we'd arrive to camp late - and that it was likely to be on the chilly side - we'd stopped in Boise, Idaho for fuel, a quick lunch at Wendy's, and to pick up dinner - a 16" long Turkey Tom - at the local Jimmy Johns. Rolling into Lamoille Canyon just after 8:00pm, this last point turned out to be the most important. The road - covered in ice and snow - was slippery enough for me to shift into 4WD, and it wasn't a hard decision to simply camp in the parking area at the end of the canyon - all the campgrounds were closed and no one else seemed to have made the same silly decisions that delivered us to this place.

I braved the balmy 30°F temps to setup the tent and snap a few quick photos.​

The moon - now high in the sky - did a great job of illuminating the glacier-carved canyon walls.​

Dinner turned out to be a flop. Somehow our sandwich ended up devoid of mayo, apparently the sole ingredient responsible for any semblance of flavor. Still, we were hungry and eating slowly allowed us a few more precious minutes in the truck, so we each suffered through our meal with minimal complaints. And then, after a quick brush of the teeth, we zipped up all possible tent closures and snuggled down into the comforters for what would turn out to be a rather pleasant night's sleep.

And now, back to our "refreshing" morning...

That, then, brings us to the 6°F situation. I'd planned for us to tackle two hikes in Lamoille Canyon, but even as we'd headed to bed we'd decided to scrap the second - a trailless trek up a steep hillside - and evaluate the feasibility of the first - Lamoille Lake - when we had a better sense of the snow depths in the morning.

At least the tent was dry, and the views weren't anything to complain about.​

I think we made the right call to skip the second hike, that looks rather treacherous.​

Checking in with my companion, I was elated to hear that she was up for giving the first hike a shot. It was - we figured - only four miles roundtrip, and we could always turn back if the snow goot too deep or the trail unmanageable. And so, we found what we believed to be the trailhead gossip: it wasn't) and began our ascent.

Good advice in all situations.​

Turns out that this would ultimately take us to the right place, but we were technically on the "Lamoille Lake pack trail."​

The horses got some good views on their way up. Better than the regular trail, we'd later discover.​

For most of the climb, the snow depth ranged from 8- to 14-inches, making @mrs.turbodb glad for the tall gators and Yak Trax she was wearing, and me happy to plod along in my soft-rubber-soled Muck boots. Along the way, springs and creeks still trickled down the hillsides, the winter's wrath not yet enough to fully impede their downward progression.

Waves of solid water.​

A battle between the sun and cold.​

All alone in a winter wonderland.​

Who says a tree has no heart?​

We arrived at Lake Lamoille a little before 10:30am. Having gained some 1,000 feet over the last couple of miles, we found ourselves at 9,700, our bodies warm from the exercise. Despite the snow, we were both glad to have made the decision to carry on - it was turning into a beautiful morning.

Enjoying the view.​

The view.​

The view behind us wasn't bad, either.​

Having lugged it up on my hips, the time was right for a bit more pilot practice before heading back down to the Tacoma, so I compressed a DJI Air 3-sized pad of snow and unfolded my flying beast.

Soon it was in the air, my fingers alternately dancing over the screen and pressing the sticks, words I will surely not repeat here escaping my lips. Seriously - as someone who's never been into modern video games, which seem to use the same "control style" as a drone - I'm really bad at flying. Luckily, my hiking companion was happy to humor me, and we spent a half hour or so dorking around with various flying modes and posing for various videos that turned out so terribly that they've already been digitally shredded and shall never be mentioned again.

I assure you, we are in this photo. Somewhere.​

This was a cool view that we'd have never noticed without this time-sucking-machine. Again, like Waldo, we are there. Somewhere.​

While flying around - usually in the wrong direction or with the camera pointed in the wrong place - I'd happened to notice a few other lakes just to our east. These Dollar Lakes were ones that the official trail - the one we'd meant to hike - passed on its way to Lamoille Lake, so we decided that we'd try to follow that route on our way down the mountain. The trick - of course - would be finding it.

The Dollar Lakes at the end of Lamoille Canyon.​

Snow bashing our way down - the snow a bit deeper on this shady side of the canyon - we made quick work of the three Dollar Lakes, each progressively more frozen than the last, as we enjoyed the expansive views to the north. This, surely, is a place worth revisiting during each season - the fresh green of spring and the brilliant colors of fall turning these canyon walls into a true work of art.

The snow was even deeper over here in the shade.​

A small island beckoned in the middle Dollar Lake, but the ice was too thin to investigate.​

A fantastic pallet, the white snow like a clean canvas for next season.​

Back at the Tacoma, it was only noon, but we were hungry. Not sure if we'd find a frozen container of milk, we'd skipped our cereal breakfast, so @mrs.turbodb set about assembly of turkey sandwiches - with mayo, of course - while I stowed the tent which was pleasantly-warm-inside from sitting in the sun for the last couple of hours.

Lunch lasted all of about 20 minutes, and soon we were on our way out of the canyon, our decision to skip the second hike confirmed as we passed the "trailhead," where a sheet of ice extended up the trailless, nearly 60-degree incline.

We stopped near Lamoille Camp to admire the glacier-carved canyons.​

250,000 years ago, two glaciers - each 1,000 feet thick - merged here and extended downstream to the mouth of Lamoille Canyon. Right Fork Lamoille Creek Glacier (above photo, center), extended three miles up canyon, while Lamoille Glacier began nine miles up Lamoille Canyon (above photo, left).

35,000 years ago, temperatures warmed and the glaciers melted. Then, the climate turned cold and stormy again, glaciers reappeared - though smaller than before. As rocks and soil were dragged from the left wall of its canyon, Right Fork Glacier built a dam across Lamoille Canyon and a small lake formed.

Temperatures have again warmed, and when the glaciers melted for the last time, the dam washed out and Lamoille Creek has since cut a V-shaped valley.

Information Sign​

From Lamoille Canyon, we had a good distance to our next dot in the great state of Nevada. A mine, high at the top of a mountain, we knew we'd be arriving after dark, even having skipped the second planned hike of the day. Undeterred - we could always explore in the morning, we hit the I-80 and headed west.

We'd see a lot of wide-open country on this trip.​

At Battle Mountain we filled up with fuel and turned south, a painfully slow process as the entire town was celebrating Halloween a few days early and traffic was backed up at every intersection as dinosaurs, princesses, minions, and their bodyguards crossed the streets in search of the perfect full-sized candy bar bonanza. Soon enough though, we were on dirt - albeit well-graded - for the first time, and making good time once again.

I don't know if Nevada has the most wild horses, but there are a lot!​

With the hours ticking by and the sun racing toward the horizon, things were a little boring along this section of the route but just as we were nodding off, a small cabin presented itself a few hundred yards off the main road. Unsure what it was, but sure that it was something, I pointed the Tacoma down a small spur to investigate.

Whatever it is, that's one heck of a ventilation system.​

Turns out that it was some sort of old electrical substation or switching shack or something. This made a lot of sense - and was probably something we'd have realized had we not been nodding off - as a series of power poles ran through the valley, passing immediately next to the structure.

Inside was a mess.​

Anyone need a line amp? If I'd completed my training as an electrical engineer, I'd probably know what these do. Or did.​

Blurry labels. These things must have been trying to escape when I snapped the photo. Because I have an ultra-steady hand.​

Ready to get back to our naps, the last of the sunlight was dancing on the hilltops as we turned west and then south in the Tobin Range - headed for what we thought was the Tip Top mine. Just before turning off of Golconda Canyon Rd, we came to an old homestead that certainly seemed worth checking out.

A purple hue blanketed the landscape as we raced towards camp.​

Some nice stonework on one of the outbuildings.​

Never seen anything like this wood-fired boiler (room heater) I discovered in one of the buildings.​

Now that's one way to make a roof!​

I really liked the way this rusty old hardware looked against the weathered wood.​

A blacksmith's shop, complete with hand-crank blower.​

There were a ton of metal signs around. Mostly for beer, it seems.​

By the time we were done poking amongst the half-dozen or so buildings that comprised this old homestead, the sun had set and the last of the days light was fading quickly. We'd made better time than I'd expected, but we were definitely going to be making dinner in the dark.

Our second dramatic moonrise in as many days.​

Nearing the end of our planned route, we had a decision to make. Here, the road forked, and I'd labelled the left fork (at the top of the mountain) as the Tip Top Mine and the right (at the bottom of a nearby canyon) as Tip Top Mine cabins. While these labels were incorrect, we decided that we'd prefer waking up with a view (and some sun on the tent) even if it was a little cooler throughout the night, so we headed up.

Then, three quarters of the way to the top, we wussed out. It's not that the road was impassable - the Tacoma was doing just fine - but we had no idea how far the steep, narrow, ledge road would continue, and as the grade increased, we decided it was better to bail when we had the chance than find ourselves headed for the bottom of the canyon via a more direct route than the road.

And so, just after 7:00pm - after making our way back to the wye and down to the mining cabins - we leveled the truck in the road and set about prepping dinner. Let me tell you - it was not pleasant. Though we were 3,000 feet lower than where we'd started our day, it felt colder. We could only hope that we'd stay warm through the night.






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