The third of our five day ride has no food or fuel stops. We descend from Shefoot and follow the Idaho-Montana border south to the St. Joe headwaters to camp near Simmons and Washout Creeks.
We can’t help but feel a bit victorious to sit comfortably, sipping hot coffee after the frigid night. Jeremy’s comment on my tent last night — “oh, you’re gonna face into the wind, eh?” — was more significant than I expected. A mummy zip and fetal position helped little against winter winds blowing directly on my sleeping bag. Obviously I acknowledge none of that.
Low clouds move rapidly, dragging mist across ridges, thick curtains to occlude the sun. Wind tugs at our pants and jackets above a cliff face that drops a thousand feet to forest below.
“What’s in your pack that you haven’t used?” Jesse asked last night. About the only thing for me was my tire patch kit, which I mentioned. Apparently that was bad luck. I noticed the front tire was low this morning, aired it up, and now it’s low again.
After passing in and out of Montana on State Line Road, we descend to Simmons Creek in Idaho. I stop by a camp trailer at the end of the road. I don’t see where to continue. A middle-aged man emerges with a greeting and points out the narrow trail along the opposite ravine edge. Now we’re getting serious.
Although the words might now inspire more dread than assurance, I tell my brothers anyway, “the site is right on this creek. It can’t be that hard to get there.”
The meadow is perfect, if a bit overgrown for lack of visitation. We look for the best place to pitch and find the remnants of a pack station fifty yards up Washout Creek.
The remains of neat fences, a small bridge, hitching posts and tables are strewn around a large area. It must have been quite an operation at one time.
Before clouds make good on their threats, my brothers erect their tarps and I pop off the front wheel to dunk in the creek and look for escaping air bubbles. I find the problem was just a loose valve stem. The repair kit remains unused.
Although we’ve come quite a ways from Big Creek, where we camped the first night, the 1910 fires that killed many there were also active here. “Practically the whole basin of the St. Joe above Simmons Creek was cleaned out” by those fires.¹
Pro tip: used liquor bottles on camp chair feet keep them from sinking in soft dirt. “We can’t tell anyone,” we agree when Katy Perry comes on the Braven speaker as we’re exchanging bottles of flavored schnapps.
Without the fancy tarps my brothers brought, drips find their way inside my tent as I get in and out. I give it some time to air out before I stuff it into the pack for the day.
“I slept good,” we all seem to agree, probably thanks to the evening’s free flowing libations. Jeremy offers to share his raspberry crumble and we eagerly pony up dishes.
We talked last night about changing our route. We’re a bit lower on gas than predicted. Four trails leave this meadow, single track no matter which way we go. After reviewing the topo map, though, the planned route remains the most direct option. We just have to go for it.