Welcome to Montana

Judy and I were married in November 1977, and moved to our new place in Gallatin Canyon, Montana a month later. Our first Christmas was pretty raw. Judy got frost bite in a toe while we were out killing our first Christmas tree—an act that turned into a family tradition—the tree killing, not the frostbite. We barely had two nickels to rub together, having put everything we had into the down payment on the Gallatin property (this, of course, was back when you actually had to put real money down).

Following the frostbite thing, I decided a great Christmas gift for Judy would be a custom-made pair of gators to keep the snow out of her boots—what a romantic. The guy in Bozeman who made them promised to have them for me on Christmas Eve, but when I got to town to pick them up, his shop was closed, along with everything else in town. I handmade Judy a lame card that was no substitute for a gift.

Judy and I decorated the tree with paper chains and popcorn, and succeeded in burning half the popcorn and ruining one of our nice wedding present Revere Ware pots in the process. Needless to say, Christmas morning was a bit of a downer, especially for Judy—away from her folks for the first time in her life. I was determined to cheer her up and devised a plan to make this a day to remember.

As evening fell, the Big Sky was beginning to turn pink, and I predicted a fabulous sunset—if we could only get to a vantage point to see it. A Jeep ride up to the Spanish Peak overlook behind our place would be perfect. We bundled up and set off up Hell Roaring Creek Trail. About a mile into the trip, our way was blocked by a snow drift about 20 feet across. Judy was skeptical but I had pushed my way through plenty of snow drifts before. I got up a little momentum and we managed to churn our way about three quarters of the way through before bogging down. I shoved it in reverse and churned my way back out. I figured that on a second pass, I could easily punch through the last five or so feet now that I had “plowed” a track through most of the drift. But as I backed out of the drift I found I had no brakes. (It turned out that with all the churning snow, I had torn the brake line off of the brake master cylinder.) Having lost my brakes on a previous occasion (see Mineral Fork), I knew that turning the key off worked just as well as brakes when you’re in low range. So, with the sunset still beckoning, I insisted on pressing onward. On the second try, we successfully plowed through the drift and continued on our way—the sunset was going to be just what Judy needed!

The final run to the overlook was quite spectacular. The road climbed the ridge back for about a half mile, with Gallatin Canyon and the fiery, sunset-lit Storm Castle looming to our left, and through the trees to our right was Hell Roaring Canyon. Our final destination was the staging area for a horseback trail that stabbed back into the Spanish Peak Wilderness area. From the trailhead we would be able to look straight up Hell Roaring Canyon to watch the sun set over Spanish Peak, the highest point in the Gallatin Range.

Just below the trailhead, the road made a fairly steep 90 degree right turn. I was already visualizing a romantic panorama when I became aware that under a light dusting of new snow, the road had turned to shear ice. Earlier in the season, debris had plugged a little stream and diverted it down the road. Since it hadn’t been above 20 degrees for the last month, the road was frozen solid for a good fifty foot stretch. Despite my best efforts, I could not maintain forward progress. After about 40 feet I lost traction completely and began sliding back down the road. Unfortunately, the ice flow didn’t make the 90 degree turn at the bottom of the slope. Instead, it proceeded over a lodge pole pine-covered 100-foot embankment.

By turning the key on/and off without depressing the clutch while keeping it in first gear, I was able to maintain a semblance of control and slow our descent. I had a patch of dry ground in my sites, but poor Judy was coming unglued. She frantically yanked on the passenger door handle trying to get out of the truck. Fortunately (and I say fortunately because she was probably safer in the cab than trying to jump from a moving vehicle) the inside passenger handle didn’t work. I’m sure Judy thought she was in the middle of a nightmare; certainly not the romantic dream I had intended.

After some very tense maneuvering, I hit the dry patch with the left rear wheel, flipped the key off and we jerked to a stop. The only thing Judy wanted for Christmas now was OUT OF THE JEEP! I intended to jump out and open the passenger door for her, but when I went to step out of the cab on my side, I was so close to the embankment there was nothing but air beneath me. I scrambled over the side-mounted spare tire, onto the rear fender and across the bed in order to get to Judy. We spent a few minutes calming our nerves, but the sun was now down and it was getting even colder. Soon we both set to work lugging big rocks to put behind the rear wheels so we couldn’t slip back any further. I climbed back into the driver’s seat and carefully moved diagonally forward a foot at a time while Judy shoved rocks behind the rear wheels on the embankment side. A half hour of this repositioning and we were headed for home.

Needless to say, we missed the sunset, but the day certainly was memorable.