The winding dirt road to the Spanish Creek trail head passes by millionaire media mogul Ted Turner’s sprawling multi-building Flying D ranch complex and an old wooded single-room cabin now boarded up and fighting off nature’s advances. The views along the dirt road are spectacular and it’s easy to see why both early settlers and a man of Turner’s stature were drawn to the land. Rolling lush hills dotted with clusters of dark green pine trees would be beautiful by themselves but here they provide the foreground to the snowy-pointed tops of the Spanish Peaks in the distance. Postcards would be lucky to portray this view. The road veers sharply to the left and a small herd of Turner’s bison slowly cross the road leading to the trail head.The massive and thick black-furred creatures pay no mind to the cars waiting and I think to myself I should be on “bison time” more often. The last straggler navigates the dirt road and it is a clear sailing to the Spanish Creek trail head.

The trail head parking lot is divided into two areas, one for vehicles and the other for trucks with horse trailers. The trail is popular with hikers and horse riders and both parking lots are at their capacity. Men wearing cowboy hats, parents holding the hands of their small children, and hikers in day packs mill around the parking lot as I circle to find a place to park. On my third go around I find a space between two Subarus- the official car of the Montana trail head.

The Spanish Creek trail runs parallel and often crosses the swift creek bearing its name. Hikers have several destination options as the trail leads to the Spanish Peaks in the distance and to several mountain lakes in the area. I am taking a lesser option today and hiking four miles in and turning around. In a few weeks a 23 mile overnight loop to the Peaks awaits and want to save some surprises for that adventure.

Hiking in Montana provides two types of different yet equally awe-inspiring views of nature. The first is the more obvious; the grand, wide-angled postcard type views of lush green valleys and majestic mountain peaks under Montana’s appropriately named “Big Sky”. They are the views that make us pull a loved one close to share the experience. They leave us speechless. There’s nothing subtle to these sublime and splendid views except how they make us feel so small. The more you look, the smaller you feel.

The other is more subtle but no less spectacular. The patient and often more destructive side of nature. It is the side we can touch, smell, and walk among or upon. The side of nature that changes when we sleep. When generations sleep. It’s the part of nature created in a split second or over thousands of years. And sometimes we walk right past it. It is thousands of trees spread out along the forest floor like pickup sticks daring us to hopscotch our way through the forest. It is the river slicing its way through the forest and canyon walls, constantly changing shape before our eyes yet we cannot see it.  It is the million tons of rock that in one millisecond are too heavy for the canyon wall and slide burying everything in its path. It is the large solitary boulder in the middle of a flowery meadow that makes us wonder “Why is this here?”

The four miles I hike today is the latter of the views.

The sign marking the beginning of the trail has not one but FOUR bear warning signs. As I read them a young couple passes me and heads up the trail. I don’t allow this on purpose but as I head up the trail I figure them being a hundred yards ahead of me can’t be a bad thing. I don’t think “better them than me” but I do think a couple making noise in front of a solo hiker is a good idea. Then I think “better them than me”.

The trail’s elevation remains constant and the easy hike alternates between open forest and large meadows. Half of a mile in the thin trail winds gently through a large meadow of knee-high grass. Ahead I see the head of a black Standard Poodle bounding toward me with a ridiculously happy look on his face and a bright blue doggy pack on his back. He doesn’t slow and bounces by me and down the trail. I look around for an owner but there is no one. The black and cinder blur races by me again in my direction at the same time I see a woman emerging from the forest on the far side of the meadow.

She is heavy-set, mid-thirties, and a walking REI catalog. Her shiny silver titanium walking sticks sway in perfect timing as she marches towards me in new boots with thick wool socks rising above her ankles. Her khaki shorts and dark blue Northern Lights shirt match in a way they had to be planned. A wide hat, sunglasses, and bandana round out her ensemble. Not coincidentally she wears a ridiculously happy look on her face.

I don’t mean to describe her in a condescending way. I will admit to have rolled my eyes one or twice in my life to the newby of any activity decked out in the best possible gear money can buy. I’m a get yourself acquainted a little bit before spending $35 on a pair of socks kind of guy but as she bounds toward me (yes they both bound and wear ridiculously happy looks, you know what they say about dogs and their owners) my cynicism is doused by her smile and stoke. We exchange a hearty “Hello'” and I do my best to not calculate how much her whole ensemble set her back. I mean, the titanium poles must have cost (STOP IT!!)…..

I exit the meadow, cross the creek on a small log bridge and stop as I re-enter the forest. To my left the creek snakes back parallel to the trail while on my right the ground angles up a hundred yards to a canyon wall. The trees are limbless and disappear high overhead into the mid-day sun. Thousands of dead trees crisscross in the minimal ground space available in this dense part of the forest. I fluctuate between mentally tightrope walking upon on the fallen trees and wondering what happened here? Fire? Natural phenomenon? Simple theories quickly give way to the realization that I have never seen anything like this and I enjoy it for what it is; nature at work.

On a shaded portion of the trail two younger guys walk towards me with large packs. As I get closer the large packs are really small packs and snowboards strapped to their backs. My curious mind begins to compute how far it is to the snow and how high they had to go for a worthwhile run. I have questions. Lots of questions. However they are upon me, say “Hi, there’s a few more of us coming up”, and quickly pass me by. I curse myself for not asking them questions but I’m ready for the next group. They aren’t far behind and this time I’m ready-

“Hi, how far is it to the snow?” I ask.

“I don’t know, nine miles?”

O that I were young again and to be so carefree. These days I want….nay….must know how far I am going and if I were hiking to snowboard a mountain I would have to scale, I would DEFINITELY have to know how far I was going. It’s an odd mandatory mental calculation I’ve acquired as I’ve aged.

“It’s a ways. It’s called Blaze Mountain, you can board it pretty much year round. Cheers!” I have more questions, many more questions but the two head up the path leaving me in their trail. Literally if you think about it.

I ponder the effort it takes for one, possibly two runs then the whole of their day hits me. Hike nine miles carrying a snowboard, climb a couple thousand feet to make a run worth it, and hike nine miles out? I’m a little stunned by their dedication and zen-worthy matter of factness and wonder if Bodhi and Johnny Utah will be coming down the trail behind them. A friend of mine always says “It ain’t easy being hard” and as I head towards my turnaround point I mentally tip my cap to those young and hardy adventurers. There is probably a sense of satisfaction blazing down Blaze Mountain that a lot of us will never know. Not easy indeed.

I cross one more bridge, say hello to a woman on horseback, and pass the young couple who started this hike in front of me. It’s my turn to be bear bait but only for a short period as I reach the four mile mark and sit on a large boulder to eat my snack and take a drink. The four miles are easy compared to many of the hikes around here and although I enjoy a good workout, the more I put my head down and churn out the miles, the more I miss of what is around me. I’m glad to enjoy everything Spanish Creek has to offer.

At the mid-way or turnaround of my hikes I stop to write in a journal. Usually a few notes about what I’ve seen on the hike and some scribbling on what’s in my head. Sometimes introspective, sometimes usable for a post, and sometimes nonsense. All part of the writing journey I suppose. Today as I sit on the boulder and listen to the creek rush by I recall the first half of the hike. I write a little about the snowboarders and matchstick trees but as I jot down the thoughts I write “the girl on the train” in the left margin of the page. As amazing and pleasurable as these four miles have been, I close my eyes, see her, and know I can’t get her out of my mind.