M O N T A N A - Day 4 (September 29)

Today was another travel day, from Whitefish to Ennis, where our brother and sister-in-law, Jim and Kit, live. We planned just one stop – in Garnet Ghost Town. We drove through the Swan Valley on Highway 83, and stopped several times along the way at scenic turnouts. It was a beautiful, leisurely drive.

Swan River

Swan River

Summit Lake

Upon arrival in Garnet, we learned the town had closed for the season three days prior. This meant we wouldn’t be able to go into any of the buildings, but we could still walk around a get a small sense of what life might have been like in the town’s heyday, some 100 years earlier.

An overlook on the path leading to Garnet

On the trail to the mines

 After walking around the town, we felt we were making good time and could afford to take a small (20 minute) interpretive hike to the gold mining area of Garnet. About an hour and a half later, we made our way back to the parking lot, quenched our parched throats with a couple of bottles of water (each!), and headed south, in the direction of I-90.

The people who tried to eke out a living here left many scars on the landscape.

I’d visited Garnet before (when I had a Ford Explorer). I remembered a bad road, but our drive in (approaching from the north) was pleasant – a nice, wide road that started out paved, then turned to gravel. I assumed they’d improved the road since my earlier visit. There’s that word – ASSUME.

We’d gone maybe a hundred yards or so of the 12-mile descent out of Garnet, and saw a sign that said “I-90.” (How could we be off course – there was no other road.) Then we saw a sign that said something about narrow…limited turn outs…unimproved something… And it was too late to turn around.

So I started swearing. Every time we hit a jarring bump, my shoulder belt cinched tighter, chafing the left side of my neck. The sign should have said, “Only accessible by 4-wheel drive.” It should have said, “I’d go back if I were you.” It should have said, “You’re nuts!” or “I hope you liked your Nissan Altima.” I’m pretty sure we were on the original wagon trail that headed into that godforsaken place. Actually, I’m positive we were.

At one point the entire width of the road was submerged underwater. There was no stopping, so we crawled through without scraping bottom on anything. At several points, we rode the ridges instead of grooves, and still scraped bottom. At one of the two turnouts on the 12-mile stretch, we encountered a pickup coming up the hill. Talk about divine intervention!

On the bottom of this trail, it opened into a wide, circular gravel pit, and we encountered a semi pulling doubles. Here’s where we ran into unwanted choices. I opted to continue south. The sign said “Bearmouth, 7 miles.” It wasn’t on the map. There were no more signs for I-90, and the mile markers we’d seen previously went away. Instead, big blue numbers were spray-painted on trees. We hoped we were on the right road, and lucked out.

It was on this stretch we saw a big cat, most likely a bobcat, cross the road several yards in front of us. That was a first for both of us.

Eventually we made it to the interstate, and we headed east to Three Forks, then south to Ennis, arriving at Jim and Kit’s well after dark, where the yips and howls of coyotes greeted us.