The Continental Divide Trail: The Anaconda Cutoff

Elliston, Anaconda

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” —Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within a Dream

Nothing made sense. We were going west to the town of Anaconda to get a box, but we were going east to Butte to see a music festival.

A Dwarven Smith had sent us a care package. We didn’t know what would be in it, but likely it contained healing potions, a shirt of mithril chain, and some high-end ramen and coffee packets. More than anything else, when a craftsman from Under the Mountain tells you he’s sending a care package, you go get it regardless of where you’re going. So we went to Anaconda.

Between the Llama Farm and Anaconda lies either Elliston or Helena. Which one you go to depends on your preferences. Do you prefer to camp behind a gas station and eat upgraded gas station treats and pet friendly dogs? If so, Elliston is for you. If you want to visit the capital of the great state of Montana, visit a cathedral and tour the State Capitol, grab a meal downtown, or relax at a brewery with live music, then Helena is more your flavor.

Frito and Toolman went to Helena. Naturally for the atheist but cultured Frito, the cathedral’s architectural charms were a draw. For Toolman, it was the cathedral’s door, which, he said, “was huge.” Both Frito and Toolman had a fresh pair of shoes waiting on them in Helena, so there was that, too.

God may have been Frito’s mothlight, but for me, Dog is the way, and Ice Cream and I chose Elliston.

The walk there from the Llama Farm was a freestyled combination of burned country, hot exposed Big Sky, and forests full of all the blowdowns the Bob Marshall didn’t have. We met an old local cruising on his side-by-side way back on an ATV road. “You lost?” he asked.

I said, “We’re trying to be, but we haven’t succeeded.”

“You know where you’re going, though?”

“Mexico.”

“Long ways off. You know how to get there?”

“One step at a time. Same as anywhere else.”

The Old Boy laughed. “Where you from?”

We told him and asked the same.

“12th generation Montanan,” he proudly declared. “More than most. Got a few friends who go back farther.”

“Do you and your buddies get together once a month and talk about your ancestors over a steak dinner?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he said. “I’d offer you two a ride, but it looks like you’re going the other way.”

Sad but true. We said farewell to Old Boy and continued on to Elliston over dirt roads and train tracks. One train conductor hung out the window as his train passed and gave us the rock and roll hand sign. A personal favorite of mine, I returned it.

Even with the power of rock and roll to lift my spirits, I was struggling. My feet hurt, my big toes specifically. Without going into too much detail, I’ve got some issues there, and something about the nerves was making me feel like my toe bones were poking out through the end of my big toes. Painful, gross, and uncomfortable. Eventually, I hollered my discomfort and frustration to the sky, knowing that along this lonely road, only Ice Cream would be present to see my weakness, my wailing, my lamentation.

“Hey, guys!” Someone said from nowhere. Out from behind some sparse roadside pines came three hikers: Doodad, Lantern, and Foo Fighter.

“Oh, hello,” I was a little embarrassed. “Don’t mind me. I’m just yelling at the sky about my feet.”

They were hikers; they understood.

They were also going to Elliston, and the store closed soon. Ice Cream shared this information with them and they picked up the pace, leaving us behind.

We caught up with Doodad, Lantern, and Foo Fighter hitching toward Elliston, the store’s closing time looming. With five hikers, we needed a miracle ride. A sprinter van—driven by a South Carolina guy scouting corporate land—came flying down the highway.

Ice Cream muttered, “Sprinter vans never stop.”

I pointed at the driver, accusing his guilty soul of ignoring us. Miraculously, he pulled over, probably still stinging from a $600 oil change. “You’re not gonna kill me, right?” he asked as I took shotgun.

“Nah, I don’t want your maintenance bill,” I shot back. The rest crammed in the long backseat and we rolled into Elliston.

For a gas station, Elliston was a Shangri-La. We ate, we drank, we camped, we pooped.

Next door at the bar and grill we ate and drank more, and talked. Other hikers were there, including Boogie Knights, Three Fidy, Cape, and more. We filled the bar and talked to whoever was closest. Ice Cream was to my left, Boogie Knights to my right, and Cape next to her. Both Boogie and Cape were looking a little worn.

Boogie asked Ice Cream and me, “Is the CDT what you were expecting?”

Ice Cream and I shared a look and told her it was. “You?” I asked, knowing she’d say no.

“No. It’s like, with the AT I could just follow it. Blaze, blaze, blaze. We had fun, we aqua-blazed, we had the community, the hostels. This is different.”

“How so?” Ice Cream asked.

“I’m having to check my phone all the time. It’s like, I never know where I’m going. We took a road that ended in private land with a no trespassing sign. Three Fidy wouldn’t cross it so we had to backtrack for miles. It’s open, it’s more lonely, even with friends, it’s somehow just not the same. I mean, how are you guys feeling out here?”

“My feet are hurting like hell, but other than that we’re having a good time,” I said. “I’ll get the foot thing solved eventually.”

Boogie took a long drink from her beer. “I was only planning on getting to Steamboat, but I don’t know…” She trailed off.

It’s hard when someone starts up the quitting talk. Do you empathize and stay neutral, give encouragement? Encourage what? Going home, suffering on until it gets better? I did my best. Tolkien once said never ask an elf for advice, for they will say both yes and no. I did my best elf impression and hoped empathy was enough.

***

The next morning the owner of the station opened up early for us so that we could get coffee and some hot food before we hiked out. It was a sweet gesture, a win-win for everyone. There must have been ten or more hikers camped out in the back, all hungry and jonesing for coffee. As a bonus we got to pet the resident dogs. They begged, but there was a sign that said don’t feed the dogs, so we did our best to resist. Some food may have fallen to the ground by mistake; breakfast burritos are notoriously fragile things.

From Elliston we took the fire reroute toward the Anaconda Cutoff, a long blue blaze that runs into the town of Anaconda. We were followed by a spirit in the form of an elderly farm dog for several miles. His lip would raise if we went to pet him, but he seemed to enjoy walking next to us. Sometimes he would fall behind, only to appear next to us again as if by magic.

We met another dog, a Chihuahua mix with a butthole the size of a horse’s, and its owner. His butthole size remains a mystery, but he was talkative and friendly. He suggested we go to the music festival in Butte, and our Spirit Dog decided to stay and play with the Horse-Chihuahua mix.

Dirt road became paved road. Shoulder was slim and traffic grew heavy, so we stuck our thumbs out as we crunched across the brown grasses and shrubs that lined the highway. A beat-up old pickup passed, turned around, and came back for us. A young guy, maybe a mechanic by the grease on his hands and face, told us he’d take us to town. We made ourselves comfortable in the rusty bed and the truck lurched into gear. As the speed picked up the driver played music with the windows down. It was a cover of Juke Box Hero by Foreigner, but the words Juke Box were replaced with Anaconda, Weird Al Yankovic style.

The Anaconda Hero dropped us off near the center of town where we did all the things. Resupply, eat, drink Cold Dranks, visit the Outfitter.

The local hostel was completely booked by a single group thanks to the music festival in nearby Butte, so we stayed in the hiker hut by the municipal pool, cramped but cozy, with hikers sprawled like a sleepover. It was awesome. Free, with a coded lock for hikers. Inside was a table, microwave, a key to the hiker-only porta-pooper just outside, towels for use in the pool showers, a list of trail angel phone numbers, and more.

Sleepover at Anaconda’s hiker hut. Even before dark, strange things happen.

Anaconda might not be on the redline, but the town doesn’t seem to know it. As far as they are concerned, they are a gateway community and it shows. Everywhere we went, people were friendly; they knew what we were. In towns where people don’t, they think we’re homeless vagabonds and the difference is immediately noticeable.

But, going around town, I couldn’t help but notice strange things. Little things, but enough pebbles piled together can make a mountain. I should have noticed. The strange, claw-like scars on the grocery cashier’s head. The dented skull of a child riding past on his bike. The deer that roamed from lawn to lawn, alley to alley, almost normal, but I swear I saw one yawn and flash a mouthful of sharp teeth. I ignored all these things, let them slide past my consciousness. I was tired, I told myself. My imagination was getting away from me. Then dark came.

Night falls on Anaconda

Unless given express permission for their use, all names and trail names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental. If you enjoy my writing, please feel free to subscribe or buy me a coffee using the Tip the Author button.