Bechler River

Yellowstone National Park, WY

July 31 - August 2, 2006

(From left) Scott Reardon, Ken Reardon, Rory McClellan, Sean McClellan, Matthew Reardon, and Dave Reardon at Lower Colonnade Falls

CLICK HERE FOR TIPS FOR FIRST TIME VISITORS TO THIS TRAIL

CLICK HERE FOR ADDITIONAL PHOTOS FROM THE TRIP

NOTE:  To view large versions of the pictures below, please click on the thumbnail versions of each picture

PARTICIPANTS:

1.    Sean McClellan

2.    Rory McClellan

3.    Scott Reardon 

4.    Dave Reardon

5.    Ken Reardon

6.    Matthew Reardon

OUR STORY:

There aren’t too many places on this earth that I last visited nearly forty years ago, but one of those regions was calling my name last fall.  I reminded my dad about our memorable trip to the Bechler River in 1968 (see http://www.reardonww.com/Yellowstone/Bechler/index.htm) and how it would be fun to do it again.  Well, one thing led to another, and we were soon making plans in earnest to tackle the thirty mile trail in early August.  My brother Dave and his son Matthew were quickly onboard, as was my faithful hiking buddy Rory McClellan and his son Sean.  However, the main difference between this hike and the one so many years ago is that we wouldn’t have the luxury of utilizing two horses and a mule.  So the pre-hike training began in earnest.

Our wives decided that it would be fun to hang out around Old Faithful while we were gone, and that they would hike the first few miles with us into Lone Star Geyser.  After a quick drive through Montana and a pleasant tour of the Lower Geyser Basin (Rory’s first), we settled down to a decent night sleep at the Lodge Cabins and celebrated our departure with a fine breakfast at the Old Faithful Inn.  Thus our extended group of 11 set off on the morning of July 31 amidst scattered clouds for the first leg of our hike.

The first pleasant surprise was the small gathering of geyser gazers at Lone Star who were anxiously awaiting an eruption.  The somewhat fickle geyser with the large sinter cone has tried my patience before, so I reluctantly joined in the anticipation.  While the guys prepared their feet for battle and chatted about the hike to come, a large plume of water soon emerged from the giant cone as sunlight danced on the glistening water.  This had to be a good sign!

Then it was hugs and goodbyes to our loved ones and down the trail towards Grants Pass on the Continental Divide.  We took a couple of short breaks before reaching our traditional lunch spot near a small spring on the south side of the pass.  Memories of little boys drinking from plastic collapsible cups so many years ago flooded my mind as we sat down to eat.

 

We soon dropped down to a small meadow and the intersection with the Shoshone Lake trail, and the trail began its steady climb towards the second and third segments of the Continental Divide.  This section proved to be much more difficult than any of us could remember, as we found ourselves taking increasingly frequent breathers as we neared the 8,600 foot cut.  Rory and I found ourselves in this lead, and we both wondered out loud if we had somehow missed our campsite for the night.  After a slight descent following the third Divide crossing, we dropped into a small defile with an active spring and an unmistakable food pole set back in the woods.  We had arrived!

After tending to our aching feet and setting up camp, each of us ripped open our various assortment of Mountain House dinners, which included the usual dishes of beef stew, stroganoff, lasagna, and, of course, spaghetti.  I then set about bribing/cajoling/begging my 10-year-old nephew Matthew to be my tent partner, as we would constitute the “quiet tent” while a couple other unmentionables would make up the “snorer’s tent”.

As luck would have it, my fitful sleep was erupted in the night by Matthew’s fitful chatter about something I couldn’t decipher.  Finally, sometime after midnight, the little guy suddenly bolted upright and hollered, “Hey, what’s the deal?”  A third sleepy utterance a few hours later would earn Matthew the handle of “The Midnight Moaner”.

I awoke sometime the next morning to the plinking cadence of raindrops on the tent walls, which soon turned to a steady drizzle that lasted over an hour.  This is never a good way to start the day in the backcountry, and we anxiously watched the skies to the west as the storm dissipated.  The patch of blue in the far away skies soon spread to a point above us, and by the time we hit the trail at 9 a.m., frequent rays of sunshine broke through the thinly placed lodge pole pines.

With Dave, Matthew, and Dad hiking ahead of us, we passed through the Douglas Knob meadow and dropped into the Gregg Fork drainage where our two trios were soon reunited.  It was here that we located our first waterfall, an obscure feature back up the Gregg Fork dubbed “Confusion Cascades”.  This dazzling cascade is mislabeled as “Twisted Falls” on many old topo maps, and it is quite a scramble up the ridge on the old trail just to find it.  Thanks again to the authors of “Yellowstone Waterfalls and Their Discovery” (Rubinstein, Stevens, and Whittlesey) for documenting so many of these beautiful treasures and provided directions on how to find them.

We made our way farther down the trail to the spur path to Twisted Falls, and were delighted with the spectacle canyon carved out by the surging waters of the Gregg Fork over this must-see waterfall.  While eating lunch back on the main trail, I pulled out my handy topo map and a crude notation reminded me that another somewhat obscure feature was somewhere nearby.  I grabbed Dad’s camera and headed down the ridge below the Twisted Falls overlook to take some shots of Littlesmouth Cascades, located on the Little's Fork just north of its intersection with the Gregg Fork.

But the best was yet to come.  We dropped a few hundred feet hiking along the rim of the Gregg Fork canyon, exchanging greetings with a Youth Conservation Association (YCA) group performing some trail repair on the downhill segment before quickly found ourselves at the Ferris Fork spur path after several downhill segments.  After stashing our backpacks in the woods, we excitedly made our way along the Ferris Fork for nearly a mile before locating our goal destination.

A large hot spring along the Ferris Fork welcomed our tired and grimy bodies during a 30 minute soaking session.  Dubbed “Mr. Bubble” by hiking enthusiasts, the pool incorporates a sizable runoff channel from a spring above the pool with frigid water surging from the adjacent creek.  The curious bubbling in the middle of the pool gives the spring its popular name.  We found ourselves moving around “The Bubble” with our hands out in front to carefully locate the most optimal water temperature.

After drying off, a few of us headed upstream to view the waterfalls upstream, but we soon realized we were on the wrong side of the canyon, and footing was getting treacherous.  So we reluctantly turned back.  If I had it to do over again, I would camp for two nights at the Ferris Fork site and spend an entire day exploring the lower fork of the Ferris and soak in Mr. Bubble a couple of times along the way.

After a brief stop at Ragged Falls, we pushed on towards Three Rivers Junction as the darkening skies opened up with a fairly steady barrage of hailstones.  The small white balls were soon joined by raindrops, and out came the raincoats and pack covers.  We trudged along through the mucky trail, making our way through the first river ford without incident.

The next two miles took us along the lower slope of the west side of the canyon, and it seemed that we were crossing a spring or small stream about every 200 yards.  All of these crossings were aided by a downed tree, flat-planed log, or carefully laid rocks.

We rounded a bend and were confronted by the loud, foaming waters of the Bechler that separated us from the opposite bank.  Two somewhat wet hikers hollered encouragement from the opposite bank as we prepared to cross, but their muffled feedback actually served as a deterrent.  It was evident to all of us that this wasn’t going to be easy.

Sean went first and, though he soon was up to water near his chest, made it across with only one near fall.  Rory bravely followed his fearless son, but found his footing to be unstable in the deeper water.  Before we knew it, Rory’s pack was soon bobbing down the river, with its owner floating somewhere underneath.  I found a more palatable route just downstream from the trail, and first tested the crossing without a pack.  Using my “Moses staff” for support, and treading carefully in the hip-deep rushing water, I traced a route with Dad and Dave close behind.  After a few more crossings to retrieve Matthew and our remaining packs, everyone was finally safe on the other side.

I was the last to cross, with my backpack on and my boots across my neck.  Upon reaching the other side, I just kept right on walking down the trail with my water socks sloshing with each step.  I knew the campsite must be close, and I wasn’t going to stop until I got there.

The Lower Ford campsite helped to soothe our stress from the river crossing.  Featuring a 120 degree wrap-around by the Bechler River, the campsite included several excellent tent locations on either side of the trail, a well constructed fire pit, the customary food pole, and a well-placed toilet just up the trail.  It was a delightful place to spend the evening, and we enjoyed our dinner to the constant roar of the foaming current just beyond the windrow of lodge pole pines.

As the light started to fade, I took an early leave to my sleeping bag to continue following the plight of condemned killer Sam Cayhall in John Grisham’s The Chamber.  I probably read for a couple of hours as the sounds of an animated conversation between Sean and Matthew mixed with the frequent crackling of embers.  It was curious that a college senior could strike up a philosophical conversation with a soon-to-be 5th grader.

The next morning I awoke at first light and set about coaxing a blazing fire from the warm embers that had survived the cold night.  By the time we packed up our damp clothes and dried out the tents, the first rays of morning sunshine had finally made their way over the ridge to our home in the middle of the canyon.  We were on the trail by 8:45 a.m.

It wasn’t long before the canyon narrowed and we enjoyed a long series of cascades which soon gave way to a view of Treasure Island, a slit of real estate surrounded by the surging waters of the Bechler River.  The tip of the island extended all the way to Iris Falls, the first of several lovely falls that we would take in during our final day on the trail.

Then it was on to points downstream, where we dumped the packs and traversed the path down to the Colonnade Falls overlook.  Up to this point, much of the sights and sounds failed to trigger my memories from four decades before, but the view of the falls brought it all back in a hurry.  As I admired the columnar basalt columns carved out by the 70 foot waterfall and the swirling mist emanating from the roaring waters, I could almost visualize the image of five small figures fishing at the base of the falls.  The breathtaking view of Upper and Lower Colonnade Falls hadn’t changed a bit, but Dave and I had grown up, got married, had raised children, and experienced the highs and lows of life.   My dad soaked in the panorama with a tremendous sense of satisfaction and nostalgia, as he excitedly posed for a video clip and pointed to the pool where we had fished so many years ago.  It was easily the culmination of this three day trek through the Bechler River drainage.

After many photos and a hard-earned group shot, we quickly moved south along the tranquil lower section of the river, passing by a long distance view of Ouzel Falls to the west.  It wasn’t long before we left the canyon for good and had penetrated the Bechler Meadows when we arrived at the final river crossing.  The ford was the easiest of the three crossings, with sure footing to be found in the sandy bottom of the quiet waters.  The contrast of the hot sunshine and the accumulated snowmelt made us all gasp at the numbing sensation of the icy waters.  At that point, it was hard to imagine that thousands of gallons of thermal water were being dumped into the river somewhere upstream.

We soon left the covering of trees and hiked for a few miles in tall grass, with the visage of the Teton Mountain range dominating the hazy skyline to the south.  After several miles, we took a lunch break in the first hint of shade we could find, and started the final push to trail’s end by traversing the cable suspension bridge spanning the lazy waters of Boundary Creek.

The final four miles of trail hugged the shoreline of the Bechler, and I was struck by the resemblance of the river and surrounding terrain with that of the Lewis Channel located not too many miles to the northeast.  The combination of the almost stationary water with the old growth collection of lodge poles brought back memories of the Channel before the 1988 fires.  My reminiscent meanderings were shaken back to reality as the trail took us past a series of churning rapids which gave way to Bechler Falls.

The river waters became increasingly violent as we made our way to the final bend of the river upstream from Cave Falls.  Several day hikers on an afternoon stroll looked on us with curiosity, and many were shocked when we revealed we had come from Old Faithful.  With Sean setting an aggressive pace, we finally reached the parking lot at Cave Falls just a few minutes after 2 p.m., with Dave, Dad, and Matthew soon to follow.

The well-used green passenger van and our driver Jerry were a sight for sore eyes, as we silently retreated to our own thoughts as the van bounced down the road past the Cave Falls overlook and on to Ashton, Idaho.  We were rewarded with a wonderful lunch at the local burger joint in Ashton, and then it was back to the Park and on to Madison Junction, where we were reunited with our families.  Later that evening, the fading light would find me soaking weary limbs in the soothing waters of Chico Hot Springs in the Emigrant Valley.

I don’t know when or if we will ever traverse the picturesque waters of the Bechler River, but I am left with a strange feeling of accomplishment and sentimentality a week later.  For three of us, this trip rekindled recollections of one of the most memorable trips that the Reardon family took in our many years at Old Faithful.  For Rory and Sean, their first impression of Yellowstone was primarily formed by a backcountry adventure that few experience.  And Matthew, who at 10 years of age has already seen a great deal of the Park, was able to accomplish something that few his age could boast of.

 Even now, I can still close my eyes and hear the roar and feel the mist of Lower Colonnade Falls, surrounded by the steep canyon walls dotted with small pines.  As I sit several hundred miles removed from those images, I am reminded of the insightful words of the famous Yellowstone artist, Thomas Moran:

“the impression then made upon me by the stupendous and remarkable manifestations of nature's forces will remain with me as 
long as memory lasts."

                       Send your comments to:  sreardon@charter.net