The most challenging part of this year’s annual backpacking trip with high school friends might have been picking the destination.  Our previous trips set a dauntingly high bar.  Back in 2021 we hit southern Utah, followed by Yosemite, the Lost Coast, the Sneffels Traverse, and the Teton Crest Trail.

For 2026, Kevin, Robbie, Gordon, David and I were leaning towards the Enchantments in Washington state, but we failed to win the necessary permits.  Next we considered Glacier National Park, the Wind River Range, and Havasupai, but no clear favorite emerged.  At some point David shared an Outside magazine article about “10 Epic Adventures” that don’t require a permit, and I responded that one of them – the Beaten Path, a hike that starts just up the road from my house in Silver Gate – had been on my list for years.  Everyone liked the look of it and we finally had consensus.

Gordon decided to drive to Silver Gate from Kansas City (which, given that we needed two cars, spared us the ridiculously expensive cost of a rental car), and I picked up the rest of the guys at the Bozeman airport on the first Saturday in September.  After a quick stop at our Bozeman apartment, we drove to Silver Gate, followed by Marie and Cool Whip (our Maltese), who joined us for that first weekend.  Gordon rolled in that evening to complete our crew.

Up early the next morning, we headed right into Yellowstone and made the obligatory sunrise pilgrimage to Trout Lake, one of my favorite places.

 

 

After that we scoped out our primary goal for the day:  the summit of Druid Peak, one of the highest points overlooking Lamar Valley.  I’d been hoping to climb to the top for a long time, but I didn’t want to go solo, so I was grateful that the guys were up for it.  We’d be escaping the Labor Day weekend crowds (there’s no trail to Druid Peak and hardly anyone goes there), and the elevation gain would be a nice warm-up for the Beaten Path.

It was a beautiful morning for a hike and we knocked out the first few miles without incident.  Quads burning, we eventually reached the base of the final push – a steep, rocky incline that looked like it might require some light scrambling.  The more cautious among us (i.e., David) prudently advocated for an indirect switchback approach that appeared to offer a more gradual ascent.  I countered with what I positioned as the “fun way,” which was to just go straight up.  The fun way prevailed, and – after dodging a lone bison and being disheartened by some false summits – we reached the top.  What a view!

 

 

 

 

At some point during the week I pitched the idea that this post-trip blog post would be greatly improved if each of the other guys would contribute a section.  Instead of yet another single-viewpoint recap in my plodding, predictable “we did this and then we did that” style, we could shake things up with multiple perspectives.  Reactions were mixed.  Gordon, naturally creative and relatively unselfconscious, cheerfully agreed and needed very little time to pass along a string of staccato impressions, more poem than prose.  Kevin, on board with the idea but also somewhat stressed by it, eventually delivered a long, thoughtful summary of our first two days.  Robbie had no objection to my request but never quite got around to writing anything.  And David went full Eeyore, flatly refusing to participate in any way.

 

So let’s rewind a little bit for Kevin’s recap of the start of our trip:

Our annual hiking trip planning usually begins somewhere on the trails of the previous year’s adventure.  For 2026, we targeted Washington’s increasingly popular Crater Lakes area, only to lose the permit lottery.  Fortunately, our backup plan was equally appealing:  rendezvous at Rob’s home in Silver Gate, Montana, and tackle the Beaten Path, a highly regarded 26-mile traverse through the Beartooth Range, just north of Yellowstone.  It was one of the few major local adventures Rob had yet to conquer, which made it especially attractive to the rest of us.

David and I booked the earliest possible flight from Kansas City to Bozeman, connecting through Denver with Robbie.  Our philosophy was simple:  better to be exhausted in the wilderness than well-rested at home.

David and I share a technique for calculating airport arrival times.  We work backward from departure, accounting for boarding, security, parking, shuttles, traffic, construction, and any other conceivable obstacle to civilization.  My particular airport anxiety dates to the 1990s, when a colleague caused us to miss a flight to a major conference.  Since then, I have treated departure times with the seriousness of a NASA launch.

David’s calculations, however, make mine look positively reckless.  His final recommendation had me leaving home at 4:30am for a 7:30 flight.  I woke up at 4am.  Apparently, we both suffer from anticipatory anxiety and an intolerance of uncertainty, expressed through the compulsion to eliminate every conceivable risk of missing a flight.  Those who have discussed risk assessment with David will recognize the diagnosis.  I generally consider myself significantly less risk-averse, but there we were, more than an hour early at the airport.

This gave us time for coffee, route planning, beer research, gluten-free restaurant reconnaissance in Silver Gate (a significant challenge in a town with a population:  17), and a spirited discussion about the perforated flap on public toilet seat covers.  Why is it there?  Why is it so difficult to separate?  And which way does it face?  After consulting with the internet and AI, I acknowledged my ignorance:  the flap faces forward.  Its supposed protective benefits, however, appear considerably less impressive than its engineering complexity.

We arrived in Bozeman and immediately spotted someone Robbie confidently identified as Dr. J at baggage claim.  Lacking independent confirmation, we did what any responsible group of middle-aged men would do:  discreetly took selfies with the presumed celebrity blurred into the background.

 

 

Lunch plans were thwarted by an hour-long wait, so we settled for a capable neighboring establishment with local beer, outdoor seating, and merchandise worth buying.  Our first vacation beers were consumed while watching Bozeman’s population parade past.  The term Wook entered the conversation, foreshadowing the final evening’s festivities.  Gordon, meanwhile, had elected to drive separately from Kansas City and meet us later, a decision requiring no further explanation at this point because I don’t think he ever gave one.

After briefly greeting Marie and Cool Whip, we headed through Yellowstone.  With no traffic, the drive takes just under three hours.  During peak summer, it can consume an entire geological epoch, thanks to bison traffic jams and tourists who stop in the middle of the road to photograph animals that weigh more than their SUVs.

 

 

Fall was kinder.  We encountered only one significant bison-related delay, during which Rob employed the local technique of pulling around the stopped cars and patiently advancing towards an animal until it moved off the road.  This prompted the predictable outrage of stalled tourists, who responded with hand gestures and the sort of road rage usually reserved for being cut off near Arrowhead Stadium.  Rob, generally among the least deserving recipients of public hostility, absorbed his share.

By late afternoon, we reached Silver Gate, distributed our gear throughout Rob’s house, and gathered on the porch overlooking Soda Butte Creek.  There, Rob initiated us into the tradition of feeding the Canada jays.  The technique requires one to “look like a perch.”  I proved a slow learner.

 

 

We had a day available before the Beaten Path, allowing us to attempt one of Rob’s remaining Yellowstone objectives:  the summit of Druid Peak, the highest point in Lamar Valley.  This was remarkable because Rob spends much of his life in this landscape, frequently hiking alone with headphones and without bear bells – an approach that would violate nearly every precaution advocated by David.  Yet even Rob had been hesitant to hike Druid Peak alone.

First, there was Trout Lake.

Rob approaches hikes to Trout Lake with the regularity of the Pope attending morning Mass.  A short drive followed by a steep, twenty-minute climb delivers hikers to a small alpine lake that often rewards early risers with wildlife and spectacular sunrise photography.  Unfortunately, word has spread.  The secret is to arrive at pre-dawn, before Yellowstone’s tourists emerge from their luxury motorhomes and hotel beds.

To achieve this there is a clear departure time that Rob’s internal clock has programmed to fluctuate with the widely swinging sinusoidal curve of the far northern latitude sunrises – 6:15am on September 6, 2026.  Breakfast preparations began around 5am, within twenty feet of David, formerly the group’s most enthusiastic advocate for uninterrupted sleep.  Retirement and a remarkably successful treatment for his lifelong itchy skin had simplified his mornings.  He now arose much like the rest of humanity, no longer spending thirty minutes applying enough creams and ointments to waterproof a small boat.

We reached the trailhead slightly behind schedule and found another car already parked there.  Rob launched up the trail.  Robbie and David followed.  I collected litter in the parking lot, while Gordon became trapped in a conversation with tourists wanting to know whether we had spotted any “large mammals” worth pulling completely off the road for.

Eventually, Gordon escaped, and we began our hike.  The Trout Lake hike is short but what it lacks in length it adds difficulty in steepness.  The steep climb for an altitudinally unacclimated 56-year-old made for a challenging start to our week.  Within 15 minutes, we nearly walked into a solitary bison occupying the trail, so we sensibly bushwhacked around it.  Viral videos of elderly tourists being launched skyward by apparently unprovoked bison have a way of recalibrating one’s sense of adventure.

At the lake, we were rewarded with a young female moose moving along the opposite shore.  We circled the water, spotting trout, an osprey returning to its nest, and a cormorant whose precise identity was quickly established by Rob, with his considerable innate naturalist knowledge, and confirmed by David, with an unexplainable ability to recall so many seemingly trivial useless facts that we have affectionately dubbed him OLG (Off-Line Google).

I opted out of the ensuing evolutionary discussion and walked ahead, where I encountered the other hikers from the parking lot.  They were preparing to leave the trail despite the prominent signs instructing them not to.  My expression apparently conveyed sufficient disapproval that they explained they intended to spread a friend’s ashes beneath a nearby tree.  Their connection to this beautiful place was immediately understandable, and I smiled, thinking that perhaps one day some of us might be doing the same for one another.

Meanwhile, a group of fisherman arrived and proceeded to converse at a volume normally reserved for a Chiefs game at kickoff.  The lake’s prospects for further wildlife sightings declined accordingly.

On the way down, we encountered a healthy fox and a family of grouse whose camouflage was excellent, provided one ignored the fact that they were standing directly on the trail.

We drove farther into Lamar Valley, passing Soda Butte, a small thermal formation that looks nothing like a butte.  David predictably lowered his window to sample the sulfurous aroma, a ritual that apparently never loses its appeal.

Druid Peak has no maintained trail.  I had forgotten my phone, depriving the group of my usual excessive commentary from AllTrails.  The route offered more than 3,000 feet of elevation gain over roughly three miles, with the precise distance depending on which unmarked route one chose.

The first two miles were pleasant enough:  sagebrush, scattered trees, expansive views, and occasional opportunities to scan for bears and bison.  Robbie, still recovering from a two-week nosebleed involving what seemed like the loss of four units of blood, lagged somewhat behind.  We followed game trails above an eroded drainage, discovering petrified wood, greenish quartz, and shed elk antlers.  Nature fortunately had provided both scenery and strategically placed excuses to stop, allowing us sufficient rest at this stage.

 

 

Then we reached a choice of how to ascend the final, significantly steeper mile.

The first route was what David and I proposed.  It was a longer route along the side of the peak with the ability to make long, slow switchbacks.  It added distance but for the struggling Midwestern middle-aged unacclimated cardiac conditions most of us were struggling with it seemed a reasonable final stretch.  Rob in contrast preferred the direct approach.

Our conversation was brief.

“Rob, we think going around that way and taking the gentler slope would be better.”

“OK.  Well, I’m going the fun way.  See you at the top.”

He was already 50 feet uphill.

The previous two miles had benefited from the route-finding abilities of bison, elk, and bears and their natural trail systems.  The final ascent offered no such assistance.  I suspect no animal had ever attempted this particular slope voluntarily, and there were no antlers to suggest any had died trying.

We scrambled over loose rock and steep terrain, questioning our life choices with every step.  As the incline lessened near the top, Rob shouted a warning about a bison coming up behind me.  I hurried into a sunken rocky area, only to discover the animal about 20 feet in front of me, looking distinctly unimpressed by my arrival.  I scrambled back out and gave it the respectful distance that neither my route-finding skills nor my cardiovascular system had anticipated.

Eventually, we reached the summit.

The views were magnificent:  a full panorama of Lamar Valley, with the sort of silence and solitude that make difficult climbs worthwhile.  We explored, admired the landscape, and some of us took naps.  Rob could now drive past Druid Peak on his daily journeys through Yellowstone knowing he had stood on top of it – a small but satisfying achievement in a landscape he knows better than most.

 

 

We descended by the more civilized David-Kevin route, which proved no less painful simply because it had been endorsed by the cautious contingent.  By the time we returned to Silver Gate, we had accumulated roughly 10 miles of demanding hiking, sore legs, and a renewed appreciation for beer.

A shower, clean clothes, and an evening at Miners Saloon awaited.  The Beaten Path was still ahead of us, but we had already established the essential rules of the trip:  arrive at the airport before dawn, never underestimate a bison, respect the signs, and when Rob says he knows a fun way up the mountain, consider asking for a second opinion.

 

 

OK back to me (Rob):

We spent Monday shuttling Gordon’s car over the Beartooth Highway to the parking area that would be our exit point for the Beaten Path, which runs 26-ish miles over the Beartooth Mountains, roughly between Cooke City and Red Lodge.  We decided to start from the Cooke City side, saving us 2,000 feet of elevation gain.  Our plan was to do the hike in three days.

On Tuesday morning we ate a big breakfast and hit the trail.  Aside from near-constant horse poop, the first stretch was pleasant and relatively easy.  We passed scenic meadows, waterfalls, and increasingly rocky terrain.  After about eight miles we reached Ouzel Lake and decided to camp there for the night, wary of the potential for more wind and colder temperatures if we kept going higher.  The sunset light on the steep granite walls surrounding the lake was magical, and I managed to find some wildlife to photograph, including a species that was completely new to me – the golden-mantled ground squirrel, which I initially mistook for an oversized chipmunk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’d been informed by some other hikers that there were mountain goats in the area, and before dawn the next morning a family of goats visited Gordon’s tent.

“Why didn’t you wake us up to see the goats?” we asked.

“I yelled but nobody woke up!” Gordon insisted.

 

 

On Wednesday we covered about 10 miles, from Ouzel Lake up to Fossil Lake (the high point of our hike at almost 10,000 feet) and then down to Rainbow Lake.

 

Here are Gordon’s impressions of the day:

Hiking team no such thing

Philosophical but they. Needed a Left fielder – the resident non-specialist of the group

Phillip Morris contributions to hiking and backpacking back packing corporations telling the truth

Zero degree bag.

Rob has higher gear

Cow slapping

Daylight bulbs

Horses, horse, poop, where we stand in nature in the setting

The trail crew building the bridge and then having the trail, be weedy and smacking your legs

No way distances are correct.

Frisbee in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now briefly back to me.  On Thursday, our third and final day on the Beaten Path, we hiked the remaining eight miles, from Rainbow Lake down along a breathtaking stretch of trail that runs alongside East Rosebud Creek as it cuts between towering walls of granite.  Exhausted, we reached Gordon’s car and headed directly to the Red Lodge Ales Brewing Company for some well-earned beers.

 

 

 

 

Here’s Gordon’s recap:

“Come on hips, let’s go! This is what we’re doing today.”

My phone distances vs everyone else.

In case of nuclear winter, break glass.

David awed by massive granite,

Me proposing that one day that two will be as flat as a pancake

“Having a somewhat insistent lack of focus”

Last day

Filter

Downhill

Meeting the group going up

“How far is it?” 3x

Pull phone: It says “you only live once.”

Snake

Running off the road.

Brewery warning about waitress one-star review eyebrow

Seth Rogen brother

Pleasure of food

 

 

Back to me again.

Friday was our final full day at my place in Silver Gate.  Opinions were mixed on how strenuous a hike we should tackle, and it required some effort to agree on a 6-mile loop that took us past thermal areas, lakes, and the southern rim of Yellowstone’s Grand Canyon (including a quick spur out to Point Sublime).

 

 

 

 

That evening we met up with my friends Nick and Todd for a great dinner at Miners Saloon.  Robbie already knew Nick, but the rest of the guys hadn’t met Nick or Todd, and Nick earned many rounds of laughter by holding forth on all the embarrassing, lazy, and/or foolish things he’s seen me do over the years.  Our dinner ended before he ran out of material.

 

Here are Gordon’s notes from that night:

Yellowstone Photographers Club

What rich people in their right minds do …

“Midday there’s these things called clouds” -Nick

October the wildlife comes out

Nick works with top of the owl world guy

 

And finally back to me to wrap things up.

On Saturday we drove from Silver Gate to Paradise Valley, where we had tickets to see the Kitchen Dwellers at Pine Creek Lodge that night.  We arrived at the show early and killed time hanging out in the parking area.  To Kevin’s earlier point about Wook, the crowd looked like it could have been following the Grateful Dead in the 1980s.  I was glad to check out a band at Pine Creek for the first time, but I couldn’t get myself into the right mood, and Kevin and I left early to walk back to our nearby “Under Canvas” glamping tents.

 

 

Gordon started his drive back to Kansas City before dawn the next morning.  Later I took the rest of the guys to the Bozeman airport, where they flew home – Robbie to St. Louis, Kevin to Kansas City, and David to the Hundred Acre Wood.

Another awesome trip in the books.  I truly will never take it for granted that we’re lucky enough to get together for these annual adventures.  Our tentative plan for next year is to try again to win permits for the Enchantments, and, failing that, think about Glacier National Park or the Wind River Range.