Ah, Sunday—the universal day of reflection after a Saturday spent paying homage to the gods of beer, Thai delicacies, and cinematic epics about the raw, unfiltered human spirit. Just last night, “Touching The Void” graced my screen once again, proving its undying worth in the pantheon of movies that make you question your own tenacity (and sanity, if we’re being honest). The day before, despite proclaiming it a ‘rest day’, my buddy and I still managed to conquer Waterworks Hill—a feat that seems minor only if you ignore the aftermath of our brawl with Little Saint Joe, a towering behemoth in the Bitterroots flirting with the heavens at over 9,000 feet. And now, here we are, bidding adieu to a Spring Break that’s been nothing short of epic. Paul’s off to the snowless lands of Plattsburgh, New York, tomorrow, while I’m about to clock back into the real world.
Come Wednesday, we found ourselves in a dance with nature, hiking and skiing our way up to the Rocky Mountaineers Cabin perched on Little Saint Joseph Peak. This rustic escape, nestled around 7,500 feet up, gave us a much-needed respite from the biting cold, courtesy of its humble wood stove. Kicking off our ascent at the crack of dawn (or what felt like the middle of the night at 5:45), we didn’t hit the cabin until the stars were high, lugging our 40-plus pound packs over a merciless 4,000 vertical feet climb from the trailhead. Talk about a workout that makes your regular gym session whimper in the corner.
Upon arrival, we were welcomed by fellow adventurers—proof that warmth and good company can be found even in the most remote corners of the earth. The cabin, already toasty, and the morning advice on prime skiing spots were blessings in disguise. The previous occupants made their exit just as we set out, carving our first paths in the pristine snow, surrounded by vistas that would make your jaw hit the floor.
The decision to extend our stay was as swift as it was wise, made over lunch with a view that could put any postcard to shame, gazing out towards Saint Joe Peak and the snow-capped sentinels of the Bitterroot Range. Another night under the stars was non-negotiable.
Our final day’s ski was nothing short of legendary, marking a descent back to civilization that felt both triumphant and bittersweet. Reaching the car as darkness embraced us, we capped off the week with Mexican food and a growler of local brew. What a week, indeed—a tale of friendship, endurance, and the unforgiving beauty of nature that I wouldn’t trade for the world.
Boneshakerbike 
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