Sky high in the Crazy Mountains: Excursion to Cottonwood Lake offers spectacular scenery
By BEN PIERCE Chronicle Outdoors
COTTONWOOD LAKE – Thirty-five pound packs, swarms of mosquitoes, blisters, high peaks and spectacular views …
Ah, is there anything better than backpacking in Montana?
This past weekend I hit the trail with Travis Jester and Jesse Thomas of Bozeman seeking adventure in the rugged backcountry of the Crazy Mountains. Jester and Thomas had chosen a route up the west side of the Crazies to Cottonwood Lake. Set in a scenic alpine cirque, the lake is often visited by backpackers, campers and anglers seeking excursions deeper into the range.
“Cottonwood Lake is a fairly popular spot,” said Bev Dawson of Timber Trails in Livingston. “The west side (of the Crazy Mountains) gets less traffic, but (the Cottonwood trailhead) is a fairly accessible one for day hikes and overnights.”
The trail to Cottonwood Lake begins near Ibex Mountain east of Clyde Park. The route rises 2,150 feet in just under five miles through stands of Douglas fir dotted with the occasional broadleaf.
A thunderhead with ominous-looking mammatus clouds loomed on the horizon as we made our way along the bumpy road to the trailhead. Visions of hiking in a hailstorm flashed painfully through my head.
Fortunately the storm drift south toward the Absarokas Mountains and we arrived at the trailhead to partly cloudy skies, donning our packs just after 10:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. We loaded up and headed out shortly thereafter with dreams of hike peaks and glaciers swirling in our heads.
The first 2.5 miles of the route follow a rolling Jeep trail through timber stands and pasture complete with grazing cows. An easy creek crossing along the way prepped our shoes for the soggy hike ahead.
At the terminus of the Jeep trail we broke for a bite to eat. Like so many places in the Crazies – a range checkerboarded by private property – we paused near a property boundary where the Jeep trail presumably continued toward the creek. Our route, up Forest Service trail 197, looked a bit more arduous.
Trail 197 – washed out from spring snowmelt – wasted no time in slowing our pace. The route rises dramatically, gaining 600 vertical feet in half a mile. Exposed roots and large rock, combined with the elevation gain, had us second guessing each ounce loaded in our packs.
With relief, the incline crested on a bench dotted with standing dead, which offered little in the way of shade after our push upward. Dawson said Douglas fir trees throughout the Crazy Mountains have been decimated by beetles in recent years.
After a few hundred yards of leisurely hiking through Indian paintbrush, arrowleaf balsamroot and sage brush, we came upon our first crossing of Cottonwood Creek. Thomas headed upstream to look for a route as Jester and I consulted our map. The trail to Cottonwood Lake is well trod, if spotty in certain sections, and it took us a few minutes to recognize the rock cairn on the far side of the creek. We managed to find a spot to rock hop across and followed the creek upstream.
The route gains approximately 900 vertical feet in a little more than a mile from the creek crossing to the lake. Along the way a series of spectacular waterfalls offer pleasant stopping points.
Just before reaching the cirque, Cottonwood Creek levels out forming a number of shallow sloughs. Each of the sloughs acted like a false summit, offering relief from our heavy packs and then snatching that relief away. We watched cutthroat trout swim in one of the sloughs and explored the lower section of Lone Lake basin before arriving at our final destination shortly after 2 p.m.
Constant snowmelt from Grasshopper Glacier – perched beneath an unnamed 10,437-foot peak at the head of the cirque – allows for enough moisture to produce a thick matte of alpine tundra that rings Cottonwood Lake and portions of the surrounding high country. We looked among the trees at the lower end of the lake for a place to drop our packs and set up camp.
We chose poorly.
The wet landscape creates an ideal breeding ground for clouds of ravenous mosquitoes. The bugs are so thick around the lakeshore as to be truly maddening. Thank goodness for DEET, even if it is harmful to humans.
Jester, a geologist by trade, was eager to explore the low ridge between Cottonwood Lake and Rock Lake, a significantly larger lake set in the next basin to the south.
“I bet we can get up there,” he said, gauging the incline of the slope from our camp.
After grabbing a bite to eat we departed. We scaled the verdant mountainside above the lake feeling every bit lighter without our packs. Our feet sunk into the thick tundra as we walked, each step resonating with the squishy sound of a wet sponge as marmots chirped from their rocky perches in the boulder fields above.
Water streamed down all around us. Its sound surged under the rocks beneath our feet; it gushed from springs and coursed along tiny rivulets down the steep slopes.
In short order we broke from the vegetation and arrived at a broad rock field ringed at its top and base by permanent snowpack. It would be a scramble from here on.
We strung out single file across the boulder field so as not to cause a slide or send rocks careening down on one another. My strides became slow and measured, focused singularly on the task at hand. Occasionally, a large rock would shift and others would tilt and roll to compensate for the vacated space – the sound sending chills up my spine.
Thomas arrived at the saddle first, letting out a hoot upon first setting eyes on the Rock Lake cirque. Showing signs of glacial activity, the basin is scoured bare on its western side. A shear rock headwall rises to the west with chutes descending from the high peaks on the eastern ridgeline.
For a moment it felt as though the whole world lay beneath our feet.
We spent about half an hour on the ridge taking in the view. Then storm clouds began to appear over the 10,578-foot unnamed peak to our west.
“That just blew my mind,” Thomas exclaimed as we descended the rock field.
We made it back to our camp just as the sun began to fade beyond the horizon.
Later that evening, as our campfire waned and the sun turned further to the far side of the Earth, the bright glow of the Milky Way washed across the night sky. Shooting stars pierced the atmosphere above us like a Fourth of July fireworks display.
We fell asleep to the roaring crash of ice-cold water surging down from the high country.
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