The creek that said Nope

Leaving our perch on Morrell Mountain, we wound our way down to the nearest stretch of asphalt — a re-entry lane to civilization. First stop was Helena, Montana, where we only lingered long enough to grab groceries and fuel before hitting the open road again. It had been months since our tires touched an interstate, but I-90 eventually reeled us in. We zipped past Bozeman, cruised through Livingston, and didn’t even tap the brakes. Been there, done that, no reason to stop. By the time we reached Columbus, we took the Joliet exit, kept rolling through that too, and finally set our sights on Red Lodge. In Red Lodge, the local ranger station let us refill our water jugs — a small act of mercy before we ditched the pavement again for what sounded like a gem of a dirt route: the Meeteetse Trail.

The Meeteetse Trail is an old wagon road that once connected Meeteetse, Wyoming, to Red Lodge, Montana. On the map, it looked like a charming back-door route over Bear Creek Pass — maybe a little rough, maybe a little slow, but definitely an adventure. What the maps didn’t show was that “a little rough” actually meant “rutted to hell.”

Within minutes, we were crawling at a snail’s pace, Marcel’s tires riding the canyon-like grooves carved by braver (or dumber) travelers before us. It was slow, bone-rattling progress, but somehow satisfying. About five miles in, we found a small rise with a rocky ridge behind it, leveled Marcel as best we could, and called it home for the night. The view was pure Montana — wide, silent, and painted in gold and gray.

By morning, we were ready to push a little farther. The ruts mellowed, the scenery opened up, and we started to think the hard part was behind us — until we reached North Fork Creek. The water itself was nothing — maybe a few inches deep. The problem was the opposite bank: a steep, sudden rise just tall enough to guarantee Marcel’s rear bumper would dig in.

We considered the usual fixes — rocks, ramps, momentum, prayers — but the math didn’t add up. Getting stuck out here would’ve been a long, embarrassing story to tell a tow truck driver. For the second time in our short history with Marcel, a sharp incline had beaten us. So we did what any self-respecting travelers do: turned around, retraced every mile of ruts we’d just conquered, rolled back to the ranger station, crossed over Bear Creek Pass, and dropped south into Wyoming — dusty and, humbled.