I crossed Slough Creek, searching for untouched water to fish. Icy water, almost painful, slipped between the fibers of my wading boots, drenching my feet. I continued cautiously through the trout bed. The water crept up my body with each step, engulfing my calves, thighs, and waist. I inched forward, around a bend in the river, and into the face of an old bull bison. There he lay, 15 yards from where I stood, in a heap of dune grass, silent, merely a bronze coat visible to my eye. He flicked his tail once, twice, and stood up, all 2,000 pounds of lean muscle. He stretched his stiff old neck, and turned towards me, eyes flared. I heard his heavy breath, slow. The swish…swish of his tail flicked against tall swamp grass. Just yesterday, the park ranger had described the unpredictable danger of the lone bison at this time of year. The blood drained down from my face through my body, turning my feet into bags of wet sand. 

August mornings in Montana are cold, reaching the low twenties. This was one of those mornings. I stepped outside, leaving behind the warmth of the wood cabin. The grass at my feet was crystallized in frost. Only a few seconds outside, and the cold had sunk through my insulated Patagonia jacket, First Light quarter zip, and into the core of my chest. The dry air bit at my face. Snot slipped from my nose and ran down to the crease between my lips. I longed to turn back to the cabin, huddle by the fire, fall into a trance, watch the flames dance across pine logs, and listen to the sizzle, snap, pop of gas escaping the flames' heat. The winnie of a shire horse, left in the pasture overnight, brought me back to my reality, the cold. The cold, though dangerous and uncomfortable, brought beauty and a stillness to everything it touched. The green of the trees was more prominent; the petals on a Fireweed plant looked to be a more vibrant, lively pink. 

Continuing up the trail to Frenchies Peak, I came to a cliff face that overlooked a pool in Slough Creek. The pool was surrounded by stones, each one smoothed over thousands of years by harsh spring rain and scouring winter winds. Shifted and settled at the currents' wishes, the stones inscribed, to my naked eye, a perfect circle. In the center of that circle, was a lone Cutthroat Trout, his army green back visible by the contrast of the white sandy bottom. Minute by minute, as I watched it, the trout remained motionless, only the slight flare of its gills signifying life. 

The sun drifted up, above the treeline, warming the earth's surface. After that first frigid hour of hiking, the sun was a most welcomed sight, not just for me, but for the animals as well. Gradually, birds began to chirp, squirrels left their burrows, and in my mind’s eye, underground crickets hatched, as they do. My body defrosted, my joints lubricated, the hair on my legs lay back down, and the smoke of my breath faded. Beads of sweat began to gather around the collar of my shirt, brow, and upper lip. Before long, I had torn off my jacket in a dramatic fashion, and cinched it tight around my waist. 

My shirt, supposedly water wicking, clung to my skin as if saran wrap, restricting my motion. I pulled, readjusted, and pulled some more at the shirt but each time I tried to loosen it, its grip tightened. My socks, now soaked, rubbed against the soles of my soft, out-of-shape feet. I knew blisters were inevitable. I could see where the friction between my sock and foot had turned my skin raw, tender. The discomfort of my clinging shirt and raw feet never leveled out in the coming miles. 

The trail dipped into plentiful pines, their cool against my skin. In a small clearing, I collapsed in the grass beneath my feet. In the gap under the trees, I became aware of my heart pounding in my ears. I lay in this heap for some time, smelling the air, fresh, earthy, touched the grass, thick and smooth, as the thumping in my ears subsided. I listened to the wind swirl through the trees. I was comfortable in that moment, my eyes closed, mind calm. 

For that time, I forgot about my phone, the gps, and the constant “interconnectedness” of things electronic. When I got up from my rest, it occurred to me that the convenience of the internet has led to a serious lack in the yearning for travel amongst my generation. With one search, one can see the breathtaking Alps of Austria, unbelievable beaches of Fuji, and beautiful architecture of Japan. There are no mysteries or wonders, there are no unknowns. Today, every question has an answer, an answer that a person does not need to discover. However, before modern technology, this was not the case. Information and experiences were shared through letters, books, poems. Still, though these were written,  I am  sure, in great detail, no amount of description can encapsulate the entire experience.. Words with no means of answers leave an individual curious, prompting them to seek answers by experiencing that place first hand. Pictures, on the other hand, give the impression of completeness. When looking at a picture taken on top of a snowy mountain looking over a valley you may know it's breathtakingly beautiful, but that is all you will know from a picture. You will not  know how cold it is, you won't know how different the air smells, nor  know the pain in the photographer's legs. These beautiful elements of the direct experience -the true adventure -  are left unfelt.