REPORT: Self-supported 530mi Blue Mountains Trail FKT

By Megan (prose) and Christof (photos & visualizations)

Summary

Our goal was to complete the 530mi Blue Mountains Trail (BMT) main route (as launched by the Greater Hells Canyon Council in 2021) in a self-supported style, as fast as possible. We finished in 14 days, 17 hours, 22 minutes.

Whitney La Ruffa, Naomi Hudetz, and Mike Unger through-hiked an early version of the BMT in Oct 2020 in 32 days (with 2 days off). The 4th through-hiker, Renee “She-ra” Patrick completed another version of the trail in two sections (Aug and Oct) in 2020 in 28 days. She skipped the Wenaha River section.

To the best of our knowledge, we were the first to complete the final route as released in 2021 in its entirety (except section 3A, which was closed by the Forest Service) and in a single push. The “trail” was more remote, rugged, and challenging than expected. We only saw about a handful of people on the route.

The BMT is most definitely not for novices.

The movie

Teaser:

 

The Blue Mountains and the Blue Mountains Trail (BMT)

“The Blue Mountains, perhaps the most geologically diverse part of Oregon, consist of a series of mountain ranges, rolling uplands, and valleys in the northeastern part of the state and extending into southeastern Washington. Slightly less than a sixth of Oregon’s land area, the region occupies about 15,000 square miles. The precise boundaries of the Blues, as they are often called, are indistinct, but the western extent roughly coincides with the western edge of the Ochoco and Maury Mountains and the eastern edge with the Snake River in Hells Canyon. The Blue Mountains also include the Greenhon Range and the Aldrich, Strawberry, Elkhorn, and Wallowa Mountains. […] This rugged landscape and its geology have influenced nearly all aspects of human history in the region, from the homelands of Native peoples, to the migration routes of resettlers, to the location and types of natural resources” [Source].

The Blue Mountains Trail (BMT) is a brand new, spiral-shaped trail that interconnects diverse eco-regions of the Greater Hells Canyon Region. It was launched in 2021 by the Greater Hells Canyon Council. The trail leads through mountains, forests, rivers, ecosystems, and communities of northeast Oregon. Contemplated, mapped, and dreamed of for more than half a century by conservationists, the trail is now tangible:

• 530 miles through northeast Oregon, from Wallowa Lake State Park near Joseph to John Day.
• 7 of Northeast Oregon’s wilderness areas, 1 National Recreation Area, 3 National Forests.
• ​Ancestral lands of the Nez Perce, Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla, and Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs
• ​3 Oregon State Parks.
• Connects with the communities of Joseph, Troy, Tollgate, La Grande, Sumpter, Austin Junction and John Day, with connection opportunities to more nearby towns.

Day 1: Wallowa Lake to Hell’s Canyon (44 miles)

The route began at Wallowa Lake TH and climbed gently near the gorgeous lakes basin. For 8-9 miles we moved quickly on a well-maintained and picturesque trail. As we approached Hawkins Pass, the trail crossed the raging and icy West Fork of the Wallowa River several times. The water was thigh deep, dangerously swift, and threatened to sweep away our poles. Our feet were immediately numb and remained so for hours.

Upon reaching Hawkins Pass, we discovered expansive snow fields still covering the trail. Thankful for microspikes, we plodded upward. Fortunately the snow disappeared shortly after the summit. We descended toward the Imnaha River, spotting flowers (and a lazy bear) along the way.

After fording the Imnaha, the trail climbed Sugarloaf Mountain and became indistinct and brushy. We crept over blowdown and squinted for hints of ancient junctions for ages. After finally reaching Sugarloaf, we wandered across the ridge through meadows of lupine, encountering many elk, bluebirds, and western tanagers.

We reached Russell Mountain then took a forest road into the Hell’s Canyon Wilderness. After a Ziploc supper and a water filtering marathon, we headed into the dark on a set of decommissioned forest roads. Eventually we split from the “roads” to a nearly nonexistent trail. Pushing through thick, tall grass and weeds across a crumbling and steep hillside, we trudged as close as we could to the canyon overlook before turning in for the night. We were disappointed not to reach 48 miles (our naïve daily goal); in retrospect, this was one of our best and easiest days.

Day 2: Hell’s Canyon Rim/Summit Ridge (40 miles)

We reached the Hell’s Canyon Overlook early on day 2. Water looked to be scarce on the rim, so we spent a happy half hour filtering from McGraw Pond—the side with the fewest dead fish and oil slicks. Afterward we continued along the rim and moved quite well on a surprisingly clear 4×4 road. We passed several trailheads—including Buck Creek and PO Saddle—and enjoyed relatively easy going, at least until reaching the Battle Creek Trail junction. As we neared that junction, we heard a Jeep approaching and stopped to chat with a couple of women who were out to see how far they could make it before the trail became too rough (note: they turned around minutes after the encounter). They were familiar with the area’s geography and gave some intel about the upcoming section along Summit Ridge.

The Battle Creek Trail joined the Western Rim Trail, where once again “trail” was a generous designation. We pushed through brush, grass, nettles, and rocks—up and down small but steep peaks—often working quite hard to stay on the GPS track. The day grew hot as the tree coverage thinned. Just as our water reached a critical low, we encountered a spring (perhaps “seep” might be a better designation). There were many more springs marked on the map; most were dry.

After the spring we traversed toward Freezeout Saddle. A narrow, grassy tread circled a prominent rocky peak, and as we neared the saddle we encountered more brush. Upon reaching it, we were once again short on water. We stopped for a short break and then began a hot, exposed late-afternoon climb up to Hat Point Road. The climb was slow and miserable. The sun was unrelenting, and without water reserves the situation felt dire. We took several breaks in small shade patches, searching for signs of ground moisture. It was less than a mile before reaching the road that we found a small, struggling spring. Relief. We spent quite some time drinking and recovering before finishing the climb and joining the forest road that passes Hat Point. The temperatures cooled as we proceeded and we were able to move well again.

After the turnoff to Hat Point, temperatures dropped even more and we appreciated the cool sunset while working our way toward Warnock Corral trailhead.

There was supposed to be a spring at Warnock Corral, but when we arrived we couldn’t find it. We used the (glorious) pit toilet and searched for a long time, eventually discovering a small, algae-covered puddle that was perhaps once crystal and cold. The next stretch had no water, so we did what we had to and filtered through the slime. Afterward, packs heavy, we continued for another mile before retiring for the day.

Day 3: Hell’s Canyon Rim to Buckhorn Overlook (36 miles)

The night on the rim had been windy and we were eager to move in the morning. We continued on a 4×4 road (appearing to be also called the Western Rim Trail) for miles. Sunrise was rosy and took the edge off the dozens of steep drops and climbs that felt like they wouldn’t have been fun even in an ORV. The views from the rim were pleasant and we were relieved to have several hours of moving without wayfinding and pushing through vegetation. At some point the route turned away from the rim and headed toward Mormon Flat. We found a trough with good water along this section and some helpful shade.

The shade vanished shortly before Lord Flats airstrip, where the route took a circuitous, grassy detour around the airfield (rather than following the clear, straight road). We picked up the trail a few miles later, which became rocky, narrow, and barely distinguishable from the dozens of game trails dotting the hillside. We soon plunged down into another canyon (Winters Gulch), navigating increasing heat, rocks, thistles, and the occasional strand of rusty barbed wire.

Happily, the descent ended at cold, bubbling Cow Creek, a water source not noted on our water table. We dunked and frolicked with joy and then traipsed alongside the creek toward the Imnaha River. We luxuriated in shade for a mile or two, but eventually the route broke into the sun. The temperatures climbed, and as we approached the Imnaha River it was over 100 degrees.

After crossing Cow Creek Bridge, we felt hot, dehydrated, and wobbly. We decided to wait at the river until the sun was behind the hills before continuing the ascent to Buckhorn Overlook.

After swimming and some unsuccessful nap attempts, we carried on briefly up Imnaha River Road, then cut straight up a grass cliff toward the overlook. The databook notes that the “trail may become non-existent in parts;” we can verify this as truth. We climbed for the better part of 8 miles, gaining over 4,000 feet in a rocky, brambly, treadless draw.

It was deeply dark when we reached the forest road that leads to Buckhorn Overlook. We decided to detour to the campground there because we needed water. This was a good choice, as we experienced brief euphoria upon discovering the powerful, cold, piped spring just across from a perfect campsite. After drinking until we bulged, we retired.

Day 4: Buckhorn Overlook to Joseph Canyon (40 miles)

We left the delicious spring in perhaps the coolest morning of the whole adventure. We moved gratefully in fleece caps, long sleeves, and gloves. It was hours before we were able to shed our layers: another treat.

Most of the day was on forest roads and ATV tracks. We had a smattering of blowdowns to hurdle midday, followed some digestively-impaired cows for several miles, but for the most part the route was blessedly clean. We reached Billy Meadows Guard Station just as the heat was becoming bothersome, filtered from another warm, algae-blanketed puddle, and took a short nap before continuing.

The defining section of day four came just before dusk. After meandering up and down several buttes and mounds, we reached the top of what the databook called an “unnamed ridge” where we would begin a descent into Joseph Canyon. The instructions deemed this section “cross country” (a designation we had learnt to fear) and directed us to cut into a draw, travel with extreme caution, and “lower ourselves” carefully into the canyon. “Follow the cairns and flagging,” they also suggested.

Wildlife seem to have had a party with the cairns and flagging, because there were none—save a token mound at the beginning of the descent. So as the shadows expanded, we found ourselves creeping down a steep, rocky, grass-tufted cliff. We moved less than a mile an hour as the terrain was difficult and the grade was intense. Sometimes we would traverse forward only to be cliffed out and have to return and find another dubious path.

A while after dark, the grass-tufted cliffs melted into a tangle of vegetation. The grade still hopelessly steep, we slipped and slid and traversed aimlessly trying to find a viable path to the river.

After the better part of an hour, we plunged into the vegetation hoping to hit water eventually. It was impossible to tell whether we were following the GPS track, but thanks to a small serving of fortune, we encountered a piece of flagging partway through the brushtrudge. It was enough to buoy confidence, and soon—hours after we had “lowered ourselves” into the canyon, we reached the river.

It wasn’t clear how the trail proceeded at the river, but it seemed to cross. The idea of wet feet at the end of the recent ordeal seemed horrifying, so we delayed it by filtering water amid clouds of moths and mosquitoes. Eventually we plunged into the river, slogged coldly until we saw perhaps the hint of a trail, and emerged. Fatigue was deep at this point, so we nabbed the first flat spot on the riverbank and slept.

Day 5: Joseph Canyon to Wenaha River Canyon (31 miles)

Our socks and shoes did not dry overnight, which was just as well. For the first mile or so we criss-crossed the river, pushing through more thickets, searching for the track up the other side. We found it eventually and pressed quickly forward. We were eager to leave Joseph Creek.

The sunset was a celebratory pink as we climbed toward yet another canyon rim and Highway 3. Reaching the highway was sublime; clouds obscured the sun, a gentle breeze graced the prairie, and we knew we had a simple, downhill roadwalk to Troy.

We crossed the highway and carried on past Flora, an almost-ghost town of derelict churches, houses, and a few generators and RVs. Our perpetually wet feet started to struggle with the repetitive and speedy roadwalking, so we paused several times to powder and lance. But the comforts of Troy called, and eventually we made it down the switchbacks, across the Wenaha, and under the welcoming roof of Wenaha Bar and Grill (read more about Doug and Karla).

The proprietors were momentarily paralyzed by our presence, but eventually they poured us frosty waters and brought us a burger and grilled cheese. We relished the food, ice, fabulous decor, and flushing toilet as long as prudent and then headed out again into the afternoon heat.

Not far from the bar and grill is the Troy terminus of the 31-mile Wenaha River Trail. A bright and freshly painted trail sign clearly announces numerous junctions and destinations along the route. We saw this as promising and trundled lightly into the canyon. The first few miles were scorching, but we were high on tots and cheese and so they were bearable. By late afternoon, though, we were drained, and paused at a lovely swimming hole. This was our last joy for two days.

Shortly after the swim we turned a corner and the trail dissolved. Brambles, cheatgrass, berries, and blowdown congested the full width of the riverbank. We inched forward painfully, gashed and barbed with every step.

In the hour before sundown five or six bears romped across our path, offering brief levity. But as the sun withdrew so did any good spirits. The terrain deteriorated further; to call what we were doing that night “bushwhacking” criminally understates the nearly impenetrable undergrowth we were negotiating. We couldn’t see, our feet became endlessly snarled in vines—and we had more than 20 miles to go.

Just as we decided to give up, throw down a tarp on some brush, and wait until morning, a headlamp sweep revealed a pair of greenish-gold eyes in a tree just above us. A second and third headlamp sweep confirmed the eyes belonged to a mountain lion, lazily keeping watch from a charred branch.

And so we kept on. We stumbled, stabbed, and bled for at least another hour until finally spotting a suitable, largely bramble-free patch. Demoralized, we collapsed on the tarp.

Day 6: Wenaha River Canyon (18 miles)

We awakened with minor rejuvenation and further invigorated ourselves with a half hour of water filtering. The cool morning air afforded us brief tolerance, but as the heat swelled so did frustration. Specters of trail tread would emerge infrequently, only to melt as suddenly as they appeared. The GPS track didn’t make sense; we zigzagged from river to cliff to river nonsensically. Trail junctions noted on the map and databook (Hoodoo, Smooth Ridge, Cross Canyon, Grizzly Bear . . . ) never materialized, and cheatgrass pods continued to collect on our socks and burrow mercilessly into our sooty flesh. The progress was painful and painfully slow; we moved less than one mile an hour.

At some point in the early afternoon we’d been moving so slowly for so long that we began to worry we’d run out of food. We had not planned for a 31-mile stretch to take us more than a day, but it was clearly going to. Not only that, but the effort to move was massive, and we were more depleted than had we been moving on clear ground. We decided to try walking in the river, in part to soften the agonizing cheatgrass and in part hoping for easier going.

At first the cold water was a relief. Moving, too, was less taxing, though perhaps just as slow. But as we continued rapids materialized and we had to mingle waterwalking with bushwalking to avoid the currents. At some point it all became too much. The data book provides an alternate route to the canyon: a forest road on the ridge above that eventually merges with the trail. After significant angst and agony, we decided we should cut up the ridge to join the alternate route.

Surveying the peaks, we chose one that looked the least formidable. We knew the scramble up would be punishing, but neither of us could fathom the idea of continuing through the tortuous thickets. Anyway, just as we’d chosen an ascent line, some movement caught our attention. We stopped and turned riverward. On the other side, perhaps 30 feet above the water, we spotted two people. People?! We rushed back over to the water and (aghast) saw what appeared to be an actual trail cut into a ledge and actual men brandishing fishing poles. We conferred and decided that, if there were people on a trail, they had to have arrived there somehow—and we wanted to know what that was! We scrapped our alternate route plans as quickly as we’d formed them and splashed across the river, up a cliff, and onto a beautiful, brush-free path. It felt surreal and impossible.

We carried on quickly, hoping to find the people we’d seen and gather intel. Though we never found them (we did find their camp), we enjoyed several miles of easy (shady!) moving. In fact, we moved straightforwardly until the Elk Flat trail junction.

After the Elk Flat junction, we faced more bushwhacking. It was less painful than earlier in the day, but we still spent hours deciphering the track, searching for tread, and scaling massive blowdown. We had hoped to finish the Wenaha River Trail this day, but the emergence of more trailless terrain prevented that.

The fortuitously timed people-sighting, which stopped us from bailing, propelled us into the night, across several creeks (one of which, the databook proclaims, was Milk Creek), and to our campsite, where we were welcomed by a skunk and a moth convention.

 

Day 7: Wenaha River Canyon to North Fork Umatilla River (33 miles)

As it turned out, we were only four or so miles from the end of the Wenaha River Trail when we retired for the night. After a gradual, shady climb (trail tread visible the whole way), we finally emerged at the Timothy Guard Station and ended two days of bushwhacking hell. We took a meditative moment at a picnic table to process the milestone then proceeded toward Tollgate.

We ascended gradually on forest roads for most of the morning. At the purported high point we had cell service and checked a previously closed trail (South Fork Walla Walla #3225) for its status. Unfortunately, it remained closed due to flooding, so we proceeded on the alternate route 3B. See photo below for more details.

There was little notable about the alternate route, which bounced over and around several proud buttes and followed a dusty but brush-free (celebrate!) ATV track. We cruised uneventfully to Highway 204. Because the alternate route is slightly shorter than the standard, we decided on a compensatory off-course out-and-back up the highway to the Alpine Outpost Tollgate Store. In total the detour was a little more than 2.5 miles, which more than made up for the alternate shortage.

We had a divine lunch at the store served by divine staff with such cheer and helpfulness that we briefly forgot our Wenaha River Trail ordeal. The menu was loaded with vegetarian options (I had the veggie turkey-cranberry sandwich), and our server delivered thick, frosty milkshakes right as we headed back out. We trekked back to the route in merry delirium, cream and sugar going straight to our heads.

The late afternoon and evening followed a short, quiet forest road and then joined the North Fork Umatilla Wilderness Trail. Though lightly used, this trail was straightforward to follow and eventually emerged on the edge of yet another canyon. We descended on long, gradual switchbacks toward the North Fork of the Umatilla River. The light yellowed as we dropped and we had beautifully tinted views of the dry, dramatic canyonsides. If we hadn’t had such a Wenaha River hangover, this section would have been a dream.

As we neared the river, vegetation encroached again. The views dissolved and we found ourselves in a familiar situation: bushwhacking our way to bed. The river was cluttered and its banks congested, so we crashed as soon as we saw a flat spot—slightly earlier than planned.

Day 8: North Fork Umatilla River to La Grande (42 miles)

We started early. After surprisingly little bushwhacking, we arrived at the Umatilla Forks Campground. Despite lingering flood damage, the campground had a vault toilet AND a working spigot—a magical beginning. We loaded up on water and continued on a decommissioned but navigable forest road.

Several miles past the campground, the magic retreated. Our track turned sharply off the road: “Bushwhack up a steep slope,” the databook implored. “Steep,” of course, connotes a spectrum of grades. In this case, “steep” meant “cliff.” It’s been a long time since high school trigonometry, but I’m certain that for this slope, the rise was far greater than the run.

The cliff was comprised of soft earth and densely vegetated (of course). Ascending was detestable and dangerous. We’d make it four feet, then have to turn back because we were cliffed out. We’d make it 10 feet, then have to turn back because the brush was too thick. We’d make it 12 feet, then slip for a perilous 15 because we’d uprooted a tree by clinging to it too tightly.

It took the better part of an hour to reach Shimmiehorn Ridge, where a trail was supposed to appear. One didn’t, but by now this was not a surprise. We traipsed up the ridge in slightly less precipitous conditions, woodenly accepting another dose of cheatgrass. The views were kind of nice and sweeping, but after the cliff drama, also hard to appreciate. By and by we hit a jeep track somewhere around the high point. Happily, it lasted the rest of our day.

The jeep road twisted across a long ridgeline bordering the Grand Ronde Valley. It climbed and descended often, but (importantly) did not disappear into brush. The Wallowas protruded from across the valley, distant yet intense. We had started there!

By late afternoon we reached an abandoned lookout on Indian Rock. There were supposed to be toilets and a spring here, and though there weren’t, we stopped to eat and nurse our deteriorating feet. Some calorie-fueled calculations revealed that La Grande was within reach that night, provided there was no more unexpected bushwhacking. Not eager to camp in a ditch on the outskirts of town, we decided to bag a motel. Only one was en route with vacancy: the Royal Motor Inn. We booked.

The prospect of beds motivated us in the remaining hot hours. We reached Mt. Emily, where the route begins the descent into La Grande, and stopped briefly at a lovely piped spring. Helped by the cool water and cooling evening, we made good time.

Predictably, we ran into trouble toward the base of Mt. Emily. Though the map and databook clearly state that the BMT follows the road into La Grande, our GPS track shot off through a network of puzzling mountain bike trails—not following any, but seeming to zig zag cross country down the hillside. We became deeply confused. In fact, we spent nearly an hour traipsing back and forth on various MTB trails, checking the track, checking the map, trying to find where we were supposed to go.

After no success, we returned over half a mile to where we last understood the track. There we noticed a sign with a map. Comparing that to our map and instructions in the databook, we determined that the GPS track was significantly off. For the remaining descent, we used the databook to direct our turns and at last reached the paved road that would take us to town.

The road walk to the motel was uncomfortable, as we both had blooming blisters among other problems. We crossed I-84 with muted joy and then plodded toward the twinkling downtown strip. The proprietors of the Royal Motor Inn waited up for us—a remarkable show of customer service considering the hour (1 a.m.). They greeted us with warmth and curiosity, offered us cold drinks out of their lobby mini fridge, and then handed over the key.

Discarding all misgivings (there were some), we embraced the somewhat dated accommodations and showered, scrubbing our poisonous trail clothes in the process. Less filthy than we’d been in days (and more than halfway done!), we slept.

Day 9: La Grande to Anthony Lakes (33 miles)

We slept an hour later than usual due to our late night. It was much tougher to leave beds than a tarp, but we managed to do so with minimal dilly-dallying. After a quick circuit around the block to complete a small piece of the route we missed on our way to the motel, we walked straight to Safeway for a luxurious resupply. We gave ourselves a time limit and then went wild. We grabbed rolls of KT tape, coffee, breakfast burritos . . . all sorts of little luxuries we’d been without. Our packs were noticeably heavier afterward, but that was a fine tradeoff for variety and treats.

The route climbed out of town through a few quiet neighborhoods, past Eastern Oregon University, then onto a 4×4 road that gives public access to several private wildlife areas. We had worried that we’d be stalking up pavement all the way to Anthony Lakes, so the pleasant dirt track was a great surprise. We passed through pleasant woods, as well as some swaths of logged and burned land, before reaching Ladd Canyon Road—a gravel road that would take us for miles up past Anthony Butte and not too far from Anthony Lakes Resort.

While the gravel was a bit tiresome, it was preferable to bushwhacking. Late in the day we became hot and sleepy and blister issues escalated. Still, compared to many of our previous days, we made good progress and faced few obstacles.

Just after sunset we veered off Ladd Canyon Road and onto a bumpy dirt ATV track . . . and once AGAIN found ourselves clambering over a series of blowdowns. Moving more slowly than expected, we changed our mileage goal and planned to stop at Bear Wallow Spring, which was marked on the map where this latest blowdown alley rejoined the forest road.

Devastatingly, Bear Wallow Spring was nowhere to be found. We searched for an unreasonable amount of time and finally decided to keep moving in hopes of finding another water source. Our dispositions deteriorated quickly after the spring failed to materialize, however, so we only made it another mile or so before stopping for the night, with no water source in sight. Elk bugling and swarms of small, green bugs temporarily complicated sleep, but our fatigue was deep and we eventually drifted off.

Day 10: Anthony Lakes to Sumpter (41 miles)

The sunrise was peach and gold. We’d finished most of the climbing the previous day, so the dirt traverse toward the Anthony Lakes Resort was moderately undulating but not difficult. The temperature was cool enough that our dearth of water was not a problem, and we arrived at the resort and campgrounds unexpectedly soon.

We filled up with water at a bubbling stream near the road then moved eagerly toward the next junction. We knew we’d have a long stretch of maintained trail, and the prospect buoyed us significantly. Indeed, when we hopped on the Elkhorn Crest Trail just outside the Anthony Lakes Campground, we were energized.

The trail up to the crest was rocky and the views were dramatic. Lakes, streams, and wildflowers coalesced as we climbed higher and the Elkhorns themselves cast an impressive, jagged backdrop.

Once we were on the crest, we settled into a fairly steady pace. The sun was hot at 8k and the rocky trail was hard on our deteriorating feet. But we were relieved to have a break from navigational challenges and distracted—at least for a while—by the fantastic subalpine terrain.

Sometime after noon we both became sleepy, and shortly after that our blister woes escalated. Our afternoon saw several stops for five-minute naps and an increasing number of lancing and taping breaks.

We split from the Elkhorn Crest Trail at the junction for Twin Lakes. Both of us were hurting profoundly at this point, and we pledged to stop at the water for a refresher. The switchbacks down to the lake were agonizing, and dipping our toes provided only a short interruption to our pain.

The agony continued down a steep, uneven, rocky descent to Deer Creek Campground. We did not move quickly or well, but eventually made it to the forest road. From the campground, we took a series of forest roads and ATV tracks toward Sumpter.

We managed to book a last-minute room at the Sumpter B&B, but as the evening wore on, making it there seemed less and less hopeful. Our feet were mangled from the rocky crest trail and our spirits were equally low. We took many breaks to “eat” and mull our plight.

The last 7 miles to Sumpter were interminable. The sun set, and we labored forward with little evidence we had made progress. After dark the dust billowed in our headlamps and obscured the contours of the surface; we stumbled and tripped often.

The day would not have been complete without a wild, off-country segment, and so just when we thought we could taste the edge of town, our route took off through the forest. The ground was softer than the road, which was somewhat helpful for the feet. But setting out through a trail-less, log-strewn expanse that late———it was crushing.

We finally hit Bear Lane, then Sumpter Cemetery Road. We passed the Sumpter City Limits sign, were chased by a “friendly” dog, and what felt like hours later we saw the lights of town. The B&B proprietors left a door open and light on for us. We weren’t feeling particularly jubilant, but we did manage to rinse quickly in the shared showers before collapsing.

Day 11: Sumpter to North Fork John Day River (29 miles)

We started the day on a well-maintained gravel road. It climbed gradually past many old mining sites. We had 8 or so miles of cool, smooth hiking, and then, unsurprisingly, the route burst into the undergrowth.

It’s hard to describe how deflating it was to face another bushwhacking section. Our skin was scabbed, bleeding, and pussy from brambles, cheatgrass, and other obstacles. Our feet were blister colonies. We were already much slower than our slowest predicted pace, and we were ready to be done.

Still we plunged ahead. Our databook explained that this cross country section was marked with blue flagging. But as had been true in the other sections with this note, flagging was so sporadic that we weren’t sure whether the two or three ribbons we saw were actually BMT-related.

The vegetation was thick as we worked our way up the ridge. We stopped for many breaks, disheartened. After Erin Meadow we caught a few short stretches of what may have once been a trail—at one point, a path was marked with red dots of paint. But as we approached Crown Point, all traces of trail evaporated and we muddled our way upward. The scramble-whack to Crown Point was incredibly taxing, and we had to take a break before plunging down the other side.

Fortunately, the cross country descent wasn’t as arduous as the ascent. We had shoes full of dirt as we joined the trail to Baldy Lake, but we had escaped the brush much more quickly than expected. We detoured to Baldy Lake for a blister care and lunch combo, and then set out again into the warm afternoon.

We enjoyed a short section of maintained trail after the lake, but soon after the junction with trail 1603 conditions deteriorated again. We moved slowly along the ridge, which was heavily grassy and littered with blowdowns.

We joined NF 901 eventually, which was slightly easier to follow but intensely undulating, with many steep, breath-smothering pop-ups. Once we reached what felt like a high point, we turned down toward Crane Creek. It was hot and we were low on fluids, but we had to pass several water sources as they were cloudy and clearly contaminated by mining activity.

The mining remnants were not much of a distraction, and the descent to Crane Creek took forever. Upon finally reaching Hwy 73, we had a short break that we hoped would rejuvenate us for some good evening miles.

It didn’t, really. The Crane Creek Trail, for its part, was actually quite nice. Though there were some unpleasant hardened mud sections and a bit of annoying grass, the trail was clearly well-used and easy to follow. It wound through several meadows before descending steeply; we crossed the creek several times in the process.

We reached the North Fork of the John Day River before dark and found a logjam we could walk across to avoid getting wet. This was a relief. Afterward, though, we felt increasingly tired and depleted. Our progress slowed, and we decided to camp as soon as we found a good spot. This ended up being just before dark—and a very good choice.

Day 12: North Fork John Day River to Davis Creek Trail (39 miles)

The early bedtime improved our spirits, and we began the day with optimism. Someone appeared to have recently logged out the NF John Day Trail 3022, and the fortune was not lost on us. As we continued, we passed two mining cabins, the Miner Blackwell Memorial and one other further along. We enjoyed the historic diversions. We also enjoyed the scenery. The river rushed turquoise and white, pines with branchless trunks shot like arrows above it. Rocky banks popped out around every corner. After the previous day’s misery, we were enlivened by the unusual duet of clear trail and beautiful surroundings.

We left trail 3022 at the Granite Creek Trail, then began a long but tolerable climb out of the canyon. Both the Granite Creek Trail and Lake Creek Trail were relatively clean and easy to follow, a second treat for the day. We reached the trailhead with few issues and traipsed over the series forest roads leading to Olive Lake.

Olive Lake was too far off course, so we filtered water at a nearby outlet and continued. We found the Lost Creek Trail with no problem, and for a stretch it was straightforward and seemed well used. A mile or two in, however, the trail began teasing in and out of meadows. At first, we found clear tracks along the edges of the meadows, but eventually the trail disappeared completely. We floundered significantly around the point where the route crosses Lost Creek and heads up to the Greenhorns. Fortunately, however, the GPS track led us back to a highway-like path and we proceeded climbing with relative ease.

The Greenhorns ascent was arduous but surprisingly interesting. Wildlife prints dotted the dried mud trail and glimpses of the distant rocky peaks intrigued us. We were both unfamiliar with the Greenhorns, and for an unknown range, they were quite dramatic.

We reached the junction with the Princess Trail after some gasping. The databook warned that this trail was not complete and that more cross country nonsense lay ahead. That was hard to believe at the trailhead, as a huge, pristine, perfectly painted sign announced the trail. But sure enough—after a short stretch of tread, we found ourselves striking out across a steep, grass-tufted hillside.

While we didn’t enjoy the cross country, we were heartened by the fact that it was (supposed to be) quite short. The map showed our route joining the Tempest Mine Trail after less than a mile. Sadly, the Tempest Mine Trail was also an unmaintained nightmare of blowdowns and branches. When we finally reached it (according to the GPS), there was no indication a trail had ever existed there. We continued log-hopping for the better part of an hour before finally reaching a hint of a path.

Once the trail materialized, it was clear and easy to follow for its remainder. We hiked with no problem until reaching a connecting forest road and then Highway 20, which we walked along for a short stretch before hitting the Davis Creek Trail.

The Davis Creek Trail was bizarre. It felt more like an ATV route, with double tracks winding up the creek and clear evidence of vehicle use—despite the signs prohibiting all motor vehicles. It followed the creek for a short stretch and then veered away into some oddly quiet and creepy woods. At some point during the climb, Christof became convinced we were off. We were moving further from the GPS track, and he took that as a sign we’d missed a turn. We stopped, turned back, looked for junctions. Finding nothing, we continued. After an uneasy stretch, we finally emerged at a junction that clearly indicated we had been on the Davis Creek Trail all along.

Christof was mostly reassured, and we continued into the night. The trail became more and more undulating—at times reminiscent of a rollercoaster. As the terrain became less and less level, we began to worry that we wouldn’t find a campsite. So we stopped as soon as it looked feasible, just short of our 40-mile goal, and amid a mob of moths.

Day 13: Davis Creek Trail to Table Rock TH (34 miles)

After the creepy night next to the Davis Creek Trail we pushed hard to make it to Austin Junction/Highway 26. We’d driven through there on scouting missions, so the prospect of familiar territory was encouraging. The undulating trail—still steep and poppy—was a bit of an impediment, as was a snapped trekking pole (snapped handily in an early tumble) and our still-raging feet.

As we closed in on the highway, we encountered a man just starting his day of forest management—some kind of fire prevention clearing work. He was jolly and chatted happily, marveling that we didn’t carry guns to ward off the wolves. Apparently wolves have been a growing problem for ranchers in the area. Anyway, we left him to his work and soon after hit the highway and the short push to Austin Junction. The store there is temporarily closed, but we plonked down in the parking lot and had our cold soaked breakfasts just the same. Then we crossed the highway and followed Clear Creek up what appears to be an unnamed ridge. We had run this section during reconnaissance, so knowing what to expect for several hours was a great relief.

We planned to get water at the Clear Creek crossing nine miles up the ridge, but alas—the creek was totally dry. This was a dire discovery since the next water source was hours away and we were approaching the heat of midday. We could do nothing but continue.

After reaching a dispersed camping area at the top of the ridge (and finding no water), we proceeded down toward Last Chance Creek, where we would (ostensibly) find water. We’d had many water hopes dashed over the course of the route, and so we had serious concerns about what might happen if Last Chance were dry too. The first part of the descent followed a nondescript gravel road through a burned area. It was no surprise to us, however (and should surprise no dedicated readers), that part way down we diverged from the gravel and plunged onto a fire- and blowdown-ravaged gulch.

Aptly named Thirsty Gulch, the charred and exposed trench meandered down to the valley floor. The section was only 2.5 miles, but those 2.5 miles took us nearly three hours as we navigated stories-tall blowdown and other dense, burned-forest clutter. Fortunately we didn’t have to worry too much about wayfinding, as the walls on either side of the gulch were steep. This was little consolation as our water ran dry and our legs bled onto another assembly of sooty trunks.

We did eventually reach Last Chance Creek, and it was rushing with glee. We also rushed—with glee—toward it, soaking our feet and gulping liters straight from the flow, too tired and fed up to filter.

After recuperating we continued alongside the creek, soon spotting grazing cattle. Suddenly we feared the worst after our unfiltered slurpfest—and vowed to move as far as we could before the giardia and cryptosporidiosis set in. The route followed the creek and valley for several miles, and we passed dozens of relaxed, camping families. We were only chased by one dog.

We turned up and away from the creek just past the South Fork Campground and started the gradual climb up to Table Mountain. Our spirits had recovered somewhat from the Thirsty Gulch deathwhack, and waved cheerfully at ATVing teenagers and their moms. The sun dropped as we climbed, and the Orange Julius sky lulled us into a steady rhythm. We made it to the Table Rock Trailhead sooner than expected and pondered whether we should log a few more miles.

Inspection of the route up from the trailhead suggested the next stretch was not clean and clear, so we opted to break the bushwhack-to-bed cycle and hit the tarp.

Day 14: Table Rock TH to Big Riner Basin (35 miles)

The ascent to Table Rock Lookout was as discouraging as we predicted. At first the path was narrow and weedy but discernible. But after less than a mile it went rogue, switchbacking and meandering in unpredictable patterns along the mountainside and regularly disappearing into brush and tree nests. Every now and then a cairn and several feet of tread would appear, providing infuriating and fruitless hope.

We did reach the lookout, despite everything, and took a break to collect ourselves. At least we didn’t seem to have giardia or cryptosporidiosis. After that the path was clear and easy to follow down to Elk Flat.

Table Rock made an interesting silhouette against the sunrise, but we were eager to leave it behind. We reached Elk Flat in good time, and bypassed a stodgy spring because we were counting on the water at Elk Flat Campground. As it turned out, there was no water at Elk Flat Campground, so we had to walk back nearly a mile to the stodgy spring, where we filtered whilst muttering epithets and complaining about burning hangnails.

We moved on, and fortunately had no trouble descending the several miles to the North Fork of the Malheur River. We took a short nap here, fueled, and then began climbing toward the Horseshoe Trail.

The Horseshoe Trail was perhaps our most fortunate circumstance of the entire route. Dedicated report analysts will know that we spent days (not an overstatement) bushwhacking and wayfinding—at great physical and psychological expense. At this point in our quest we had very little mettle remaining.

Well, the start of the Horseshoe Trail was obscured by grass and blowdown. The sign was peeling and we braced for the worst, wondering how we would manage. To our astonishment, however, a veritable miracle appeared: as we turned the first corner on the trail, we encountered bright piles of sawdust and the unmistakable smell of freshly cut wood. Neither of us commented, afraid the happy sight would soon disappear into chaos. It didn’t.

The Horseshoe Trail ascended steeply for more than 3 miles toward Lookout Mountain. We trudged past hundreds of sawed logs and deconstructed tree nests. The sawdust was clean and fragrant, suggesting the work had only just been completed. We marveled at and could barely digest our fortune; the climb would have taken us more than half a day had it not been cleared.

The route after Lookout Mountain was acceptable. It was slightly annoying, sporting the now so-familiar rollercoaster bumps. But it was hard to complain after our Horseshoe Trail luck.

We followed the ridge for more than 5 miles before our next turn, which would introduce yet another cross country section. We headed down on a non-existent trail, which for a while was easy to follow—even pleasant. It crossed a cold, bubbling spring, where we topped up our bottles and doused our hats, and then . . . slowly disappeared.

We knew we were heading down to a forest road, so that helped in some respects. But the navigation through burnt and logged mishmash was disheartening. This area seemed to have been burned recently, and ash filled our shoes as we struggled to find a viable route down.

Of course, all things end, and this ugly descent did too. Eventually we found ourselves on a clear path to the Skyline Trail, the entrance to our final mountain wilderness: The Strawberry Mountains.

The Skyline Trail was largely clear as it ascended toward the Strawberry Wilderness. Though brushy at first, once we were on the ridge the trail offered expansive and breathtaking views of the Logan Valley. We were fortunate to do this section in the evening, as the sunset pastels beautifully illuminated the valleys, rocks, and trees.

Shortly after passing the Strawberry Wilderness boundary sign, we encountered a brief section of log-hopping: one meadow that had apparently not yet been logged out. But it passed quickly in the cool, delicate light. We continued on across the Strawberry Range, views becoming progressively more impressive and expansive.

After the sun was out of sight, we crossed a rocky, windy, exposed saddle before descending to traverse Big Riner Basin. We were both exhausted and should have camped at the small campsites in the saddle. But we continued for nearly another hour, finally finding a fairly perfect and pine-needly spot in the middle of the basin—protected from the wind and less than 40 miles from the finish.

Day 15: Big Riner Basin to John Day (32 miles)

Wrecked bodies notwithstanding, there is something miraculous about waking up and knowing you’ve finished your last night on a tarp. It rained during that final night, forcing some hasty sleeping revisions, but at this point in our journey that mattered little. We packed quickly and finished our traverse of the basin in no time at all.

There were only a few blowdowns on our way down to Strawberry Lake, nothing to speak of compared to earlier sections. Despite the fact that this was our final day, I was acutely bothered by my foul smell, and so upon reaching the lake we took some time to . . . cleanse. Afterward we climbed gently on a well-used and scenic trail up past Strawberry Waterfalls and through striking alpine meadows. The Strawberry Mountains, previously unknown to both of us, are a small area—but dramatic and wonderful. The peaks loomed jaggedly over the alpine flowers, and we gazed happily at the fabulous ascent toward Strawberry Mountain.

After passing the split with the Strawberry Mountain Trail, we continued along a breathtaking ridge—views of the valley below and rocky ridges on the other side were magnificent. Morning clouds kept this section cool. The day warmed as we descended beside Onion Creek and along the edge of Wildcat Basin, but the trail remained mostly clear.

After a short bushwhacking push alongside Indian Creek Butte, we finally hit the Canyon Mountain Trail. This was notable, as the Canyon Mountain Trail would take us all the way to the road into John Day.

The first section of the trail traverses the west end of the Strawberries. It was rocky, exposed, and high—but kind of spectacular in an arid and rugged sense. After reaching the top of Pine Creek Mountain, we began a long descent into an unidentified basin. The area was totally devastated by a burn, but the ravaged forest made for good vistas. We were close to running out of water at this point, but had our hopes set on a series of creeks that the databook claimed begin just after Pine Mountain. As had so often been the case, however, nothing appeared. After 30 minutes or so we found a few small puddles, and since we were completely dry, stopped and resorted to Ziploc bag scooping.

Bottles full of warm, questionable fluids, we continued. Five minutes later, we hit a cold, rushing spring—and after that, half a dozen more. We discarded our Ziplocked stores and refilled with the better water.

It was fortunate we crossed these springs, because shortly after the trail began to climb. I think it was Yellowjacket Ridge and Green Mountain that we went up—the memory is slightly obscured by yet another exasperating (but predictable) development: more blowdown. As we traversed the switchbacks, charred logs and brambles thwarted our progress again. Neither of us spoke. We just pushed our way over huge, black trunks, through complicated stacks of dead branches, around massive bramble fountains.

The savagely unmaintained stretch dissipated as the grade leveled, and we moved again with some ease. Months ago we had run a little of the Canyon Mountain Trail from its west terminus, and we were waiting for familiar territory. It took a metaphorical lifetime to reach that familiar territory. The trail, fortunately, stopped climbing and dropping, and instead followed the edge of the ridge fairly evenly. Still, with every bend we looked ahead expectantly: is this it?

There were many disappointments. But like most disappointments, these too faded and we suddenly found ourselves looking out over John Day where we had done the same months ago. Neither of us felt good, but the moment was perhaps almost as happy as the finish; it was the moment we knew we would make it. We still had hours to go, but there was a different texture to our moods—some confidence returned, despite our pain, and we picked up the pace.

When we reached the western terminus of the Canyon Mountain Trail, we signed the register and messaged Christof’s wife. We were seven miles and less than three hours away. Then we set off for a steep, painful roadwalk. It was dark enough for headlamps as we reached Canyon City, but we didn’t put them on, the influence of street lights and civilization affecting us. It was two miles of paved road from Canyon City to John Day, but we were hurting enough that we still stopped at the single open gas station for root beer and Red Bull.

The section from Canyon City to John Day was gross in the most honest sense of the word. Much as our minds knew we were nearly done, so did our bodies—spasms, cramps, and other sharp pains multiplied . . . exploded, even. It was a miserable push. When the traffic light that marked the finish finally materialized, we didn’t celebrate or speak. We just kept going—slowly, pitifully.

The route ends next to a Dairy Queen on the corner of Main and Hwy. 395. Someone was in the DQ drive-through when we arrived, but we ignored them and set up the phone for a shadowy selfie. Then we marched one more block, numb and mute, to the Best Western. Ursina, Christof’s wife, was waiting with cheesecake and every cold beverage imaginable. We thanked her by leaving our shoes outside the room before entering and then, with little fanfare, weakly collapsing.

Expected vs actual

Afterword

A picture says more than a thousand words.

Things that slowed us down:

• The heat: temps were often close to 100F during the day.
• Unmaintained trails, bushwhacking, burnt areas, downed trees.
• The pack weight: we often had to carry 3-4l of water.
• Blisters (due to heat, water crossings, pack weight).
• Water filtering (filtering a gallon of water takes time…).

Things that helped us and kept us going:

• Gorgeous weather. We only had a few sprinkles during the very last night. We cowboy-camped under the stars for 14 nights.
• GPS + constantly paying attention to the navigation.
• The BMT databook.
• Stubbornness, resilience, and the ability to improvise, adjust and troubleshoot.

Can the trail be completed faster? Of course! Your turn…

Acknowledgments

Big thanks to Ursina for dropping us off in Joseph, for picking us up in John Day, for feeding us at the finish line, and for putting up with many months of preparation chaos, recon trips, and BMT chatter!

Stats and data

• Start: Wallowa Lake trailhead, Jul 18, 2022, 3:59am
• Finish: John Day (US26/US395 intersection), Aug 1, 2022, 9:21pm
• Elapsed time: 14 days, 17 hours, 22 minutes

• • FKT style: self-supported

• Athletes: Megan L. and Christof T.
• FKT entry: https://fastestknowntime.com/fkt/megan-lacey-christof-teuscher-blue-mountains-trail-2022-08-01
• Weight loss:
  • Megan: 14lbs
  • Christof: 8lbs
• GPS data:
  • GPS recording interval: 1min, so not very accurate.
  • Note: the Strava files are public, yet, one needs an account to see them.
  • Day 1: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573207694
  • Day 2: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573207007
  • Day 3: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573206380
  • Day 4: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573205784
  • Day 5: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573205097
  • Day 6: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573204447
  • Day 7:
    • https://www.strava.com/activities/7573203950
    • https://www.strava.com/activities/7573181185 (2.63 extra miles to compensate for 1.5mi shorter alt 3B route)
  • Day 8: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573203366
  • Day 9: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573202539
  • Day 10: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573201905
  • Day 11: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573201279
  • Day 12: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573181209
  • Day 13: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573180637
  • Day 14: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573180092
  • Day 15: https://www.strava.com/activities/7573179385
• SPOT track: https://maps.findmespot.com/s/3T8G
• Relive clip: https://www.relive.cc/view/vrqo3EkRpKq

Additional resources

• Blue Mountains Trail: https://www.hellscanyon.org/blue-mountains-trail
• The Blue Mountains Trail – A 60-Year Vision Gains Momentum: https://katabaticgear.com/blogs/blog/the-blue-mountains-trail-a-60-year-vision-gains-momentum
• She-ra Hikes the Blue Mountains Trail: https://sherahikes.com/2020-blue-mountains-trail
• Greater Hells Canyon Council: https://www.hellscanyon.org
• Blue Mountains, Oregon Encyclopedia: https://www.oregonencyclopedia.org/articles/blue_mountains
• Blue Mountains Trail FKTs: https://fastestknowntime.com/route/blue-mountains-trail