Last year, as the hues of sunset painted the sky, I embarked on my final climb up Sacajawea Peak for the season. It was a full moon night, and anticipation hung in the air as my friends and I settled in, wrapped in an emergency blanket, to await the moonrise. During that magical twilight, we found ourselves drawn to the summit register, a simple box holding notebooks filled with hikers’ thoughts and experiences.
For years, the absence of a register on Sacajawea Peak, the highest point in the Bridger Mountains at 9,665 feet, had struck me as peculiar. Baldy, a lesser peak, boasted one; why not Sacajawea? Driven by this thought, I had carried a small container and supplies up earlier that summer, establishing the register. Throughout the season, I returned to peruse the entries, replenish notebooks, and felt a growing connection to the community of hikers, both local and from afar, who shared this mountain.
By the fading light and then by flashlight, we chuckled at the register’s contents. Amidst the predictable accolades for the stunning views and perfect weather, some entries stood out. One playful exchange between newlyweds, hiking after an overnight road trip – his idea, her amused acceptance – ended with signatures we recognized as friends.
Then, I read aloud a passage that was truly unique, a piece of prose that was either award-winningly creative or perhaps fueled by something else: “I ascended Sacajawea with a jar of ladybugs, a gift for Hank the Rock Gnome. But he was not there. Gone. Vanished. And in my search, the ladybugs escaped at the summit. Lost, all of them.” The entry continued in a dramatic vein, a whimsical lament concluding with a heartfelt appeal: “Should you encounter any ladybugs, please, deliver them to Hank the Rock Gnome.”
As if on cue, the moon ascended, battling the lingering haze from distant forest fires, appearing enormous and orange, much like the sun. The temperature plummeted, yet the vista, as countless daytime register entries confirmed, was breathtaking, amplified by the moon’s ethereal glow. Once the moon illuminated our descent, we began our trek down, marveling at the valley lights and our moonlit shadows dancing on the trail.
I left the register, secured beneath a cairn of rocks, never imagining the ferocity of the mountain winds or the relentless cycle of freeze and thaw. Returning the following July, the register was gone. Simply vanished. Just like Hank’s ladybugs, lost to the mountain winds.
Undeterred, I carried a new register up, this time accompanied by champagne. Another summer, another group of friends. We toasted to life’s milestones and penned our own entries about the view and the celebratory champagne in the fresh notebook.
This autumn, I will retrieve the register journals on my final climb of the season. The Bozeman Public Library will archive these notebooks, preserving a charming and vibrant chronicle of the region’s visitors, their reflections, and the musings of locals who cherish this hike. Enjoy these pages, should you get the chance. And if you happen upon last year’s journals—or perhaps, a rock gnome named Hank—please, do let me know.
