Pacing along the Devil’s Backbone
- charlesjromeo
- Jul 15
- 7 min read
Updated: Nov 6
I first ran the Devil’s Backbone Relay, an event put on by the Big Sky Wind Drinkers, in July 2021. I ran it north to south, from Hyalite trailhead along the Gallatin Crest to Windy Pass Cabin. At the pre-run meeting the evening before, the run director told us about a directional arrow and posts on the course. At the time, I envisioned paint stirrers stuck in the ground, possibly with plastic pink ribbons tied at the top. What I found sparked my imagination.
Summer, Circa 1935. CCC trail crew atop the Gallatin Crest, south of Bozeman, Montana:
Willy hollers, “Sarge is comin’.”
Clark turns to the man working next to him. “Keep your mouth shut Winer. Don’t give Sarge any backtalk.”
“My name’s not Winer,” Winer says as he kicks some dirt from his hoe in the direction of Clark. Then starts, “We’re doin’ all this work for no reason, no reason a’ tall. Buildin’ trails ain’t nobody ever gonna use. This is hard work, for nothin’, all fer nothin’.”
“Winer’s your name, and it’ll be your name tills the time you earn another.”
Willy adds in, “If you giv’n Sarge an earful we’s gotta hear again about ‘bout making men outta us, likes he was made in the Great War. So just shut it Winer.”
Sarge approaches in a cart pulled by a mule. The young men on the crew gather around and stand at ease. Sarge surveys the men and their work, works up a glob of tobacco juice, ptooey, as he expels a blob at the boys feet. “Work’s been going too slowly. Takes too long fer ya’s to get up here and back to camp each day, so yer’s gonna be staying up here till yer finished. I brought ya’s food and tents.”
Winer starts squirming. “You got something to say Winer?”
Clark steps in front of Winer. “He’s got nothing to say Sarge.” Then he turns, stares at Winer, until Winer calms himself.
Sarge continues, “There ain’t a lot of rocks for building cairns for the next few miles south, so I’s dropped posts fer y’all to stand up. Stay up here till ya put in all the posts. When ya’s come to the work the next crew south has done, ya’s can come down.” Winer starts squirming again. “Winer, you’s got something needs saying?” Sarge asks as he lays another glob of tobacco juice at their feet, then takes his rough hand and wipes the spit hanging from his grizzled face rubs it into his pants which by now are blacker from tobacco juice than kaki from dye.
Clark turns and faces Winer again; Winer holds his tongue.
“Okay then. You boys can unload the wagon. Ground here is flat enough, and these snowfields got plenty of water fer ya’s to drink.”
Sarge is turning to leave, when Winer finally can’t keep it in any longer. “Why we doin’ this Sarge, why? This is nothing but a barren hellscape. Ain’t nobody ever gonna come up here, ain’t nothing gonna come of these trails. Grass just gonna grow back in, cairns gonna fall apart, and now you want us digging rock to raise posts. Why sir? Why?”
Sarge steps down from the wagon, surveys the group of them. He heaves another blob of black spittle, wipes his face, colors his kaki’s. A crazed gleam builds in his eyes, he starts yelling, “Why, why, ‘cause I got ta make men out a you boys. You don’t know what’s comin’ yer way. You might get trapped in the Argonne Forest for days. Gerry has you pinned down with artillery. Yer own gun has been blasted. Half yer crew is dead. You bury them at night right where they fell.” Sarge’s eyes get glassy, his chin trembles. Pain bubbles to the surface every time he starts telling a story from the war. The boys lower their eyes in respect. Sarge turns away, then has one more thought before he mounts his wagon. “Cairns are hard to see here, so put a big arrow right here. Something that can’t be mistaken. Winer, that’ll be your job. You head down in the forest,” Sarge points in the canyon directly below where they are standing, “and haul up enough timber to make a giant arrow.” He smiles. “Make me proud son.”
Winer nods, Clark yells “Yes sir!” They all snap to attention and ring out a chorus of “Yes Sir!” Even Winer snaps to and joins in.
Winer waits for Sarge to get out of earshot, then starts grumbling again. “Ain’t nothing but a barren hellscape, cairns will fall apart, winds will drop the posts, and an arrow will get buried in the snow and just rot into the ground.”
“No Winer, that’s where you’re wrong.” Clark starts. “Look at where we are. This sinuous ridge is beautiful, and there are ridges that come off the main ridge. Looks kinda like a backbone, don’t it?”
“If it’s a backbone, it’s the Devil’s Backbone,” comes the shrill retort. “Ain’t no one live here. Ain’t no one ever comin’ up here ‘cepts maybe some cowboy searchin’ fer lost sheeps or cattles, and he don’t need no trail.”
“I see it differently Winer. I see people coming up here to ride horses, people coming up here to walk our trail, and you knows I love to run, I could even see runners up here someday enjoying this beauty. All of them using your arrow for guidance and following a line of tall posts across the tops of these mountains, and remembering us for what we accomplished for them.”
Winer’s leaning on his hoe, he looks at Clark, “Clark, you is a decent guy, but you is a mōron.”
Saturday, June 12, 2025:
I had been thinking for hours that I wanted to make Hyalite Peak by sunset. My son-in-law, Chris, had started the morning at Hyalite Peak Trailhead at 6 am, and made his way running and trekking to Portal Creek Trailhead, 25 miles to the south with all the other Devil’s Backbone Ultra runners. He arrived there about 1:20 pm. I would be pacing him back north. We started off at 1:37 pm. Chris was feeling strong and so for the first few hours, we moved well. It though is a lot of miles: the first five were no problem, the second five, still moving well, by mile 14 moving north, 39 in total for Chris, we were at the lowest point in the middle of the run—just shy of 9,000 feet in elevation. We were about to begin the long roller coaster climb to the top of 10,300-foot Hyalite Peak and Chris was now wiped out. Anne and Matt, two other ultra runners caught up with us at the spring that serves as an aid station. We were still ahead of the sweep crew, and both of us were determined to keep it that way for as long as we could.
It is a technically difficult and stunningly beautiful course. From the south we start at just above 8,000 feet and climb to Windy Pass, a broad grassy wildflower speckled meadow. We pick up the post trail here and the climb continues up The Sentinel, where we top out above 9,900 feet, then we stay high cresting 10,000 feet a few times as the ridge narrows and the highpoints sharpen somewhat with huge glacially carved bowls that have cornices still rimming the tops and snowfields tucked into nooks and crevices.
It has, thus far, been a smoke free summer, so the views are expansive: the Taylor, Madison and Spanish Peaks to the west, the Absarokas clear and sharp to the east. But it was the immediacy of the Gallatins, and how they evolved as we moved north that my camera captured best.
It is an exposed course, both because of the ruggedness of the trail which makes finding a steady running pace impossible for extended stretches, and because we are just out there. Once we passed the sweepers that were heading south to Portal Creek a few miles into our run north, we didn’t see anyone until Anne and Matt caught us at the spring. This is a small event: eight runners finished the 50 mile out and back run; 25 completed 25 miles, running either north or south, but not in both directions. Runners are totally self-supported, and there are no easy exits outside of the north and south endpoints.
On the long climb up Hyalite Peak, the ridge narrows to a thin line and undulates. The peak seems so close for a long time, but there is no direct route, and no escalator to the top. We slogged up every short steep ascent, jogged every set of loose rocky switchbacks down and grunted up the final 1,000-foot climb. We made the peak just as the sun kissed the horizon. The five sweepers— Jess, Kelley, Nick, Paul and Ryan—caught Chris on the final part of the climb. Once everyone was up top and the light was captured, an important question had to be answered. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a Ziplock was left on the ground at the peak. Was this left for the sweep crew? “No, we have plenty of food.” Then, … do I eat it?
I mean, the answer to that question in a typical situation would of course be no, but just seeing it after a daylong diet of gels had me salivating. Nick suggested that possibly a drug mule had climbed the peak in order to leave a fentanyl laced sandwich at the top. If it didn’t kill me, that could ease the pain of the downhill. I dug in and offered Chris half. He didn’t hesitate. It provided us a much-needed energy boost but no fentanyl buzz.
We headed down, headlamps at the ready, but putting down as much distance as possible before darkness became complete. Chatting as a group made the long downhill zip by. Travis, the run director, who had been working since the start nearly 18 hours earlier, gave us all a big welcome at the finish.
Before I left Hyalite Peak, I looked south and traced the line of the Devil’s Backbone as it faded into the distance and the encroaching darkness. My thoughts turned to the Sarges, Clarks, Willys, Winers and many others who made this day possible. My thanks to you and to the leaders who had the forethought to put you out here.
Sweepers climbing Hyalite Peak (Photo courtesy of Paul Calabro); Sunset from the top
A few more pictures:
Windy Pass; Spanish Peaks
Mira and Erin sweeping south; sweepers moving north on the ridge
Chris; Matt
Meg, Mellissa and Dalton approaching Windy Pass from the north; Crater Lake
Garmin stats:
Distance (one way): 25.16 miles
Vertical heading north:
uphill: 6,138 feet
downhill: 7,306 feet
If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy the two trail race stories I wrote for events from earlier this season.
Old Gabe 30K and 55K:
The Baldy Blitz:
Thanks for reading!
Loved this post, Chuck! Really fun imagining the conversation from the original trail crew. Great job to you and especially Chris on the run, and beautiful photos ... although Chris' sense of fashion is questionable at best.
fun story! love that it made you think about the people who built the trails and made it all possible. we often forget what came before us. good description of the final slog up Hyalite Peak. that is a climb that i will never forget!!