February 3-5, 2026

I came over the top of the hill and saw the lights of Red Lodge below me — the town tucked into the valley, a couple of switchbacks leading down through the dark to the edge of it, the river running alongside. I looked right and caught a glimpse of the main drag lit up, then turned left following the directions through town, past a motel and motor lodge, past a sign that stopped me cold:

PRAY FOR SNOW.

I laughed out loud. After two weeks of powder days I felt almost guilty. I followed the road out into the neighborhood — the kind of Montana neighborhood where each place has three to five acres and a gravel road connects them all. Spread out, quiet, the kind of dark you only get far from city lights. I pulled into the driveway and put it in park.

I was worn out. Skiing all day, then six-plus hours of driving, a full moon over Wyoming, tights in Dubois. I grabbed my backpack — the same one I’d carried through Portugal and Spain on the Portuguese Camino — and went to the door. Rick and Kathi were still up, waiting on me.

I’d never seen their house before. They’d finished it seven or eight months earlier and moved back to Montana — back to where they’d originally met, decades ago, before careers and life pulled them elsewhere for a while. Open floor plan, beautiful kitchen, the kind of place that feels like it was built with intention. They showed me around, offered snacks and something to drink, showed me the bedroom I’d be in. We visited for a while but not too long. I went to bed and didn’t wake up until 8 o’clock.

Rick was already up when I came out. I got the coffee going — they’re not coffee drinkers, so I was on my own there — and a little while later Kathi appeared and we all sat and visited. After a bit Rick started cooking: eggs, sausage, toast, all the trimmings, jam on the table. A proper Montana breakfast after a long road.

We talked about the day. Skiing at Red Lodge was on the table, but we decided to give the mountain a rest and go for a hike instead. Kathi had things to tend to at home. Rick and I had a trail to find.

Around 11 we had our gear together — I strapped on my Camelback with the water bladder, Rick packed his backpack with water containers — and piled into his truck. He pointed things out along the way, his town, his landscape, the roads he knows by heart. The trailhead parking lot was a sheet of ice. I didn’t think much about it. Got out of the truck and immediately went down — bam, hard, on the frozen ground. One of those falls where you just lie there for a second
taking stock of whether anything is broken. Nothing was. My left knee, already talking to me from the Snowbird fall, offered its opinion on the matter. I paid attention to where I was stepping for the rest of the day.

A gate blocked the road — closed for the season — but two lanes had been carved out for skiers, with a sign sorting traffic: traditional skiing left, Vickers middle, walking right. We followed the road up past the closed campgrounds and shuttered cabins to the trailhead that leads up to Basin Lake. Hiking in snow is nothing like hiking on bare trail. It’s like hiking through sand — every step soft and unpredictable, your legs working twice as hard for half the forward progress. I’ve done some snowshoeing, but this was something else.

We came to a waterfall that shouldn’t have been running — not in early February, not up here. But the water was rushing underneath the frozen sections, pushing through in the melt from the Beartooth Pass above, the ice hanging over it in sheets while the creek ran wild underneath.

The trail offered a couple of what I’ll generously call hopeful summits — moments where you’re sure the lake must be just over the next rise, and then it isn’t. We kept going. The snow kept deepening. When we finally reached Basin Lake, we stopped and took it in. Then we tried to walk to the shore. The path had either ended or we’d lost it, because with every step toward the edge of the frozen lake we sank — knee deep, thigh deep, in one memorable moment nearly waist
deep in snow. We post-holed our way to the edge anyway. It was worth it.

Standing there, I reached for my phone and noticed: no cell service. My brother thought he might be able to send a text in an emergency — we started examining our phones, rying to figure out whether the satellite icon meant we actually had satellite service or not. It was, as Rick pointed out, a little late to be thinking about this.

I have a photo from that moment showing my location via satellite image. I’m still not entirely sure what I clicked or whether it would have helped in an actual emergency. It’s on my list to sort out proper backcountry communication before the next long hike in remote terrain.

AllTrails logged the round trip at just under 8 miles with 1,650 feet of elevation gain — about four hours moving, five hours total. What the numbers don’t capture is the split: roughly 70% of the time and effort went up, working through snow that swallowed each step. The descent was faster — considerably faster — but treacherous enough in places
to keep you honest every step down.

We got back to the house as it was getting dark. Longer than we thought, or we went further than we thought. Either way: earned. Rick fired up the grill and cooked steaks. Potatoes, salad, brownies with ice cream. The kind of dinner that arrives exactly when it’s supposed to.

After dinner we visited for a while, and then Rick said: hot tub. He has a hot tub off the back of the deck — and he made sure I knew the story behind why it wasn’t on the deck itself. The advice they’d gotten when they built the place: put it on the deck and you’ll be looking at the roofline. Put it off the deck and you’ll be looking at the sky. I sat in that hot tub and the universe was on full display. The Beartooths dark around us, the stars the kind of thick and uninterrupted you only get at altitude and far from any city. My left knee appreciated the warmth. The rest of me appreciated everything else.

Wednesday, February 4. I was up early, coffee on before anyone else stirred. Rick started cooking breakfast again — eggs, toast, the works — and we talked about the day over the table. Then I noticed something in the pantry: Frosted Mini Wheats. My staple at home. I never remember eating it as a kid, so I’m not sure how we both ended up with the same cereal. Must run in the family.

We decided to ski Red Lodge that day. Rick had a family pass, so that was taken care of. We were unloading skis before 10 o’clock. I decided to use my rock skis — the $7 thrift store pair — given the thin snow coverage, and the fact that I’d only skied on them once before, briefly at Copper Mountain. Seemed like a good day to get properly acquainted.

We skied most every run that was open. Some that Rick hadn’t skied yet because the snow coverage was questionable — I wanted to cover as much of the mountain as I could. Unfortunately, AllTrails didn’t track that day. What I can tell you is that it was wonderful to see his mountain — practically his backyard — and to ski it with him. The views of the Crazy Mountains off in the distance were fantastic. I can’t wait to come back someday with proper snow coverage and ski the whole thing.

The knee held. The rock skis held. A good day all around. That evening we had salad again — Rick apparently takes his salads seriously — and the most important item on the agenda was a return to the hot tub. This time the conversation turned to bears. Apparently they do wander through the property on occasion. We were sitting in the hot tub, in the dark, in Montana, and Rick mentioned this casually. We established fairly quickly that the bear spray was not within reach. We agreed to be alert and moved on to other topics, the stars still doing their thing overhead.

Thursday, February 5. Coffee, Frosted Mini Wheats, another Rick breakfast. Then we decided to go cross-country skiing — back to the road that leads up toward the Basin Lake trailhead, which had those carved lanes for skiers.
Rick and Kathi had purchased cross-country skis but had never skied on them. Not once. I had skied on mine a couple of times, most recently across Jackson Lake — so by the standards of the group, I was the expert. I accepted this responsibility with appropriate humility.

We had a good time and went further than we thought we would. A couple of small mishaps along the way. Kathi fell and bumped her head — a good reminder that helmets aren’t just for downhill skiing. They’re warm too. She got right back up and kept going, which told me everything I needed to know about Kathi.

After that, Rick and I drove up to where they close the highway toward the Beartooth Pass and did a little more cross-country skiing, though the conditions weren’t really conducive. I wanted to get as far up toward the pass as I could. I’ll have to go back in warmer weather — the camping and hiking up there in season is supposed to be something else entirely.

Then Rick gave me the tour of Red Lodge. Post office, airport, rodeo grounds, Main Street, the restaurants they like, the places they go. He drove me up and around the trail he hikes regularly from his house. Now when he calls and says he’s been out on the trail, I know exactly what that looks like and where he is.

We also walked down the trail he’d cut from the house to the irrigation creek that runs behind the property, leading to a fire pit he’d put in. The Christmas tree was still there, cut up and stacked in the pit, ready to burn when the conditions were right.

Walking down that trail I had to stop and take a picture. Something about it reminded me of my grandfather — my mother’s father, a farmer. We used to go up to the farm as kids. He even had horses one we both remembered as ours: Dandy Lightning. Rick and I stood there by that fire pit and talked about that for a while. Some of the best moments of the Ski Camino happened when the skis were off.

That evening: leftover steak, salad again, and one more trip to the hot tub. The bears did not appear. The stars did.

Friday morning I was up early, packing the Tahoe in the dark, rearranging and organizing for the road ahead. Big Sky was next. My sister was flying in that afternoon.

I hit the road before sunrise. Around 6:45 the sky opened up — a Montana sunrise that reminded me why people move back here after long careers and busy lives somewhere else. I made it to Big Sky and was on the slopes before 11. The family reunion chapter of the Ski Camino was just getting started.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 6

Sort out your backcountry communication before you go: If you’re hiking in remote terrain without cell service, know in advance whether your phone has satellite capability and how to use it. Don’t figure it out at the lake. Consider a
dedicated satellite communicator for serious backcountry days.

Wear a helmet cross-country skiing: It’s not just for downhill. Helmets protect you on XC trails too — and they’re warm. Especially important for first-timers on unfamiliar terrain.

Use your rock skis on thin coverage days: If you have a second pair for marginal conditions, use them. Saves your good skis and gives you a chance to get comfortable on a backup pair before you need them.

Red Lodge Mountain: A gem of a local mountain that deserves better snow than it had in February 2026. Come back when it’s fully open — the terrain and the views of the Crazy Mountains are worth the trip.

Hot tub placement matters: Put the hot tub off the deck, not on it. You want to be looking at the sky, not the roofline. Trust the advice.

Build in time away from the slopes: Some of the best moments of the Ski Camino happened when the skis were off — the fire pit trail, the irrigation creek, the conversation about Dandy and Lightning. Leave room for those moments.

Bear spray within reach: If you’re hot-tubbing in bear country at night, know where the bear spray is before you get in. We learned this lesson the easy way.

Next: Chapter 7 — Big Sky, the Family Reunion on Skis & the Super Bowl

New chapters drop regularly. Subscribe and you’ll get each one delivered directly to your inbox — no algorithm required.

The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.