The Centennial Valley is an unforgettable place, a 50-mile long east-west rift in the Rocky Mountain crust bordered by snowcapped peaks and jagged ridges, a remote destination for outdoor enthusiasts like me.  I have fond memories of the valley, all reinforced by numerous visits over many years.  This visit was a reconnaissance mission to observe trumpeter swans at Red Rocks National Wildlife Refuge.  Red Rocks NWR sits beneath Slide Mountain, one of the highest peaks in the Centennial Range along the south end of the valley and the Montana-Idaho state line.  The aptly named Snowcrest Range lies to the north, and on a clear day, the Madison Range, 70 miles east, is clearly visible.  Lima Peaks lies far to the west.

It was destined to be a stormy May day, blustery, occasional rain squalls, clearing, then more rain.  Red Rocks can be a severe place, often windy, cold, mosquito infested, but it’s also serene, absent paved roads, crowds, and the congested smear of development.  My solitude was occasionally interrupted by the distant mooing of bovines nibbling away on their Federal grazing allotment.  A hundred years ago, the Centennial Valley was sheep country, home to hardscrabble ranchers trying to succeed in unforgiving country on small parcels.  Today, only the tiny hamlet of Lakeview survives.  It’s the headquarters of the NWR, a small retreat center, and home to a few summer visitors, geologists, biologists, and environmental scientists.  Ten thousand years ago, the Centennial valley was a massive glacial lake from end to end.  Today, the remnants of that lake form the core of the NWR.  Upper and Lower Red Rock Lakes are the prime summer habitat for returning trumpeter swans and numerous other species of North American waterfowl.  An occasional grizzly bear, on vacation from Yellowstone National Park, may amble across the valley and surrounding ranges to feast on summer berries or a hapless cow.

I had previously worked near Red Rocks, mapping and describing sedimentary rocks in the western Centennial Range, a 7,000-ft-high pile of Cretaceous mudstones and sandstones deposited in coastal lowlands just west of a vast Cretaceous seaway.  The work was fun.  I hiked the ridges and slopes looking for tidbits of earth history.  I conveniently camped at Red Rocks, a stone’s throw from my field area.

I drove into the lower lake campground from the east out of Idaho after crossing Red Rock Pass.  The seven-site campground is at the west end of the refuge on a side road in the middle of the valley next to the lake.  It has panoramic vistas of the surrounding mountains and valley.  Two classic east-facing wooden outhouses, decorated with crescent moon signs, were the only prominent and visible structures nearby.  The sites were equipped with fire pits and picnic tables, all enclosed in a jack-leg fence to keep the cows out.  I parked and took in the sights, the velvety mountain slopes, tall grass blowing in the stiff breeze, threatening clouds, and the territorial barn swallows, swooping down from their nests along the roof tops of the outhouses.

I chose the site closest to the lake and parked.  The campground was empty.  Nothing much changes here except the weather.  Thankfully, the mosquitoes were in seclusion because of the stiff breeze.  I chose my favorite outhouse, the one on the right, for a quick inspection.  It was my favorite because it has a commode fixture physically resembling a toilet on a passenger jet liner.  I have always wondered where NWR staff found it.  I paid my fee ($3.50 for seniors) and settled in by walking to the lake with my binoculars, anxious for a Trumpeter sighting.  I immediately spotted two adults and a single cygnet (chick)  trailing behind.  That seemed odd to me, but predators are common here, foxes, coyotes, owls, and raptors.

Later that afternoon, I spotted two cars in the distance approaching the campground from the south on the access road.  “Damn”.  I get picky about my favorite places.  I first watched the cars with my binoculars, two older model sedans, slowly heading my way.  When they parked at the far end of the campground, two older disheveled guys, one unshaven, overweight, the other thin with an unmanaged beard, got out and surveyed the area.  Their appearance didn’t particularly bother me.  Sometimes I look pretty bedraggled myself.  I hadn’t yet deposited my fee envelope in the kiosk at the campground entrance, and used that excuse to check out these guys.  They were parked close to the kiosk.  I often approach people to schmooze.  I’m a cautious camper and have developed strategies over the years for personal safety.  Rarely have I encountered serious problems with other campers.  As I walked by, I greeted them. The thin guy was spooning something into his mouth from a glass jar parked on the hood of his car.  He responded to my greeting but seemed slow mentally, or just hesitant to respond.  He asked what it cost to camp here.  I mentioned the kiosk and the Federal Senior Access Pass, a perk for people over 62, a card allowing for a 50 percent camping discount in Federal facilities.  The fat fella kept fumbling with boxes in his trunk but managed a grunt, a socially impaired attempt at recognition.  These interlopers were weird, not in an amicable or mild-mannered way, but at least two standard deviations from the mean as some say in statistical circles, probably harmless but strange.

They had made no attempt to pitch a tent or settle in, so I decided to wait them out by the lake while attending to some duck identifications.  At about that time, they drove off in both cars leaving no personal items to indicate they were planning on spending the night at the campground.  Where they gone for good?  I take a fatalistic view of these encounters, but washed up, prepared my dinner of gourmet wieners and deliberated the chances of their return.  I had a backup plan, to camp at the upper lake about nine miles east, near the park headquarters at Lakeview.  Sure enough, about 6 pm I saw their vehicles approaching and quickly packed the few items not already in my Forester.  I’m a minimalist camper, without a tent—I sleep in my vehicle—and few items to pack.  I hypocritically waved as I left and headed east.  Already clouds were filling the sky and rain seemed imminent.

The upper lake campground had also been one of my favorite camping spots for years.  The ambience is totally different from the lower lake.  The spectacular view of the valley is present, but campground sits much closer to the high Centennial Mountains peaks along the southern margin of the rift, higher in elevation with lots of willows, aspens, and close to the spruce and fur trees of the adjacent forest.  An old horse trailer rests nearby, used as a bear proof food storage locker.  Cold, tasty water flows from a piped spring downhill from the sites closer to the lake.  Two outhouses offer a panoramic view of the lake, but alas, no crescent moons.  I’ve stayed here countless times in the last 30 years, enjoying the coyote barks, woodpecker knocks, and duck calls, but the mosquitoes are often deadly.  I was here with a group of friends several years ago when the hum of millions of insects could be heard above us, maybe 20 feet in the air, forming a hazy vibrating cloud, an arthropodic biomass of impressive proportions.

When I arrived at the upper lake, the only humans present were sitting in a circle next to a large SUV parked near the self-registration kiosk, all young adults working for the Montana Conservation Corps.  They were having a meeting before leaving for the day, perhaps planning the next day’s activities.  I immediately noticed that everyone was wearing mosquito netting, the protective gear you expect to see on the north slope of Alaska during the summer.  They seemed like a nice bunch, tired after a long day fixing fences and swatting mosquitoes.  I prepared for the worst.  Apparently, the mosquitoes here were worse than at the lower lake campground this year, and the wind had died down.  I applied a heavy dose of DEET to my body and installed my Skeeter Beaters, nylon mosquito netting for my open windows.  An 80 percent DEET application seemed like a good idea.

In southwestern Montana, near the western edge of the Mountain Time Zone, it’s normally light until 10:00 pm in early summer.  But by 9:30 it was getting dark, temperature in the 50s, lowering clouds, a few sprinkles in the air, then drizzle and soon a light steady rain.  When I opened the rear door to organize my bedding, a flock of mosquitoes entered with me.  I quickly closed the door and grabbed my first weapon of choice—a flyswatter.  I was a killing machine, quickly dispensing with those that had landed and others in mid air.  The Skeeter Beaters seemed to be working, but a few of the little vermin managed to squeeze in between the screens and the window frame.  I was ready for them too.  I soon settled in for the evening with my current book, headlamp attached and flyswatter in hand, ready to smash a skeeter when necessary.

The first hard raindrops started hitting the roof about 10:30.  Lightning and thunder approached from the south.  About that time, I heard the first scratches, some scampering and rattling in the interior of the ceiling and walls of my Subaru.  My response to those sounds, a highly audible shit would have been heard by other nearby campers, but thankfully there were none.  I lay in the dark for several minutes, increasingly irritated at the invader, probably a mouse.  It was now on the floor in front scurrying about.  I grabbed my headlamp and pointed it at the front driver’s side floor. There it was, the cocky little brownish-gray rodent.  How did it get in my vehicle?  I couldn’t come up with an easy answer.  It would have been difficult for a mouse to enter via an open door.  I just assumed that it got in somehow via the tires, up into the chassis, or some small crack in the lower floor.

I needed to think.  The rain was starting to pelt the roof, steady hard drops, and the lightning flashes were getting very close.  My watch said 11:00.  I didn’t have much of a choice.  If I opened the door in the rain for more than a few seconds, a thousand mosquitoes would invade my space.  I had little chance of quickly ridding myself of the little invader, especially with only a headlamp.  I opened the door in the rain, grabbed my lawn chair, threw it inside, removed the skeeters, completely closed my windows, and started the engine.  Phew! I heard some inside buzzing and turned my heater fan on full throttle to keep the mosquitoes in a state of confusion.

I sat there for a few minutes to consider my options.  I had no cell service at Red Rocks, and the nearest motel was in Lima, Montana, a 45-mile drive mostly on rain soaked gravel roads.  My food was in mouse proof plastic bins.  Had I stayed put, the mouse would have been crawling over me during the night.  It would have been extremely difficult to chase it out.  I decided to drive to Lima, try to get a room at one of the two available fleabag motels and deal with the rodent in the morning during daylight.  I rarely stay in motels on my trips, but this was an exception.  It would be past midnight when I reached Lima, and securing a room might be iffy.  If rooms were unavailable in Lima, I’d call a motel in Dillon, another 50 miles north on I-15.  I know both towns well and have stayed in most of their cheap motels.

It took about an hour to reach Lima, first on the South Centennial Valley Road, then on Interstate 15 for the last15 miles.  The Centennial Road had a stable gravel surface, but it was raining hard now, a gully washer of a storm with frequent lightning flashes to help guide my way.  I slushed westward encountering some slippery spots, but the road had a good base.  Not a single car in 25 miles, just one vehicle transporting several hundred mosquitoes and a mouse.  The fan helped, and I received only a few bites on the drive.  I reached Monida at midnight.  Monida is a ghost town south of Lima on the Idaho-Montana border just off I-15.  I entered the freeway ramp and looked for approaching traffic, but the night was dark, not a single light in either direction.  I reached 80 mph quickly and set the cruise control to the relax setting.  The rain stopped, primarily because I had gotten ahead of the north moving storm.

I exited the highway at Lima and noticed the No-Vacancy sign at the Sportsman Motel.  I parked in front of Ralph’s Exxon, under the brightly lit canopy.  The station was closed.  I looked around.  Lima was asleep.  No surprise.  I was not going to spend the night in Lima unless I parked in the rest area across the street with a mouse and his mosquito friends for company.  Thankfully the cell service was good in Lima.  I started calling Dillon motels.  Best Western, no vacancy; Super 8, no vacancy; Comfort Inn, no answer.  Finally, I reached Motel 6, and the night manager offered me the Presidential suite, with Jacuzzi for $79/night.  I took it without hesitating.  I never thought I would stay at a Motel 6 again, especially for that price.

I left Ralph’s and entered I-15 heading north.   I was again doing 80 but a couple of trucks passed me.  Maybe they were transporting mosquitoes and mice too.  I rarely worried about speeding in Montana where the posted limit was reasonable and proper.  I interpreted that to mean 85.  It started to rain again, more lightning, but I was on concrete pavement now and making good time.  When I reached Dillon, the County Seat of Beaverhead County, it was 1:30 AM.  The rain slowed to a drizzle as I pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot.  I paid the cheerful night attendant who noted that I probably bagged the last room in town.  In a few minutes I traded my rodent-infested Subaru for the Jacuzzi suite.  I unloaded everything the mouse could access and promised to murder him in the morning.  The worst part of Motel 6 buildings is their flimsy construction.  My wife, Jenni, refuses to stay in one.  On the other hand, I felt thankful and managed six hours of slumber.

About 7:30 that morning, I awoke to the cacophony of departing guests, not really rested, but functional.  I decided against the continental breakfast and checked out without using the Jacuzzi, although I did take a shower.  When I opened the door and inspected my Subaru, I immediately spotted an apple on the passenger front seat that I had missed collecting earlier.  When I looked at it closely, I noticed tooth marks, and part of it had been eaten.  Tiny mouse turds surrounded it, the only other evidence of the intruder.  I pounded on some of the interior spaces but no mouse.

My first stop that morning was the north side car wash.  I parked next to the vacuum cleaners, opened all of the doors, totally emptied the vehicle, sleeping gear, food boxes, suitcase, everything.  I vacuumed and disinfected all of the interior surfaces, and pounded on the roof and walls with the handle of my walking stick to the amusement of another customer.  No Mickey!  Where did the little guy go?  Did it escape during the night after filling itself with apple?  I wasn’t sure.  Maybe it was still in the vehicle, scared to death, waiting for darkness. Maybe not.  It would require another night of uncertainty, but I stopped at a local hardware store and purchased a 3-pack of mouse traps, the deadly kind, and then stopped at the Dillon Safeway for a jar of peanut butter.

Staying close to Dillon for another night was smart, in case more serious procedures were required.  Beaverhead campground at Clark Canyon reservoir was my best choice.  It was here that the Lewis and Clark expedition turned west up Horse Prairie Creek to the Lemhi Valley and their place in history.  It was a windy, cool day, but sunny.  I hiked near the lake that afternoon, had a pleasant dinner, and retired early, my mouse problem in the back of my mind.  I set the trap with an extra dollop of peanut butter.  By evening the wind gusts ceased and all was quiet as I listened for scratching.  Nothing.  No snapping trap.  I became drowsy.  My ordeal had ended, almost.  I heard a buzzing sound, a mosquito.  I grabbed my headlamp and flyswatter.  I got him on the first swing and then slept soundly.