Ode to that Dumb Hill Near my House

Maggie Slepian

I used to really hate Kirk Hill.

Kirk Hill is a humble recreation area on the outskirts of town, just 15 minutes from my house. The main trails link to other drainages and low ridgelines, but it is mostly comprised of a few tight loops through dense trees and scraggly brush. Kirk Hill didn't do anything to deserve my loathing, but with its proximity to town and unassuming nature, it came to represent everything about this past year that made me disappointed, and everything about the future that makes me uncertain.

As winter closed in around Bozeman, higher-elevation trails became inaccessible, travel was limited, and indoor activities were restricted. But Kirk Hill was always there. Sometimes it felt like the only option, a representation of how much my world had closed in around me.

Kirk Hill is close enough to hike on with just an hour of daylight left in the afternoons, but steep enough to feel like you get a workout with just 30 minutes of activity. It doesn’t have a sketchy road leading to a remote trailhead, and there is plenty of parking. It just sits there, off a busy road that leads to farther locations with better views and more interesting trails.

You’re never far from traffic on Kirk Hill. You can see the road between the trees, catch glimpses of the traffic lights a mile to the north. It has crusty signs saying you are here, pointing at different spots on the interconnected loops that criss-cross and create figure-eights through the trees. Hike up a half mile and you come to an overlook that faces low, tree-covered ridges, and the drainages between. You can connect to other trail networks if you know where to go, and a buddy of mine swears he does an eight-mile loop that he can send me the directions for, but I haven’t done it yet. I just go up and back, telling myself to at least get to the overlook.

As the seasons changed this year, I would rage-hike Kirk Hill three or four times each week. I was busy with work, and Kirk Hill was the only activity I could fit into my day that didn’t involve running a loop around my neighborhood. I’d hike three miles maximum, often closer to two miles, stomping up the steep, short trail to wherever I decided to turn around. I’d stop and catch my breath, checking my watch to ensure I’d been outside for just long enough, then turn around and go back to my truck.

I was mad at the seasons changing, mad at being stuck in my immediate area with no end in sight. Mad at the snowed-in peaks that I couldn’t hike but wasn’t experienced enough to backcountry ski. It was misplaced anger, but I channeled it as I wheezed up the eroded switchbacks and dirty ice of the well-worn path.

Then one day, Kirk Hill stopped feeling like a chore. It became a routine…. Not one that I dreaded or looked forward to, just part of my day. I started accepting Kirk Hill, not hating it for what it wasn’t. If I hiked near sunset, I’d stop to look at the swoops of tail lights as the sky darkened, or I’d see if I could blast up that really steep section faster than last time. One sunny December day, I listened to an audiobook as I hiked. I had extra time, so I sat on a patch of bare ground for an hour looking out over the surrounding peaks as I listened to the horrifying ordeal of the Donner Party (read this book, it’s epic). Sometimes I’d call my mom as I pulled into the parking lot, telling her I was hiking that same dumb hill, and did she have 45 minutes to talk?

I started leaving a fanny pack with gloves, a hat, and microspikes in my truck so I could pull over if I was on that side of town and do a quick loop. I’d always feel better after. Just being outside helped me focus and be more productive once I was back on my computer.

This is my official appreciation for Kirk Hill, one of the least epic and least photogenic places to hike around southwest Montana. I’m sorry I was mean about you, and I’m sorry I complained that you weren’t something better, different, or farther away.

You probably have a Kirk Hill too—a local trail that has become something of a reliable friend over the past year, a reason to leave your house. Maybe it’s a loop around your neighborhood, or a local park where you walk your dog while wishing you were somewhere else. It might not be the most inspiring trail with the most epic views, but it’s the trail that will always be there, and maybe it’s time to thank it for that.