Perspective

November, 2014 - Boston, Ma 

I had the distinct pleasure of attending a marriage celebration for two very dear friends of mine last weekend. This occasion allowed for a core group of my college friends to reconvene for the first time in many years, and it was a lovely, memorable time. 

I was able to spend time with one of these friends whom I hadn't seen in years. Although he is studying medicine at a college back East, he's been spending some time in San Francisco, exploring the city and enjoying the countryside. We discussed the wonders of the region, how one can drive a few short minutes and find themselves among the primeval trees of Muir Woods, or drive two hours in most any direction (except for west, of course) and be in the midst of a stunning, otherworldly landscape. We both grew up in New England, where driving two hours usually puts you in the middle of Connecticut, so there was much to be enamored with out West. We stared out over the pastoral Pennsylvanian countryside. 

"I was talking with one of my friends out there," he remarked. "And they brought up this interesting point. Growing up in the East makes us arrogant. Back in New England, we don't really have true wilderness, you know? I mean, you can drive to Vermont or the White Mountains, but it's just not the same. Out there, you find yourself in this big, open landscape, and it makes you realize how small you are and how tiny your ideas are."

He paused and turned to me with his mischievous smile. 

"Kinda helps put everything in perspective."

The Last Hike

August 2012 

Some time ago, I worked at Clear Flour Bakery in Brookline (not to be confused with Flour Bakery -- God help you if you confuse it with Flour, dear reader). Those who have heard me discuss my time there know I don't necessarily recall it with deep fondness; the work was hard and the clientele ranged from fussy to enraged. The one thing I do remember dotingly is the people I worked with -- dear friends and fine coworkers who I delight to see whenever they should turn back up in my life. I've maintained better contact with some over others in the years since I've left (the quote "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve" comes to mind). The one I've missed the most is GW.

When I first started working at the bakery, it was a weekend gig, where I'd come in, help shill the delectable breads and pastries and keep the place clean while shaking from the over-caffeinated coffee. My coworkers were cheery and nice (full disclosure, one was my sister, Chloe), but for the most part, I had trouble finding anyone to connect with on a deeper, let's-hang-out-after-work level. After I graduated college and began working at the bakery full-time, a new employee entered the roster. GW was tall, young looking for his age and held a captivating stare and friendly tone that connoted modest confidence and warmth, keeping an audience clinging on his every word. He was jovial, bright, carefree and easy to be around -- plus he excelled at dealing with harsh customers. Early on, I discovered he was from Montana ("where did you grow up" is usually one of the first questions I ask people) and I instantly decided that I needed a friend to tell me all about that wild, unfathomable place.

GW had lead a fascinating life -- the kind I grew to envy. Growing up in Bozeman, just outside of Yellowstone National Park, he'd spent much of his time hunting, hiking and exploring the wilds of the West -- even working for the Marlboro Ranch as a trail guide. ("It was kind of a weird, but great job," he'd reminisce. "Everyone there was so happy to be at the ranch, but because they'd smoked so many cigarettes, they often couldn't do the hikes, ya know? But we'd have that time allotted for the hike, so the trail guides would just go on it ourselves.")

We'd spend a lot of time after work hanging out. With a six-pack of Naragansett, a few cups of coffee and some National Parks maps to pour over, he'd tell me of trails and and adventures, books to read* and movies to watch while we listened to early-aughts alternative rock (boy, did he love The Darkness) in the apartment he shared with his lovely girlfriend Bobbie and their chatty Maine Coon cat, Costello (that cat had personality to spare).

Our friendship had grown swiftly and strongly, so even after I'd left the bakery and he began working a baking shift that ended at 2 am, we still made an effort to hang out once a week. But as his time working the late shift grew, he became tired, worn out -- he was less and less the bubbly fellow I'd known for the last few years. Bobbie had been attending nursing school in Boston (the reason they moved to the city in the first place), and as her schooling came to an end, they decided they were going to move back to Bozeman. I was upset to lose a friend, but tried to think on the bright side: Now I have someone to visit in Bozeman! We had, however, realized something that shocked both of us -- for all of our hiking talk, we'd never gone on a hike together. His departure loomed in the near future, roughly two weeks after my return from Glacier (a trip he'd helped me plan), so our organizing window was short. He'd done a long trip to the White Mountains and seemed enamored with the place, so we picked a crew and a mountain, and hashed out the logistics.

*     *     *     *

And so, GW and I found ourselves bumping up 95 towards Portsmouth, NH in Eric's Jeep with our friend Mark in tow. The sky behind us was coral and indigo, but before us it was black and foreboding. As we crossed over into New Hampshire, the sky strobed, the air shuddered with thunder, and a wall of water washed over us. GW looked out the window wearily as ribbons of water distorted the view. We ran into our friend Daniel's Portsmouth residence where we determined that making our way to the Whites tonight would be treacherous and miserable, as anyone who's set up camp in a thunderstorm can attest. So we made plans to wake early on the morrow and drive up first thing. In the meantime, we made our way to a bar.

It was still overcast and foggy when we woke. We piled in to the cars to make our way to the Presidential Range, still groggy from a short night's sleep. Our throats were sore from the kind of loud conversation that occurs at bars, and our bellies were filled with our breakfast of mac & cheese with a side of baked beans (lord help us in the car). Initially, we'd planned on climbing the 5,712-foot Mt. Jefferson, but as the drive north took over two hours, we decided to cut 300 feet of elevation from our trip and go with the nearby Madison. Precipitation was looming in the 60% range, which as anyone who's climbed New Hampshire's Appalachia knows, means we were probably going to get wet. Our gloom hung over the car as we dreaded a rainy hike above tree line. But, as the foothills of the Whites began to rise above the tree line, the clouds broke and a blue sky beamed with delightful sunlight. We turned up the Creedence as we rolled up Route 16 under the watchful gaze of Mt. Washington and the other towering Presidential Mountains. With the windows down, we breathed in the air, thick with sweet summer humidity.

The hike was long and strenuous. The air was dense from last night's rain and the day's heat, and the forest canopy was deep and suffocating. Soon, we passed through the tree line and the air became breezy and unoppressive. The land looked moorish, rocky with little shrubs and grasses covering the mountainside. We looked out over the rolling, dramatic landscape as small puffy clouds danced over the ridge lines. Beyond us, the towering peaks of Adams and Washington rocketed into the sky. We breathed deep the mountain air and smiled widely. The forests below were jade and rich; no sounds of the human-filled world beneath permeated them.

As we passed the AMC hut, GW and Eric spotted Star Lake and elected to go explore it while Mark, Daniel and I made our way towards the summit of Madison. The torturous thing about hiking a mountain above the tree line is that the peak always seems just within grasp, until you actually try to reach it swiftly. We tired ourselves scrambling over the car-sized boulders that make up the mountain's crown, but after some effort, we made it to the ridge that leads to the trail's terminus. Below, Mark and I could see GW, Eric and Daniel laboring to meet us, when Mark suggested that we race to the peak. I still felt energized so I took him up on this gamble, forgetting not only that Mark is a marathon runner (although not one who owns or would ever own a 26.2 bumper sticker; apparently you can run a marathon without telling everyone about it) but also that he is extremely competitive.

As we scurried across the ridge, using our hands almost as much as our feet to move, Mark began to take the lead. In an uncharacteristic flurry of aggression, I pushed myself to run harder, forgetting the perils of leaping from rock to rock without paying attention. Suddenly, my lungs jumped and my nose filled with the sensation that I had just been punched in the face -- I had lost balance. Before I could brace for impact, my shin was abruptly stopped by the hard edge of a granite slab and I careened over, clutching my leg. Mark continued on, not noticing that I had halted, and I looked down at my leg dreadfully. A broken shin at 5,300 feet would be a terrible way to end the hike, not to mention a shameful story to write. But, free of shame am I! Examining my leg, I found it only glossy with blood as opposed to perforated with leg bone. Delightful! I lightly limped over to Mark, who had since finished our race and was captivated by the view. The air was still, with only the sound of a distant breeze audible. The rest of our crew joined us and we stared over the precipice of the mountain to the eternity below and beyond, feeling the pull of vertigo every-so-sweetly inviting us to fall into the void of the mountains.

Flycatchers danced around us as we enjoyed lunch. Wild blueberry bushes were abound with a fresh bounty, the air sweet with their scent, and we picked a handful to enjoy with our sandwiches. Large clouds glided gently over Washington as the glint of windshields caught the sun along the auto road.

I sat next to GW while we ate our sandwiches. He nudged me and pointed to my shin.

"Leg's bleedin', bro."
"Oh, yeah," I replied sheepishly. "The race...Mark beat me."
"Hell of a beating." He smiled slightly. We turned out attention back to the mountains.

After lunch, GW and I took a walk around the summit by ourselves, talking about the long move he had ahead of him. He was worn out on Boston. In addition to the weeks and months of long shifts and late nights, he'd had a stressful final week in the city: He'd come home just a few days before and found the hallway covered in blood. Nearby, he discovered a bat that Costello had removed from the living (how the bat managed to get into the apartment was a mystery). The thought of rabies entered GW's head immediately, and he rushed his cat and the departed bat to the MSPCA. The beginning of his meeting with the vet had been distressing. They would run tests on the bat for rabies, and if it came back positive, they would have to keep Costello isolated and under observation for several weeks. He began to fret about the move. He couldn't wait around for the observation, so he determined he would simply kidnap (catnap?) Costello and bring him to Montana, conducting his own isolated observation until the prognosis was clear. The next day, the tests came back negative, and he was free to take his cat home. Despite the positive prognosis, the event was as ominous as it was taxing.

"Jesus, GW," I said, at a loss for anything more substantial. "Well, I mean, I know it doesn't matter now, but if it had come down to it, you could have stayed with me, or I would have watched over him until you could come get him."

"Thanks," he said, staring out at the mountains. "But really, I don't think I'm going to come back to Mass. Not for a long time, anyway, ya know?" He looked tired now, but turned back to me and smiled briefly.

"Well I think you should," I jokingly protested. "But either way, I'll just have to come out and visit you."

"Yeah," he responded after a moment. "That'd be nice."

*     *     *     *

We made our way back down the mountain after a while without incident. It was still bright out when we left, but we were all rather tired and determined to head back to Boston after dinner. In Conway, we stopped at a pizza place for some slices and a beer (can't recall the place, but the pizza was very good). We joked around a bit, recapping highlights from the day, but mostly sat quietly, preparing for the long ride home.

We parted ways with Daniel and made our way to 93 and back to Boston. Mark was heading back to Holliston with Eric for the night, so only GW and I needed to be dropped off. We got out of the car at GW's place, and I helped unload his gear. His dad was coming in to town the next day to help him prepare for the move, so he said he might not have time to see me again before he left. I told him that if he needed any help getting the gear in the truck, watching Costello, or drinking a beer, to let me know. He said he would, gave me a hug, and went on inside.

As the door closed behind him, I tried to think of something to shout, but he was gone before anything clever entered my head. Good enough, I thought. I'll see him before he leaves anyhow.

*     *     *     *

It was a warm, sunny day in September when he called me. I hadn't seen him before he left, nor had I heard news of his move (he is without Facebook or email), so I was excited to see his name on my caller ID. We talked about his life in Montana. He was still settling in, looking for work (there was a bakery up the street as well as the Montana Brewing Company -- you can guess which I suggested he work at). He sounded happy to be back in his home city, albeit a little tired. He asked what I was reading and filled me in on a new book he'd found. I took down his address and promised to write him. We said our goodbyes and he promised to call back soon.

The months have gone by and turned into years. I wrote him a few letters, called him on many occasions, and sent him a few photos of us I'd taken on that hike up Madison -- the only photos of us together -- but I never heard back. I called up friends at Clear Flour, asking if I had his address and phone number correct. I did. I asked if they'd had any contact with him. They had. I told them next time he called to tell him to give me a ring. A few days later, my friend and old co-worker Daisy told me that he'd called and asked them to tell me that "Whatever I left with Rory, let him know he can keep it." This perplexed me a great deal, as he'd not left anything with me. I left him another voice mail, but I never found out what he meant by it.

It's been almost a year since I reached out to him last. I deleted his phone number from my contacts to keep myself from calling him. Every so often, I'll see an old Clear Flour alumn and they'll ask if I've heard from him. They're always bemused to learn that I haven't, as he's kept up correspondence with them, but I tell them that's just the way these things go, neglecting to consider what any of it really means to me. I think sometimes about what I'd said or done to incur this odd silence, as regret and embarrassment are my favorite lens through which to view past deviations, but I can't find any singular moment that would lead to this.

So no longer can I consider these things. Instead, I must move on and take the advice of the author Edward Abbey from Desert Solitaire, the last book GW gave me:

"A venturesome minority will always be eager to set off on their own, and no obstacles should be placed in their path; let them take risks, for Godsake, let them get lost, sunburnt, stranded, drowned, and eaten by bears, buried alive under avalanches -- that is the right and privilege of any free American."



*He was the one who introduced me to the works of Edward Abbey, so I kind of owe him a lot.

All photos by Mark.

50 Years of Wilderness

"Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit" - Edward Abbey

The Atlantic - A Love Letter to America's Wilderness

Tall Trees - Muir Woods 2014

The Best Last Place: Part IV

All Things Must Pass

July, 2012 - Glacier National Park, Montana

There's something that happens at the end of a trip. You become more sensitive, more irritable. Everyone starts nipping at each other's heals and you anticipate the flight home like someone tied to the tracks watches an approaching train. Is it that we become tired from all the travel and activities? Are we angered at the prospects of returning to real life? Or is it more like a bad breakup, where we act out so leaving isn't as hard? It's the second least appealing aspect of travel (the trip ending being the first). But while both are inevitable, only the former is reversible.

It was our last day in Glacier. It had been a long trip and we still had to face the prospect of driving back to Calgary to fly home. We decided to take it easy for the day. Go do some sight-seeing, enjoy the weather and our surroundings, and relax before the inescapable return to real life. We got in the car and made our way up Going to the Sun Road and were quickly brought to a halt by one of the park's iconic, slow-moving, wood paneled tour buses. Mr. K was not in the mood to sit behind the bus as it lumbered up the winding road, so he pulled off on the shoulder as the cars that had lined up behind us slinked by. And as luck would have it, as soon as the last car rounded the corner, a small black bear emerged from the woods and sauntered across the road, disappearing into the woods on the other side of the car before we had a chance to snap a photo of it. Had we continued with the baneful commute, this moment would have been lost to all but the bear. I watched its figure dissipate into the forest, listening to the leaves and twigs crunch under its feet as it vanished.

When we got to the Logan Pass Visitor Center, the traffic stopped dead -- another unwelcome reminder of non-vacation life. Peering down the steep, snaking road, we could see an array of construction equipment tying up traffic far below. Every five minutes, our car would make it a few hundred feet before we'd have to stop and wait. Wildflowers clung to the rock walls along the road, and rivets of water trickled down in little streams as the fresh mountain air billowed through our open windows. But even in the most beautiful place in the lower 48, no one likes waiting in traffic, and we sat silently hoping to be out of it soon. Wildflowers gave way to evergreen trees, and soon, as our car filled with the smell of fresh asphalt, we found ourselves in the midst of the road work -- windows went up. I couldn't tell if I envied these men's work or if it would be a frightening, perilous task. So high up in the mountains with a long way to fall if someone made a mistake. So far from anything else. The commute alone must have been impressive.

After the construction, traffic sped up and we quickly found ourselves in a deep, dark forest, with trees towering over us, impressive, silent and emerald. Through the pines, we could spot glimpses McDonald Creek as it rumbled its way towards Lake McDonald.

We pulled off at the Lake McDonald Lodge, a remarkable, frontier-style hotel adorned with hand-hewn wood siding and beams, murals, paintings and more taxidermied animals than I'd ever seen outside of Harvard's Museum of Natural History. We meandered around, wondering what to do next; our indecisiveness building into low tension as we worried how we would spend our last day in Montana.

Spotting a sign that advertised motor boat rentals, we decided that would be an ideal way to spend our afternoon. While Mr. K made the reservation, the rest of us hurried back to the car to prepare sandwiches for lunch. As I was filling up water bottles at the convenience store next to the Lodge, I noticed a missing hiker poster, fresh from that morning. A seasonal worker from Michigan had planned a one-day hike between Hidden Lake and Avalanche Lake had not returned from his trek. The flyer said he had a fleece, khaki shorts, cotton socks and just a few liters of water on him when he left. I looked at my free park map that showed some contours, but did not fully express the dramatic landscape. Nearby, there was a detailed topographical map, and I looked over his planned route: It was a perilous way, passing through swampy forests, steep ravines and deep, untraveled wilderness. It was a hike one would be ill-advised to take alone, if at all. It filled me with worry and dread.

*     *     *     *

Soon, we were out flying in two 16-foot skiffs across the mirror-smooth surface of the impressive Lake McDonald. To the south and west, the mountains were smooth, tumbling hills, quite akin to what one would see in Appalachia. To the north and east, granite beasts erupted fiercely into the cloud-kissed sky. We hugged the shore on the western edge of the lake, hoping to spot some sort of wildlife -- a moose or a bear perhaps -- but the roaring boat motors likely scared anything along the lakeside away. We tied our boats together off shore from a fire-scarred section of woods and passed sandwiches and chips back and forth as we enjoyed a quiet lunch on the lake. The water was ink black below us, dropping some 400 feet to the cold, dark depths of the lake. Steph wanted to take her turn at navigating the boat, so we switched spots. I said we should go left, and we took a sharp turn right. I shouted over the motor to go the other way, and further right we would turn. This went on for several minutes, and before we were quite fed up with one another, Steph figured out how navigate the boat. I laid back on the bow as Steph directed the boat back to the dock, not entirely pleased with my lackluster boating lesson.

When we returned, I suggested we should go for a swim along a rocky beach north of the Lodge. No one had brought swim suits, but agreed to walk to the beach with me. The trail was but a deer path that winded its way through a moss-covered forest, dense with ferns and evergreen trees. Boreal chorus frogs hopped along the trail and mosquitoes quickened our pace to the open air. The K's talked on a felled tree on the beach while I waded into the crystal-clear shallows. Despite the lake being full of snow melt, the water was rather tepid and inviting. The air was warm and the sun bright, so I dove in and splashed around, unable to contain my giddiness at the splendor around me, at my luck at swimming in such a breathtaking place. The lake water wrapped itself around me, soft and viscous, and I lost track of time. After what seemed like moments, but was really about thirty minutes, Steph hollered out to me to come back -- the mosquitoes were eating them alive. I slowly made my way to the shore. As the K's eagerly made their way back to the car (due to the mosquitoes), I briefly considered just telling them to come back to get me later. Where could I find such a heavenly escape to bathe in? When would I again be in such a beauteous place? As the shore crept up under my feet, I decided against it -- there was still more of the park to explore, and we had but a few hours left to enjoy it.

*     *     *     *

As we were making our way back up Going to the Sun Road, the car was divided. Steph and Mrs. K were ready to head back to the hotel, while Mr. K and I thought we should do one last hike. Matt was indifferent and everyone seemed a bit irritable; no one spoke much. We saw a sign ahead for Cedar Woods Nature Trail, and Mr. K made the executive decision and pulled over to the trail side parking lot. As he drove to take a spot, a car with South Carolina plates zoomed in and snagged it right before us.*

"Are you fucking kidding me!" Mr. K shouted.

For a moment, we were all taken away from the wilderness, transported back to the unforgiving, crass life that exists in the world populated with other people. We might as well have been in Southie on a snow day. This was the point when I feared the car would revolt against the hike and demand we go home. But we resolved, instead, to curse at the uninvited rudeness of civilization, and to carry on with our venture together -- to keep the trip alive until it was truly over.

"That is unbelievable!" Mrs. K joined in.
"I mean, what a complete asshole." Mr. K continued, his hands outstretched with palms up, as if asking the heavens "why." The South Carolinian car paid us no mind.

We continued with this tirade against the other car, devising ways of destroying the vehicle and punishing its owner as we found another spot to park. Steph and I still joke about that driver, how their inconsiderate actions saved the day, brought us back from the brink of leaving the park, united us under the banner of fuck-that-car. By the time we got out of our vehicle, we were laughing and joking, re-energized and ready to tackle the trail. It was a delight and a relief to avoid what in many other families surely would have been a shout-filled disaster -- to end the trip on a high note.

The first leg of the trail passed over boardwalks that stood above a roaring, whitewater torrent that ripped its way through dramatic, smooth, river-carved rocks. After the boardwalk, the trail forked and lead us in two directions: Deeper into the cedar forest or to Avalanche Lake. While we assessed which trail to take, I noticed a sign above the map:

WARNING!

MOUNTAIN LIONS

FREQUENTING THIS AREA

BE ALERT! 

SOLO HIKING

NOT RECOMMENDED

SUPERVISE CHILDREN CLOSELY

And this was the forest the lost hiker was supposed to come through to finish his hike. We chose to take the Avalanche Lake trail, and as we walked through the forest, I could see how easy it would be for an ambush predator like a mountain lion to prowl this area. The forest was dense and dark, and countless full-grown cedar trees laid on the ground: The perfect cover for a catamount. If a cougar had decided to prey on us as we made our way down the trail, there's no way we would have seen it coming.

We came to a bend in the trail, where the trees to our left had been cleared, knocked down as if in one fell swoop. Beyond, Mount Cannon stood, and a trail of fallen trees led up the steep slope of the mountain -- the trees had been felled by an impressive avalanche during the previous winter.


As we approached the lake, the cedars became less dense and leafy trees took their place. We passed a family of four coming in the other direction. The parents looked tired as the youngest bounced along the trail. Bringing up the rear, a pissy-looking teenage girl sauntered along, ear buds blaring music to deafen the sounds around her, eyes glued to her iPhone screen, hoping to catch a signal so she could tell Facebook how shitty Montana is and how annoying her family is and how she just wishes she could be at home doing whatever teenagers do. GOD WHY DOESN'T THIS DUMP HAVE ANY 4G! I hoped in passing that a mountain lion would attack her. Not kill her, but just make her pay attention to her surroundings in the future. Kids never learn...(I only said we weren't mad at each other anymore. I still had a bit of unused anger to dish out, ideally in the form of judging strangers.)

The forest cleared and the sprawling lake opened up before us. Tall stands of pine lined the shore and a ridge erupted some 3,000 feet on the other side. White ribbons of water cascaded down the sheer side of the ridge -- Monument Falls -- and filled the valley with a low roar. Steph and Matt skipped stones across the still waters of Avalanche Lake as Mrs. and Mr. K watched from the treeline. Thank you rude South Carolina driver, I thought. Without you, I might not be here right now, enjoying this singular moment.


A low, mechanical warble interrupted the natural ambiance of the place. Overhead, a search and rescue helicopter roared over the lake, gunning towards Monument Falls. Tiny against the grandeur of the land, we could make out the small helo as it slowly scanned the towering, rocky bluffs that stood above the lake. "They're looking for that hiker," we heard other people whisper to each other, as though talking about the missing young man was rude. This is what he would have to climb down, I thought. I wouldn't even want climb down it with proper gear. As hum of the helicopter dissipated, making its way towards Hidden Lake to the east, we started our walk back to the car.

It was late, and we were hungry, so we made our way to Johnson's for our last meal in Montana -- we couldn't think of a better place to go (because there is no better place to go). I ordered the P&L sandwich, which was grilled chicken breast, bacon, spicy ranch dressing and "deluxe fixins'" on Texas toast with a side of crinkle cut fries. Decadence, Montana-style. It was our last night, so we celebrated with a delectable slice of homemade huckleberry ice cream pie, which was so large and so rich, the five of us could barely finish it.

After dinner, the K's piled in the car and I opted to walk back to the hotel under the setting sun, enjoying a pipe as I went, my tobacco mixed with a little bit of pine needle. The following day would be long: A drive from St. Mary's to Calgary; a flight to Minneapolis filled with grumpy old men and obnoxious children; and a rushed dinner where Steph and I learned that our plane's gate was changed to the other side of the airport, forcing us to slam our double bourbons before running on empty stomachs to the other terminal (I do not recommend this). But all of that was tomorrow. For today, I had the simple pleasure of looking out on Glacier, the setting sun painting a sherbet and crimson sky over Montana, as the last good place took a well-earned rest.

*To be fair, we had Alberta plates, so the Carolinian probably thought it was his patriotic duty to deny us that spot. 'Murica.

The Best Last Place: Part III

Grizz Country

July, 2012 - Glacier National Park, Montana

7/29/12 9:45 AM - Grizzly spotted 2 miles up Iceberg Lake trail.

We were at the Many Glacier campground, near the banks of Swiftcurrent Lake. Most people who visit Glacier stick to attractions along Going to the Sun Road, as it cuts through the middle of the park and offers access to lots of sights as well as many trails, both easy and strenuous. To the south, the Park runs into National Forest and Park lands, continuing down the rocky spine of Montana. It is a rugged and unforgiving land with many places to get lost and grizzly bears to help you stay lost. It is suited to more experienced back country hikers than day trippers.

To the north of Going to the Sun, the park makes its way into Canada's Waterton National Park, one towering mountain ridge after another. Unlike Yosemite and many other road-ready parks, most of Glacier is completely inaccessible, except by walking or helicopter.

There are, however, a few small roads that carve their way into the park. One such road is Route 3. Just north of Going to the Sun, it offers another way into the park as well as a new host of beautiful vistas. The road itself isn't very long, only a few miles with a terminus at a campground. Beyond that, untamed wilderness. Early in the day, we passed the opened gate into the park, driving by cows lazily grazing or resting beneath trees, avoiding the July sun.

Once we'd parked, we wandered around for a bit, trying to find our target trail head. Mr. K walked into the ranger station and I stayed outside, going over the trail condition roster. A few days before it had been muddy; someone spotted a moose near Red Rock Lake; another hiker saw a grizzly bear on Iceberg Lake trail this very morning. That was the trail we would be hiking on. I read the sign above the roster:

BEAR COUNTRY 

All Wildlife Is Dangerous

Do Not Approach Or Feed

Steph seemed more than nervous about venturing onto a trail where we might bump into an unfriendly ursa, but I told her the bear was probably gone, and so long as we made a lot of noise, we would be fine. I opened the back of the car and hooked my carabiner of keys onto my backpack, so with each step, I would jingle.

"Between this and us talking," I said. "And so long as we clap every so often, bears will hear us and leave us be."

"Are you sure?" She asked, worry still in her eyes.

"Sure! Why not." I encouraged her, not wanting to promise something I couldn't commit to. Her eyes lingered on me a bit longer before she turned and made her way to the car to grab the packs. 

Mr. K handed my bag to me, chuckled and asked what I had packed in the bag. 

"Hey Ror, you need bricks for hiking or something?" 

"No," I smiled. "The weight is from all the water."

"Well how much water are ya bringing?"

"Enough, I hope."

His brow furrowed, and a look of "did I pack enough water?" passed briefly over his face before he continued passing bags around. 

Recommended by GW, Iceberg Lake trail is about 9.7 miles round-trip and traverses open fields and dense, pine forests. Once you make the hike's initial ascent, the rest of the trail maintains a level elevation, more or less, making it a pleasant, easy -- if long -- hike. A young man Steph and I had met in the beer store the night before had told us to take a different trail to another nearby lake, which was less crowded, and we could find a trail there to get to Iceberg. I told the guy sure, but knew we would stick to the plan. His trail didn't even show up on our map.*

*     *     *     *

The first leg of the trail was at a decent incline, walking between pine trees and dense underbrush. My eyes were keenly watching the woods for any movement, but the forest was silent. Abruptly, the forest ended and we were jettisoned into an open, grassy plane that ran up the side of the rust-colored Mount Henkel. Around us, the peaks of Mount Grindell, Mount Wilbur and other unnamed mountains shot like granite daggers into the sky. From the smooth, polished side of Henkel, we could see our destination some five miles away: Iceberg Peak. As though a giant ice cream scoop has taken a chunk out of the side of a mountain, the ridge of Iceberg loomed like a curved razor, jutting some 9,144 feet into the azure sky.

The air was rich with the smell of huckleberries while red paintbrush and bear grass waved back and forth in the warm breeze. The trail was brick red and smooth, for which I was grateful, for it was hard to keep my eyes on the path in front of me. Instead, my head was constantly swiveling, taking in the views around us. With the craggy mountains towering some 3,000 feet above us and the valley dropping swiftly below, there was nary a sign of man (other than the trail) as far as the eye could see. It was a deep, primordial land, the sights enough to make a person lay down and declare that this was now their home. 

There was a low rumble in the air as we entered the next pine grove, where the trees were tall and thick and short shrubs, ferns and bear grass grew beneath. As we rounded a corner, the roar grew deafening and before us we spotted a rushing waterfall, plummeting to the forest floor far below: Ptarmigan Falls. Some people milled about the falls as we made our way over the wooden bridge.

We continued through the now quiet forest, passing a few people as we went. Every so often, I would stop to listen, clap a few times and let out a yip. Every time,  Matt would ask why I was doing this. 

"To let any bears around know that we're coming."
"There probably aren't any bears around here."

"I dunno...I'd rather be safe than sorry." Clap-clap-clap.

We came to a spot where the trees were clear enough to offer a view of Iceberg Peak, now seemingly higher than ever. Steph went to lean on a tree to get a better view, but stopped and stood back, staring at the trunk. I walked over and saw running down the sides of the tree were four, deep scratches, about 10 inches long, each. Grizzly claw marks. I ran my fingers over the scars before we moved on.

The land opened up, and what trees there were were stunted. A light breeze came up from the lowlands below -- a breath from a million trees. On the last leg of the hike, we spotted a couple standing in the middle of the trail, looking out into the vast, rolling valley below. Before we could ask what they were looking at, they turned to us.

"Hey!" They said in hushed voices, waving us over. "There's a big moose down there."
"A moose!" Mrs. K erupted. It was the one animal she was dying to see on the trip.

Mr. K snatched out his binoculars and peered out over the valley.

"It's right by that little swampy pool down there." The couple said.

Even with my naked eye, I could spot the moose. Bigger than any I'd ever seen in New England, the full-antlered bull moose was chomping away at pond grass some 300 feet below us -- the perfect distance to see a bull moose from. (Sometimes you hear about people keeping bears, wolves and tigers as pets, but you never hear about someone keeping a moose as a pet. Wonder why that is.)

*     *     *     *

From there it was another fifteen minutes before we came to a small, blue pond. The land around it was boggy and signs requested we stay on the trail. Forest lay ahead of us.

"Is this it?" Matt said gloomily. 

"No," Steph said. "No, this can't be it."
"Did we seriously walk all the way out here to see some dinky mosquito brothel?"

"No, Matt," said Mr. K. "It's gotta be up ahead. Look the trail keeps going."

"Okay..." said Matt, unconvinced. 

The trail was slushy and mud caked my shins as we made our way between the trees. Iceberg Peak loomed over us, its ridge fierce and sharp. The trail turned abruptly to the left and then opened up. When we made the turn, we were all equally stunned. Before us was the bluest blue I've ever seen: Iceberg Lake. The deep, dark water reflected the towering, dagger-like mountains that engulfed the lake. Snow pack lined the western edge of the lake and hunks of ice floated in the water as the sun beamed down on us.

"Alright," Matt said. "This was worth the walk."

We hiked along the water's edge, looking for an open spot to stop for lunch. There were about two dozen people enjoy the stunning site, and soon we found a nice patch at the base of an alluvial slide. We enjoyed our pb&js (true hiker's food) and watched as a brawny, bearded man tried to walk into the lake. He made it to about his shins before running back to shore. To our left, a crew of elderly folks held court on a large bolder that overlooked the lake. A white-haired woman in her bathing suit walked up to the edge of the boulder and abruptly jumped into the lake with a shout. Everyone at the lake looked her way, shocked. As she resurfaced and made her way to the shore, everyone applauded. She got back up on the rock, sunned herself for a minute, and went right back in. Our mouths all dropped.

After lunch, Mr. K, Matt and I decided we would see how long we could last in the ice-filled water. We figured, if some old woman can handle it, perhaps we can too. The first attempt was fruitless. We managed to get our feet submerged before running back out. The water was so cold, it gave the sensation of being stung by a hundred wasps -- a brain freeze for the skin. Mr. K gave up after getting to his ankles, but Matt and I kept going, seeing how far we could push ourselves. I managed to stand in the water above my knees (I dared not go any deeper, manhood and all...) for about twenty seconds before rushing out of the water. When I made it to shore, my legs collapsed beneath me, void of feeling and function. That was when we called it quits. Kudos to that old lady; she's as tough as they come.

We skipped rocks across the water for a time, not wanting to leave such a beauteous place. But soon, the day was pressing on, and we didn't want to get caught in the wilderness in the dark, so we decided it was time to leave. Matt took his water bottle and finished the last sip. He asked his father if there was any water left. Mr. K produced two empty water bottles from his pack.

"Anyone have any water left?"

Mrs. K and Steph were both on the last few sips of their water. 

"I still have a canteen and a half," I said.

"How much water do you bring for a day hike?" Mr. K asked again.

"About four, five liters." My heavy backpack now made sense.

"Alright, well hold on," Mr. K said. "I gotta fill up my water bottle."

"Wait, where?" I asked urgently.

"Oh just in the lake."
"No no no no no," I pleaded. "You can't drink from the lake, we don't have a filter."
"It's fine! This is the purest water you'll ever drink."
"But it's all snow melt, there are no streams leading in, no spring. It's stagnant."
"Rory, this water is so cold, nothing could live in it."
"Yeah Rory, come on." Matt interjected. "It'll be fine."

"But what if you get giardia? You'll be shitting your way back to Phoenix."

"Well how bout this," Mr. K reasoned. "We can fill our water bottles with the snow bank we passed right before we got to the lake."

"But it's right next to the pit toil--"

"It'll be fine," he said, reassuringly.

Steph and Mrs. K did not seem as sure about this plan, so I told them that they could drink from my bottle. Mr. K produced a large knife and began to scoop snow into his bottle. (I know what you're wondering, and no, they did not get explosive diarrhea, at least to my knowledge.) I found a small, round pebble on the ground, washed it off and slipped it between my gum and cheek, like chewing tobacco. An old cowboy trick to stave off thirst, or so says Edward Abbey.

*     *     *     *

The way out was the same as the hike in (except that the moose had by now left). When we got to Ptarmigan Falls, we bumped into two park rangers, an older man and a middle-aged woman. We chatted for a while, about the winter, bears, how long they'd been working.

"I just have a question." Mrs. K asked, folding her arms. "Now, we just came from Iceberg Lake. Is that water safe to drink?"

"Yeah, we don't recommend drinking any of the water here in the park without a filter or iodine, as it increases your risk of contracting giardia." The male ranger recited.

"Okay," Mrs. K said, characteristically drawing out the last syllable. "Thanks."

She gave a look to Mr. K and Matt as the two of them exchanged glances. They shrugged their shoulders and we went on.

Walking through the open grassy mountainside, admiring the smooth, adobe-colored Mt. Henkel, I spotted chunks of the flowers had been chewed off by mountain goats. The afternoon haze made the vast forest appear blue and vibrating, swaying, endless and timeless. We passed a group of hikers who said they'd spotted a grizz on the mountainside about a mile ahead. We kept our eyes pealed, but the day was calm and peaceful, the sun was still warm and our spirits still high.

The scent of huckleberries was so strong in the air, it was as if I had my nose in a basket of the fruit. This was worrying. We were coming to where a grizz had been sighted, and bears love berries, especially huckleberries. I could feel the little hairs on my arm begin to stand up and I slowed my pace, searching the tall grass for signs of any animals. Ahead was the entrance to the last pine grove, the last leg of the hike before the parking lot. I spotted a group of people standing just outside the pines. They were moving their hands wildly, making a "hold up! stop!" gesture. I told our group that we should stop and stay quiet. I gave the others the thumbs up and they redirected their attention to the trail ahead of them while we waited for the all clear. Matt grew impatient and started trudging forward.

"Matt, wait! Don't go," I whispered raspily.
"What? It's either nothing or just some dumb bear." He walked on.
"Jesus...Famous last words." I thought.

We walked with him, not wanting to leave him alone should a bear confront him. By the time the other group noticed us, they waved us over. I could hear something crunching in the underbrush.

"Oh you would not believe it," the mother, a woman in her 40's, said. "We just had a bear walk right between us!"

Their small band was split into two smaller groups of three, with about 10 feet separating them. The forward group had not moved yet. I peered into the woods and could just barely (bearly?) make out the specter a large brown animal thumping through the thick underbrush.

"It was like, he didn't even care that we were here!" She went on. "Look, I even got a picture."

She produced her camera and went through a few photos until she found the one she wanted. In the photo, a 300 pound grizzly was sauntering between the two groups. The children in the background of the photo stood frozen, their muscles tense like a rabbit ready to dart.

"Thought it might have been the last picture I ever took," she said.

The crunching in the underbrush paused, and I looked over my shoulder warily, trying to determine where the animal could be. After a moment, the bear began trudging through the woods again, its sound slowly diminishing into the forest.

I took one last look at the photo. Although we were fascinated by the picture, we were mostly thirsty (and certainly ready to be away from the bear), so we thanked them and walked ahead silently.

Within a few minutes, we were back at the car loading our gear. The K's and Steph made their way to the small campground market to grab all of the water.

"See, I told you," I said to Matt. "You gotta be careful in bear country."

Matt threw his back in the trunk.

"Seems I made it out fine." He said, shutting the trunk. "Now let's go get some water and ice cream."

*     *     *     *

Normally, I would end my story right there. Seems like a fine spot to stop, doesn't it? Story's all nice and wrapped up. But no, dear reader, I have to tell you one more thing that doesn't fit into the narrative of this story, but it is still of the utmost importance. After we chugged a million gallons of water, we found ourselves quite hungry. I don't remember where we ate the night before (Steph say sandwiches from a convenience store), but it was very unexceptional, so we decided we wanted to try another restaurant. On our way back, we spotted a sign for "Johnson's Family Cafe" down the road from our place. Hell, we thought. Why not here!

We entered the joint and it seemed a bit dreary. Red and white checkered table tops, rusting cowboy tchotchkes littering the wall, laminated menus and a few smile-less customers sitting around. For half a moment, we were in doubt, but there was no wait and we were hungry, so we figured, fuck it, a bear and giardia didn't kill us, so the food here probably won't. Our waiter, a young man in a western shirt and white apron, graciously took our order and brought the food out swiftly. My words are incapable of describing the delightful cuisine we received. I ordered the Glacier Chicken Club. Texas toast, grilled chicken, chipotle mayo, lettuce, tomato. I wish the food had killed me, because no sandwich will ever be as good as the sandwiches I got there (we went back the next night).

Just remember that if you're ever in Montana. Johnson's Family Cafe. Remember.


*Funny thing about that "other trail." When I returned, I told GW about it and he stared at me a bit stunned.

"Someone told you to take that trail?"
"Uh...yeah." I replied, confused.
"What an asshole!" He said as he grabbed out is topographical map of the park. He pointed out a lake to me, which rested just southeast of Iceberg Lake.
"You would have had to scramble almost 500 feet directly up this ridge here. And you know that alluvial slide you saw behind you? Yeah, you would have had to sled down that. That shit will slice you right open."

I'm glad we stuck to GW's recommendation.

Growing Up

When we were young, we all did cringe-worthy things. Few of us made it through adolescence without the burns and scars of youthful idiocy. (If you managed to make it through unscathed, please write a book about it.)

I was raised in a quaint little town on the South Shore in Massachusetts. Good schools. Good folk. Lots of places to explore. Very homogeneous. My parents were fine people, and raised my sister and me to appreciate everyone around us, to respect others, no matter their gender, race, orientation or income level, which was an easy theory to practice in a place where most people were like me. Slowly, things began to erode. Calling things "gay," shouting "faggot" and "cunt," or laughing at a rape joke becomes acceptable, because everyone around me acted like it's fine, leading me to think it was fine. Our gay and women friends didn't speak up, which we took as acceptance. In reality their silence spoke to discomfort and fear of being ostracized for calling us out rather than consent.

And then I entered the real world.

When I went to college, I still spent a large amount of time in my hometown, practicing with my band (who were all younger than me), hanging out with friends who hadn't graduated yet, spending the summer between freshman and sophomore year at home. It insulated me from understanding that this hate speech -- might as well call it what it is -- made me look like a horse's ass in front of my new friends and peers, who hailed from across the country and had, perhaps, grown to understand that speaking in such a way reflected poorly on that person. I said these things not because I was hateful, but because I was ignorant of their affect on those around me and those people's perception of me. Growing up has a learning curve.

Slowly, I realized that calling everything "gay" made me look immature. The crassness of saying taboo words did not impress those around me, so I cut it out of my vernacular, like one stops saying "like" before every statement. This seemed like a solid fix.

The other day, my friend Pat was telling me how in his neighborhood in New York, saying "faggot" in a social setting is immediate grounds for dismissal.

"Everyone just goes, 'Oh, hey, this person is clearly a shithead.' And everyone stops hanging out with them." Much the same way, I would imagine, most people would stop socializing with a white kid who said the n-word all the time.

In the winter of 2008, my band was slated to play a show with Bomb the Music Industry! and O! Pioneers. Because of a bad snowstorm, we didn't play. But I was in the city, so I still went. After the show, the bands were staying with some friends of mine, so I bought a couple cases of beer for us all to enjoy after the show. It was a dream for me, to hang out with musicians I respected and looked up to, and I wanted to make a good impression. Man, did I fucking blow it. After too many Steel Reserves (like I said, growing up has a learning curve), I shouted "faggot" at one of my friends. Everything was loud and drunken, and no one said anything to me about it, so I never gave it a second thought until a few years later.

Jeff Rosenstock of Bomb the Music Industry! agreed to produce an album my band was working on. One day, we were all hanging out, and Jeff brought up that instance to me.

"You know, I almost considered not working with you guys because of that."

I was beyond mortified. Someone that I respected so deeply thought that I was some trashy bigot, going around spewing hate speech, and believed this so much that he was nervous to be associated with me, all because of my cavalier use of hurtful words. I'm grateful that he gave me a second chance, but even today, the thought of this embarrassment makes me cringe.

But it's forced me go back and reflect on the other times I shouted garbage and didn't give it a second thought. There are days when I freeze up, my brain unable to function because of a memory of something stupid that I did or said. Laughing about Sasha Baron Cohen's Bruno soliciting Ron Paul for sex in front gay musicians I was playing a show with or referring to a punk band as a "girl band" because it was comprised of women. How I embarrassed myself and my friends with my carelessness, and how I hurt those around me. Cutting those words out of my vocabulary and distancing myself from that "humor" was a good first step, but I cannot undo those transgressions, so the ignorance of my younger days still plagues me.

I've been trying to make up for it by supporting friends who come up against this bigotry, sexism or assault. It is staggering to hear how often men cat call, molest, attempt to solicit, or shout hateful words at  people I know and love. It makes my blood boil. And the men (because it's always men) who do this seem to think that it's acceptable, that it's just part of a person's existence to put up with this gutter talk.

The other night, I was walking home late after hanging out with friends. A young woman was walking some 20 yards ahead of me. As she made her way home, I saw 4 separate groups--groups mind you--of young men leer and mutter disgusting things at her. Several times, one man drove by her in a car, told her he was going to take her home, speed ahead, pull over, wait for her to walk by, and say it again. It was terrible to watch, so when I caught up with her, I apologized that she had to deal with that and asked her how a person could put with such disgusting behavior.

"It happens all the time. But it's late, everyone's drunk, and I'm walking alone. I just try to get home as quickly as possible. But fuck them. They're trash."

I'd heard my girlfriend, sister, friends and strangers talk about being cat-called, but I'd never seen it with my own eyes. It is a seedy practice, and I don't understand how these men can walk away feeling like it's acceptable to make another human feel so unsafe. The men on this night were of no particular group. They weren't just BC Bros or shit punks. They weren't just blue collar workers, hipsters or regular guys walking home. No one subgroup can take the blame for being singularly responsible for these actions--it's men. It's our brothers, the guys we drink with, the men we're smoking next to outside of a bar. They're the ones telling our women friends to "smile"; who tell our gay friends that they're not homophobes, but they just believe in a traditional marriage; who laugh at slurs and rape jokes on crappy TV shows, making them ever-more profitable and renewable; who called my mother a "cunt" when she'd broken down in the middle of the road on a cold, rainy winter day instead of trying to help. They're the ones we've been shrugging off for years.

It's irresponsible for us to sit idly by and let them carry on like it's acceptable. So what if we don't change the world by yelling at some drunk bro for telling a woman that her tits look great or calling our friend a fag. The response of "Whatever, bro, I was just paying her a compliment" or "I don't care if he sucks dick, I can say what I want" (both things that I've been retorted with) shouldn't dissuade us. It's not about changing that person, but about making those around them understand that such behavior is unacceptable and those garbage people will and should be called out for their ignorance. It's about making our friends or the recipient of this hate speech feel safe and not alone. It's as much about what we say as what we don't say.

I'm pretty sure it's mostly people who read this know me well, so you know the kind of man I am, and the boy I was. These things have been percolating in me for a long time now, and I needed to spell them out somewhere. I know this is not usually what I write about in here, but as I've said before, it's my blog so I'll write about whatever I'd like.

There's been a lot written lately by some very talented journalists and bloggers about this subject, and it's inspired me to try to make amends for my transgressions in this matter, and to talk about how I've grown and learned. Mostly, though, I want to apologize to anyone I've offended or hurt. I was a shithead, but I'm trying to do better. I hope you can forgive me.

-Rory Thomas Nolan

The Last Best Place: Part II

Going to the Sun

July, 2012 - Glacier National Park, Montana

It was early when I woke, the sun was just over the mountains and dew still clung to the grass in front of our room, glistening like so many Christmas lights. I rushed through showering and breakfast and packed my bag quickly, eager to get into Glacier, like a kindergartner ready to start his first day of school. We jumped into the rental car, the front of it now caked in dead bugs, and made our way into the park. Mr. K purchased a 3-day pass and the gate keeper waved us through.

Beyond the gate, we drove onto Going to the Sun Road, past the grandeur of Saint Mary Lake, where Little Chief, Red Eagle and Mahtotopa mountains reflected majestically on the lake's pristine surface, their darkened forms contrasting from the bright blue sky above. The road meandered ahead, loosing itself in the mountains, which stood proud and impenetrable before us. The formidable peaks loomed above like a fortress wall as the pavement labored to carry us through an illusive mountain pass, delivering us to the hidden world beyond.

As we drove further up Going to the Sun Road, the golden grasslands gave way to dense pine forest, with occasional breaks in the treeline exposing distant, towering rocky peaks. We pulled off the road for a moment to admire the dying Jackson Glacier at the base of Mt. Jackson. Since 1966, the glacier has lost nearly a third of its acreage, but still remains the 7th largest glacier in the park.

Going to the Sun Road winds its way through the heart of Glacier National Park, passing some of the most breathtaking views of the park, and of North America. It was painstakingly built over the course of 12 years, beginning in 1921, and cost $2.5 million as well as the lives of three workers. If you've ever driven on this formidable road, the cost and construction time are not at all surprising, but the low death count is astonishing.

Highline trail is a bit steep...

The road took a sharp turn at the base of Piegan and Matahpi Mountains, and the slope dropped swiftly below the road, to the valley 1,000 feet below. We pulled off here to admire the breathtaking scene of Reynolds and Henry Runner mountains, and the other various peaks that erupted from the valley below and reached into the bright, July sky. A little further on, we came to the Logan Pass visitor center. Filling our water bottles, we made our way to the Garden Wall/Highline trail, which G.W. had highly recommended.

Flowers!

After a leisurely walk over a grassy lawn dotted with stunted pine trees, we found the trail hugging the sheer face of Pollock Mountain. In order to pass the first leg of the hike, we had to overcome an Indiana Jones-level feat of bravery by holding on to a metal cable that was secured to the rock wall to keep from falling fifty feet to the road directly below. Small pebbles tumbled under our feet and over the ledge, falling towards the convoy of cars that carried on under us, unheard. Little rivets of water ran across the trail, making the rocks slick and treacherous. But soon, we had land on both sides. The trail leveled out and plant life was growing in abundance. Garden Wall was quite an adequate name: Flowers of all kinds, none that I had seen the likes of before, lined the way, accenting the trail with bright bursts of vibrant violets, yellows, reds and blues, as though Tom Bombadil himself tended this section of the park. I looked out onto the new valley, with monumental mountains standing high above the valley below, cascading into the unseen beyond. The view was endless. The park and its mountains seemed to have no border, but expanded across the land beyond sight and comprehension.

I was overwhelmed by this place, so much so that I hadn't noticed how panicked Steph had become. Second to last in our gang, Steph's hands were trembling while she hid tears behind her large sunglasses. She is not a fan of such sheer heights. When I finally noticed her discomfort, we stopped to help Steph calm her nerves (and grab a quick bite to eat). She was not as much worried about the trail ahead of us, but more about having to walk along the steep part of the path we had just overcome. I watched a hoary marmot scavenge for food along the trail while Steph got her nerves ready.

"Okay," she said with a start. "Let's go. I'm ready."


We turned back and she clenched my hand with a vice's grip as we traversed the precarious part of the trail. When we returned to the pine grove, Steph's nerves were quelled, and we took a moment to watch a herd of big horn sheep nimbly wander off the side of the mountain. How easy they made it look.

*     *     *     *

Steph felt guilty for cutting our hike short, but we assured her that it was no problem. Glacier is a fairly sizable park (covering two countries and all) and there were yet plenty of trails around that didn't involve such sheer drops. We would just have to find one of those.

Behind the Logan Pass visitors center, I found a trail head that meandered in several directions. I looked over the trail side map and found a leisurely hike that would take us to a brilliant overlook above Hidden Lake.

The way was well traversed. The first leg of the hike was over a wooden boardwalk and visitors with wheel chairs and walkers took advantage of the pedestrian path (everyone should be able to enjoy our National Parks). It seemed well suited to our current needs. The boardwalk ended and a dirt path snaked its way over a bald, snow-covered slope. We passed quiet groups of Mennonites (there were a ton of Mennonites in Glacier) and winded tourists boasting large cameras. The cameras' click-click-clicks clapping away, like some strange chorus of crickets.

Hey there buddy.

Turning around at the top of the slope, we were awestruck by the grand, sweeping landscape. The mountains ahead of us rolled down to a vast, grassy shelf before dropping off to a steep valley beyond. A lofty ridge ran beyond the valley, like a jagged knife cutting through the iridescent forests below into the endless sky above. The land was Tolkien in its grandeur, unlike anything I have beheld in my life.

Hidden Lake

At the top of the path, we entered a pine grove and the trail scattered in several directions through the trees. I slowed my pace, taking care to enjoy the moment and breathe the fresh piney air. Soon, though, I lost track of the K's. Rounding a corner, I came face to face with a big, white mountain goat. I was extremely surprised, but managed to not shout an obscenity (I've grown up so much!). The goat stared at me for a moment before continuing on its way past me, walking by within arms reach without much worry. It had no fear of me. After it disappeared out of view, I hurried down the trail to find the K's to tell them what happened, when I found that there were about a dozen mountain goats walking between excited tourists, passing close enough to be touched, though no one was foolish enough to try. I found Steph and we watched the goats for a while -- a big male here, a mother and her kid there. I was brimming with excitement, like some smelly fanboy. If Steph was excited by this development, she hid it well, feigning joy just enough to appease me (and stop me from asking,"Holy shit! Isn't this amazing?" "It sure is, Ror...").  We rendezvoused with the K's and made our way further down the trail, the herd of goats following as we went.

Leaving the pine grove, we found that the slope to our left dropped sharply below us, running to the banks of Hidden Lake. Stands of pine lined the azure lake and pockets of snow dotted the slope up to Reynold's Mountain. Behind us, the steel and blood colored Clements Mountain gave way to khaki and rust-tinted alluvial sediment dunes. Beyond the lake, the mountains continued, rumbling onward until they disappeared in the summer haze.

Juvenile Mountain Goat

We found a large, brick-colored, flat rock that had been warmed by the sun's rays, and perched on it to enjoy our packed lunch. I had discovered some wild chive along the trail and Matt set about collecting more to chew on. Because who doesn't like chive breath? As I pulled out my PB&J, the herd of goats began to walk by us. A juvenile mountain goat, barely bigger than a terrier, walked right up to our picnic spot and began to lick wet pebbles on the ground. I had to pull my legs up onto the rock to keep the kid from bumping into me. The mother -- her coat shaggy from an incomplete molting -- approached and I prepared for her to challenge our proximity to her youngster. Instead, she walked right up to us and joined her kid in licking wet rocks. I sat on the rock, within arms reach of both of them, and stared befuddled at our luck. Seeing the deer up close was one thing. But mountain goats? I hadn't even anticipated seeing one (G.W. told me it was extremely unlikely) much less being this close to a mother and her baby! They lingered for a while before growing bored with licking rocks and made their way back into the pine cover, into the unknown depths of Glacier.

*    *     *     *

Snowball mid air.

We debated whether we should continue down the trail or turn back, but decided against hiking down to the lake only to have to schlep back up the steep trail. On our way back, we saw no more mountain goats or big horn. I overheard someone with binoculars say they could see a grizzly in the distance, but I had no luck in spotting it. A large group of Mennonites was choking the boardwalk trail down to the visitor center, so Steph, Matt and I decided we'd walk through the snow. We pitched a few snowballs at each other -- delighted to see snow in July (which I can tell you at the time of writing this -- March 2014 -- I cannot recall such feelings about snow) -- before Matt began foot sledding down the side of the mountain. Steph and I joined him, only falling once or twice, and made our way down the mountain with great speed. Where the snow ended, the ground turned to mud, and I made my way back to the boardwalk. By now, my shoes were soaking wet, and with each step, they emitted a slish-slosh slish-slosh. I removed my shoes and socks and continued down the trail barefoot, much to the bemusement of people walking by.

Shoes shmoes.

"Hey!" Someone shouted. "Did you know you ain't got any shoes on?"
"I thought I was missing something!" I hollered back.

We got back in the car and made our way to the hotel, my eyes glued to the windows as we went. We made a pit-stop at Baring Falls and walked through the piney, humid forest, the cacophony of the falls filling the background of the forest's sounds. Walking through a rushing stream, we came to a small clearing at the side of the falls. Some 25-feet high, the fall's powerful rush of water was almost deafening. Though I was distracted by the waterfall, I had the feeling of being watched. I turned abruptly and came face to face with a doe, a deer. She had been munching on some grass and stopped to watch me, pondering why I had moved so swiftly. When she was sure I wasn't planning on lunging at her, she went about eating, paying no mind to my presence. My pulse went back to normal and I was simply glad the deer was not actually a bear.

Baring Falls

Heading back to the car, my feet sifting through the virgin soil beneath me, I was feeling elated, in touch with the grand, wild world around me. No, I had not seen a bear, but what I had witnessed outweighed spotting a grizz (though if I could have added that to the day's events, I would have done so). It filled me with such delight, such meaning. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't full of remorse, shame or fear of things to come. I wasn't fretting about what was going on in Allston or what my new job would hold. None of that mattered at this moment, because it didn't exist. All that mattered to me at that moment was this world I was in. One that I had only dreamt of, that I thought I would never see, not any time soon at least. I felt connected to it. My heart to the mountains. My bones to the trees. My feet to the soil and rocks.

Which was when I noticed a sharp pain in my foot. The K's were far behind me, so I stopped and looked at the bottom of my foot: Spattered with blood. First the cholla cactus in my leg in Arizona, now this! I fretted.

"You should wear your shoes," they said as we'd gotten out of the car.
"No," I reassured them, certain of my sole's heartiness. "I go barefoot all the time. It's no problem."

Oh! the shame. I wiped away some of the dirt and poured water over it as Steph came up the trail.

"Hey hun," she called. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothin'," I shrugged. "Just got a small cut on my foot."
"Let me see," she said.
"Oh, no, it's fine," I reassured her as she lifted my foot to inspect it.
"Oh," she said gravely. The injury was more than both of us had expected. "We'll clean it up when we get back."
"Alright. Can we..."I stammered, embarrassed.
"Not a word of it to anyone," she responded, her words like a wink.

And that, dear reader, is why I love that gal.

We continued back to the car, my foot already caked with soil and pine needles, attached by the cohesive combination of water and blood. It stung ever so slightly as the dirt mingled with my cut. Hydrogen peroxide. I thought. Hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol will fix this.

But for now, let the soil and the blood find each other and join one another. It was but a slight sacrifice for such a peerless day. Now part of me was in this soil, and the earth was in me. We were blood brothers. And that was just fine.