The Last Best Place: Part I

Alberta Says Hello

Alberta, Canada - July 2012

"Bonjour," the customs officer said. His stern French-Canadian voice had pulled me out of my jet lag-induced brain freeze and I stepped up to hand my passport over to him. The airport terminal was buzzing. Flights from Germany, Scotland, Japan and the US emptied their passengers into the bustling checkpoint. My customs officer -- a mustachioed man with dark eyes and a condescending glare -- ruffled through my barren passport.

"Uh...hello. Good morning." I said, my brain slowly booting up. Upon hearing my voice, the slightest frown came across his face. An American, his expression seemed to say. Merveilleux.

"Where are you coming from?"
"Uh, Boston, sir." The "uh"s seemed to be inseparable from the beginnings of my answers, like a cat's claws to a new couch.
"And where will you be going while you are in Canada."
"We'll be heading to Banff tonight and then I believe--"
"You believe?" He cut me off.
"Yes...I believe we are going to Watertown National--"
"It's Waterton." He corrected me, sternly.
"I'm sorry?"
"Waterton National Park. Not Watertown."
"Oh. Sorry, right. Force of habit. You see I'm from Boston."
He stared at me blankly. I guess he was not familiar with the geography of the Greater Boston Area.
"And Watertown is...Well anyway then we'll be going to Glacier in Montana and then home."
"And how will you be returning home?"
"On an airplane," I thought to myself. But to avoid anymore discomfort or confusion that my trip would take me from Banff to Glacier National Park then back to Calgary to fly home, I simply told him that we would be flying home from Montana. Anything to shorten the interrogation.
"And what do you do?" He asked, dully.
Interestingly enough, dear reader, I had just received a job offer to work at an agency before I left for Montana. So I did have a job, finally. With some pride, I told him, "I'm in advertising."
He did not like this answer.
"Do you plan to do any business while you are in Canada."
"No. I just plan on hiking."
"What sort of business do you plan on doing while you are in Canada."
"None. I'm just going into the woods."
"Will you be meeting with any business contacts while in Canada." Each question more of a statement than an inquiry.
"No."
"Do you plan on doing any business while you are in Ca na da." Each syllable in "Canada" enunciated, so he was sure I could understand what country he was talking about.
"No, sir."
"Alright," he said, like a parent disappointed in a child's lie. He stamped my passport and slid it back to me.
"Have a good one." I said, with forced cheer.
"Mmm." He snorted. "Next."

The K's had invited me on their family trip to Banff and Glacier National Park a few months before. Taking time off from work wasn't hard, as I didn't have a job at the time (my new job started the day after I got back). I'd spent much of my free time researching the parks, pouring over maps, discussing appropriate trails with my Montana friend G.W., and dreaming about seeing a grizzly bear in the wild. Not up close, certainly. One in the distance would do just fine.

It was a little stressful getting Miss Steph, her folks, her brother and me all to the same city from all over America at around the same time, but somehow we managed. Steph arrived some fifteen minutes after me, and her mother and brother shortly thereafter. Her father wouldn't arrive until later that day, so the four of us set out to explore Calgary.

"You know you just missed the Stampede. Got here a week too late." Albertans kept telling us. The Stampede is Canada's largest festival and this year was its 100th birthday, so lots of people had come from around the world to watch the huge rodeo. Locals could not understand why we would come to visit after the event ended. Well, airfare for one thing.

Calgary!

Calgary is a quaint, clean city. The neighborhoods we walked through had the air of a polished, corporate park. On my flight in, the man sitting next to me -- a golfer -- told me stories about his adventures in Calgary and Banff. Elk and deer would eat out of your hand, towering mountains beyond anything else in North America, and some of the best golfing and skiing around. I had imagined Calgary to be nestled in the mountains, so I was surprised when I could not see any peaks when we landed. Beyond the city, rolling green hills marked the plains. Somewhere past them stood the Rockies.

We went to a bar for some hot wings, which were not too bad considering how far we were from Buffalo, NY. Spicy buffalo with a hint of honey. For beer, I asked what was good and local and received a Kokanee, which is neither from Alberta nor very good. After lunch, we decided we would need some supplies to celebrate our first night in Alberta: Beer, wine, whisky, whatever was good. We went to the nearest liquor store, where a lanky young white man stood behind the counter, clad in a sideways baseball hat, baggy white t-shirt and sweatbands midway up his forearm. I began to peruse the beer selection, seeing many things I was familiar with: Molson, Labatt, Coors, Pabst. What surprised me was the price. A 12 of PBR in Boston would run you about $10. There? Try about $35. A 24 of Budweiser was nearly $60. We checked the wine and liquor prices and found a similar scene. I asked the cashier what he would recommend for a good Canadian whisky.

"Oh, I don't know," he responded sluggishly. "I don't really drink whisky."
Then lie to me! I thought. You are a salesman. Sell me products!

We settled on two bottles of Yellow Tail -- to the tune of $45 -- and went for a walk near the Bow River. Colorful magpies and Steller's jays hopped between the trees as the ice-cold river rushed by, fed by mountain snow melt. Soon, we made our way to the airport, picked up Mr. K and took off towards Banff.

*     *     *     *

Rolling farmland and horse corrals passed by as we sped along the winding highway. Soon, great, dark clouds overtook the plains and a torrent of rain and lighting swept over us. We looked out at our limited view, listening to Corb Lund songs between First People news reports. The storm began to break up, letting bits of dim sun poke through the clouds. Ahead, masked by fog and clouds, the mountains appeared, like towering ghosts emerging from the forests. Their figures were impressive and foreboding, their details just visible in the waning sun. They were huge, daunting and uninviting, but wondrous to behold, like nothing I'd seen before. I looked at the clock: It was 10:30 at night. And the sun was still out!

It was dark when we drove into Banff. The town was quaint and lovely, and looked as though Burlington, VT was located in Switzerland. We had some acceptable pizza and a couple of pitchers of cheap Canadian beer at the Canadian chain "Boston Pizza." We asked our waitress why it was called "Boston Pizza" and if there was some connection to the yankee city. She cheerily told us that she didn't know before leaving to wait on some ski bums, who were drinking their time away until snow was on the slopes again.

The next day, we woke, enjoyed coffee, and made our way to Lake Louise. Pine forests made their way up the sides of towering mountains, with rocky summits that reached into the bright sky. It was quite the impressive landscape, for which words cannot fully describe, but only suggest. A lanky coyote scavenged for roadkill along the highway and a black bear ran along the highway fence between the tall pine trees. The forests were deep, dark, untouched.

Lake Louise, right between those two big mountains.

We pulled up to the Lake Louise ski lodge at the base of Whitehorn Mountain, an 8,599 foot peak. We took the ski lift halfway up the mountain, watching for grizzly and black bears between the trees, but were unlucky in this endeavor. We got to a viewing platform and looked out on Lake Louise to our west. A vivid azure lake surrounded by emerald pine forests sat peacefully below the towering peaks of Mount Whyt and Aberdeen, and the formidable Mount Victoria. At 11,365 feet, it is the immense border -- or rather barrier -- between Alberta and British Columbia. Puffy, white clouds cascaded over the summit of the mountains and fell down before them, bowing to their height and grandeur. It was a view I was unprepared for -- even though I'd looked at pictures of it on Google. The air was still and quiet. Despite the large group of people around us, I felt like I was being pulled into it, into some unknown forever. An endless wilderness that I was standing at the precipice of, slowly leaning into its abyss.

After admiring the view for a while, we set about exploring the area, looking at wildflowers that grew on the snowless ski slopes, and searching for traces of bears. I walked into the visitor center, which was full of taxidermied fauna, pelts and bones of local animals, and dropped in to listen to a park ranger telling visitors what to do if they saw a predatory animal.

"Now we have a lot of black bears around here, alright. If you see one of these guys, you're best bet is not to approach it. What we'd like you to do is make yourself big and shout at it, alright. This will probably intimidate the bear into retreating. Now we also have some grizzly bears up here. These guys can be a little more aggressive than black bears. When you're out hiking, it's best that you make a lot of noise, alright, or carry a bear bell. This will help you not sneak up on an unsuspecting bear. If you do encounter a grizzly and it charges at you, you're going to want to play dead. They'll paw at you for a while and then they'll probably just leave you alone, alright. Whatever you do, don't run.

Now we do have some wolves here in the park. You're unlikely to see them, cause they don't like being near humans, alright, but if you do, just make some noise and they'll be on their way. Now we also have mountain lions, or cougars, out here. Now if you do encounter one of these, what you're gonna want to do is throw something at it, a rock or a log, whatever you can find, alright..."

The bit about the mountain lion struck me more as a formality than helpful advice. You know, if you see the mountain lion. If you happen to see a mountain lion in the wild, it will probably be one of the last things you ever see. They're not cumbersome animals like bears; they're ambush predators. They aren't seen unless they want to be seen.* Plus, throw a rock at a mountain lion? Such an undignified way to die.

Steph and me at Lake Louise

After lunch, we set off for the famous Fairmont Chateau at Lake Louise. We wandered around its well-decorated interior for a while, watching a lavishly Renaissance-dressed woman serenade a crowd with a classical harp performance. Once outside, we took in the view before us, the large, cold blue lake extending to the base of snow-capped mountains, which surrounded the lake like a fjord. The sky was slightly overcast and gray, promising rain to come, and tourists from all over milled about Lake Louise, running their fingers through the chilled water, spotting small trout along the banks, and renting kayaks. For Mrs. K, this was the most anticipated part of the trip. Back in the 90's, she'd used an exercise machine that featured several virtual "trail walking" videos displayed on a TV monitor. One where you'd walk the Golden Gate Bridge. Another around the Grand Canyon. Her favorite was the one around Lake Louise.

"I know the trail by heart." She beamed as we took off down the path.

It was a well worn trail. Even as we walked down it, there was scarcely a moment when we didn't see other travelers. It was a strange juxtaposition: Here we were on the edge of a vast, untamed wilderness and we were yet surrounded by people. I doubted I'd see a bear here (which was the litmus test for my total enjoyment).

Loud rumbles continued to reverberate through the valley. At first, we figured it was thunder from an oncoming storm -- it was drizzling. But soon we realized it was small avalanches from the snow pack at the base of Mount Victoria.

We came to the end of the pedestrian trail. If we'd continued, we would have needed actual hiking gear; the trail meandered off into the mountains. There was a small river delta that drained dark, silt- and mud-filled water into the pristine blue lake. Where the two met, the colors marbleized and ran into each other, with veins of bright blue, brown and silver. Sure it was mud, but it was gorgeous.

Above all this, a flower-filled meadow lead up to the snow pack, which resembled a small glacier. We stared up at this, and the towering peak of Victoria beyond, for a while before turning back. The rumbling continued and I kept turning back, hoping to see a great avalanche, to no avail. The trail turned, blocking our view of the mountain, and which point we heard a deafening thunder. I began to run back up the trail, hoping to see some unforgettable sight, but stopped when I heard a few kayakers shouting on the water.

"My god! Did you see that!?" One of them cried.
"That was incredible!" Shouted another.
"That is just unreal! We'll never see something so amazing for the rest of our lives!" Replied the first.
"Wow! What a once-in-a-lifetime experience!"
"Oh my god! I feel bad for anyone who missed that!"

With that, I returned to the K's and we made our way back to Banff.

*     *     *     *

Downtown Banff

We left Matt at the cabin -- the day's travels had been enough for him and he asked that we bring him some McDonald's upon our return. We walked around Banff for a while, going in and out of the small tourist shops, admiring the trinkets and ultimately buying none. Some sort of Frankenstein pick-up truck/hot rod vehicle with a classic cruiser bike on the truck bed drove around the main stretch, attracting the curious gaze of pedestrians and motorists as it went by. We tried a few restaurants, but the waits proved too long for Mr. K (to be fair, if he hadn't said a 45 minute wait was too long, I would have). Finally we settled on the Crown & Rose, which boasted that it is the oldest pub in town. We were sat at a table outside and left there to wait for our (probably stoned) waiter to bring us a pitcher of refreshing Canadian beer. When he finally returned, he had a bit an attitude that needed to be readjusted. Instead of waiting for him to do that, we readjusted our seating and moved inside. Our new waiter was slightly less unpleasant, but much more attentive, so we settled with her. I can't say what everyone else got, but I received the bison burger and, let me tell you dear reader, it was tip top. The bison meat was rich, perfectly cooked and juicy, with just that hint of gaminess that lets you know it's not a cow. The cheese was spot on and the tomatoes, oh the tomatoes. I could have eaten a plate of just those and called it a day.

Oh, Canada...

It had been a short drive from our cabin to downtown, so when the K's went to get in the car to drive home, I told them I would walk.

"Really? Are you sure?" They asked. Arizonans aren't used to walking around town when you can use a car. Hiking, sure. But walking? I mean, why not drive?
"Yeah!" I told them. "I want to walk."
"Well okay..." They said, the last syllable lingering as they rolled up the windows and took off.

The night was quiet, warm and breezy, the air thick with the musky odor of a pine forest. I walked through the small neighborhoods and up the road to the cabin. I stopped to pick some sage and watched the evening sunlight bask the mountains in a fiery glow.

Back at the house, it was determined that we should have a fire. But we were without wood.

"Don't worry," I told them. "I'll run out back and grab some wood."

It was growing dark in the forests, that dark where you can still make out details of the ground, but the trees turn into tall, black figures. There was plenty of wood to be found, but I was beset by a horde of mosquitoes unlike any I had ever encountered before. After about five minutes I looked at my pile of wood, thought "fuck it, this is enough," and ran it inside. The cabin was awash with the smell of Matt's McDonald's as I set about building the fire. Once it was going, I put the bundle of sage I'd picked and threw it on the fire. For tomorrow, we would make our way to Montana.

*     *     *     * 

We woke fairly early the next morning. My gear was already packed and ready, so while the K's set about getting their stuff in the car, I went for a short walk to snap a few choice photos of the Canadian Rockies before we left. I was looking out at Cascade Mountain when I had the feeling that someone was behind me. I turned sharply and found a mule deer standing right next to me, about an arms reach away, eating flowers. I stopped and stared at it. It looked up at me for a moment, unafraid, and went back about its business. I can't say I've ever been so close to an animal without it running away at the sight of a human. It was a strange experience. I sat with the deer for a while, looking out at the mountains, before getting in the car to leave.

The mountains raced past us as we headed south. A herd of bighorn sheep grazed in a field by the highway. Soon, the mountains dropped off and we were out on the open prairie. I half expected to see buffalo on the horizon. The sky was big and the land rolling, green and endless. We'd spot the occasional corral, beat up ranches, and once or twice I saw a few elk running across the prairie. We drove past weathered Indian reservations and a few towns, where everyone's windshields were perforated with holes, as if attacked by golf balls.

"I wonder what did that," Miss Steph pondered. 

We'd gone through a few brief, but fierce, lightening storms and deduced that the damaged windshields were the result of hail storms.

"Hail made holes that big?" Steph asked, almost incredulously.

In the distance, we could see a long, brown structure blocking the highway: The border. Going through borders in New England is nothing. You merely get a sign that welcomes you.

Welcome Bienvenue

New Hampshire

"Live free or die."

Out west, they were a bit more intense. Crossing the California border from Arizona in May had nearly caused me to have a panic attack. And this one wasn't even a state border, it was an international border. We pulled up to the stop and a nice, young woman took our passes, asked our names, and inquired about contraband (booze, guns, drugs). No. No. No. (Serious question, I get the booze and guns part, but has anyone thought, "Now that I'm at the border, it would be a perfect time to tell someone about the buttload cocaine I'm muling." Who knows, the border is a big place).

We drove through and were now in the fine state of Montana -- Big Sky Country, the Last Best Place -- accomplishing a dream I'd striven to complete since watching the episode of King of the Hill where they go to Montana (I figured, hey, if King of the Hill can make Montana look gorgeous, imagine what it's like in real life). Truly, the yearning to visit Montana had played no small part in getting me back into the outdoors over the last few years. And now I was here, and it was splendid. 

Eastern entrance road to Glacier

Green and golden fields stretched as far as I could see. In the distance, I could make out the dark blue figures of the mountains, of Glacier. I was overjoyed, brimming with glee and, dare I say, filled with a bit of patriotism.

The mountains grew grander as we approached. When we pulled up to our hotel, I looked down the road outside of Steph and my room and saw the entrance sign to Glacier National Park.

"What road is this?" I asked

"It's Going to the Sun Road." Mr. K replied.

You know, Going to the Sun Road. One of the world's most famous roads. The road that Jack Nicholson drives his family up in The Shining. And it was right outside my door. 

I stared up at the mountains for an unknown time. The air was warm, in the high 70's, and a nice steady breeze carried fresh mountain air. Behind us, a charred ridge showed the damage of a recent forest fire, black stocks of trees stood like gloomy tombstones of the forest. Ahead, grassland spread out to the beginnings of a pine forest that reached up the sides of the mountains, which erupted -- jagged and rocky -- into the sky from the forest's emerald grasp. 

Finally, beer!

Miss Steph grabbed me from my daze and took me to the small grocery store up the road. We grabbed two cases of reasonably priced, delectable Montana beer -- Big Sky Brewery and Montana Brewing Company -- and I cracked one open to enjoy while I stood in a rushing brook outside our room, the sound of a Led Zeppelin cover band permeating across the land from a nearby bar. America. 

The K's and I took a walk down to the Glacier visitor center so we could check out the trails for the hikes we'd planned. While there, I overheard a visitor talking to a weather worn, year-round park ranger.

"The weather has just been great this week. It's been nice and warm, perfect for hiking." The visitor proclaimed.

"Yep." The ranger responded slowly. "But winter's comin'."

"Sure, but I mean. Doesn't this summer weather make up for that?"

The park ranger turned his attention away from the man and stared up at the mountains, his gaze far off, months away from where we all stood now. He stared at that vision for a good moment before responding to the visitor, his eyes still locked with the mountains.

"Nope."

*All the same, I wouldn't protest seeing a mountain lion in the wild, so long as it was at a safe distance
and I didn't look tasty.