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.