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.