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.