Roam Away from Home: Part I

Escapism 

April, 2013 - Death Valley National Park, CA

My mouth tasted musky and stale, and my eyes felt puffy as Alice urgently shook me awake.

"Mmmmwhatsup?" I groaned.

"Yo dude," she replied with uncommon worry in her voice. "Steph's on the phone. Something's wrong in Boston."

My first thought went to our cat, Neko, who has a propensity to fill Steph with worry. I walked out of Alice and French's guest room, climbed over a still sleeping Tomek, and shuffled into the kitchen to pick up the phone. When I heard Steph on the other end of the line, I could tell it was clearly not about the cat.

"Rory," Steph said with a start. She sounded on edge. "Have you been watching the news?"

"Uhh, no," I responded sluggishly. "It's like...quarter to 6 here."

"Well you should turn it on. Like...a lot of shit went down last night."

"What do you mean?" I was no longer in a sleepy state. My eyes were wide and my heart pounded in my throat. Alice, French and Tomek all stared at me.

"They shot a cop." She started. "And the police were like chasing them all through Watertown and they were throwing bombs and everything. And now no one knows where they are? I don't know. We're on lock down. Charlie's coming over. Your mom called me this morning to tell me."

I was speechless. My friends all gathered around me, their eyes pleading with me to tell them what was happening.

"Are you okay?" I was finally able to muster.

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. I'm pretty freaked out."

"Turn on WBUR," I mouthed to French. He made his way to the computer and soon I could hear Bob Oakes voice in the other room.

"The cop they shot, it was right across the street from my office," Steph went on.

We talked for a little while longer before I got off the phone to call my Mom and thank her for checking in on Steph. Steph had wanted me home, but with the city on lockdown and Logan surely shuttered, there was little I could do. What's worse was that I would be likely out of cell service for the next three days. As Alice whipped up sausages, biscuits and gravy, I walked outside to clear my head.

Death Valley extended beyond view before me. A dust storm at the far end of the valley obstructed the sight of the distant, sandy mountains. Around me, clay and red spires jutted into the clear sky. The air was hot and crisp with the taste of dust. The silence filled my ears, with only the subtle breeze licking my hair. The hot concrete patio warmed my feet. I stared off at bighorn trails coming down from the bluffs behind the house.

What the fuck am I doing here? I thought.

*     *     *     *

Boston, MA - Several Days Earlier

I walked into my office on Huntington Avenue groggy. I had spent the weekend reenacting the Battle of Lexington and Concord with my British unit His Majesty's First Foot Guards, and that Monday morning, I had awakened at 3 AM for the skirmish on Lexington Green. While many institutions offer Patriots Day off due to the Boston Marathon, my work did not, so I'd struggled to bike to work, winding my way through Boston, past throngs of spectators and barricades.

Work, thankfully, was laid back. We had a hot dog party for lunch and there wasn't much pressing business, so I spent much of the day reading The Atlantic and watching the hordes of people walking to the finish line across the street from my office. A loud boom ricocheted between the downtown towers. Several of my coworkers rushed to the window that overlooks the Prudential Center and Lord & Taylor, so I joined them filled with curiosity. A large black cloud rose over the buildings.

"Maybe they're firing cannons," one of my coworkers reasoned. "You know, cause it's Patriots Day?"

I'd been around cannon fire all weekend and could tell that that wasn't the sound. I said nothing, for fear of appearing a paranoid alarmist. Another boom echoed down the corridors of Boston and another plume of smoke rose up. By this time, people began streaming down the roads between Boylston and Huntington. Some people were running, others were walking calmly, as though they were leaving the Marathon normally. Three bros rolled an eight-foot high basketball with Greek letters on it down the street.

I kept trying to send out texts, but nobodies' phones were working, so I rushed to the computer to message friends. Before long, one of them sent a photo posted on reddit showing a large explosion on Beacon Street. After that, the news started pouring in. Two explosions at the finish line. Many injuries. Pandemonium. I'd parked my bike on the sidewalk, so I ran down to get it out of the way of the now countless ambulances parked in front of my building. The streets were chaos. A group of pre-teen boys walked up to me and asked how to get to Downtown Crossing. I tried to remember how to get down there, my mind was fogged with confusion. I gave them some directions, but don't know if I sent them the right way. I grabbed my bike and went upstairs.

We waited in the office for another hour before leaving out the back. Joined by some of my coworkers who live near Brighton, we made our way through the back streets to avoid major roadways. The streets were flooded with people and cops were everywhere. Walking past bars, we saw people silently glued to TV screens, watching. Steph called me frantically, asking how long until I would be home. When I parted ways with the last of my coworkers, I hopped on my bike and sped home -- the streets were now devoid of cars. Steph and I spent the rest of the afternoon watching the news, slowly sipping on bourbon. When night came, we turned the news off and put on 30 Rock, but our minds wandered.

Work was cancelled the next day, as we were within the police investigation radius. I asked Steph and my parents if I should cancel my upcoming trip to Death Valley. I was scheduled to depart on Wednesday night.

"No, you should go." They said. "It'd be good to get out of the city for a few days."

My plans went unchanged.

By wednesday, my office reopened. Biking through BU and Kenmore, nothing seemed different. Just Boston on a nice spring day. When I got to Mass Ave, however, the scene changed. State troopers covered head to toe in kevlar, strapped with assault rifles, patrolled the streets. Turret-mounted National Guard humvees blockaded Beacon Street and barriers were set up to stop traffic. Fire trucks and police cars thundered down the street, sirens blaring. Work was quiet. No one really spoke. We mostly just stared out the window, watching events unfold across the way. I went home at 4 and got ready to fly to Las Vegas.

*     *     *     *

My gut jumped. The plane was dark, the sound of the engines droning muffled the quiet chatter inside the cabin. I heard a slight "ping!" and saw the seatbelt sign glimmer on. We were going through bone rattling turbulence. Again, the sound of a dull thud and my stomach jumped. The melted ice and whiskey residue in my cup tipped over and snaked across the tray table. My stomach began to grumble and cramp and suddenly I realized I needed to vomit. Next to me, a sleeping couple in their 30s blocked my way to the aisle. I did a quick mental calculation: Do I wake them up to go to the bathroom, or do I use the barf bag? Quickly, my mind turned to the prospect of waking them up by vomiting next to them, so I opted to go to the bathroom. Once there, I took a few deep breaths and felt at ease again. I arranged myself in the uncomfortable chair and looked at the map. We were over Missouri. The turbulence continued to Nevada.

It was dark when the plane landed, the warm, dry air kissed my face as I walked onto the jetbridge. Looking out on the darkened valley, I could see lights of Las Vegas glowing sickly above the city. To the west, the specter of a setting sun silhouetted the shadowed mountains. I gave Steph a call to tell her I'd landed and to see if everything was okay in Boston. If she was upset with me for leaving, she hid it. Exiting the airport, I began a confusing bout of texting with Alice as she tried to direct me to her current location. After I finally found the car, I was cheerfully greeted by my friends.

Tomek wouldn't land until the next day (which was more than fine--it had taken some effort to coordinate our trip anyway), so we had about 18 hours to kill. Originally, we'd considered camping for the night at Lake Mead, but my late arrival killed that idea. So, instead, we dropped our gear off at the dreary Four Queens Hotel and wandered around the Fremont neighborhood. Illuminated by the neon lights of Sinatra's day, the neighborhood now stood as a dusty relic of the days of Old Las Vegas. Pings and flashes erupted from various casinos and restaurants. Disheveled young men with backwards baseball caps and floral swim trunks sauntered down the walkways, eyes fiery red with booze and anger, looking for a fight, as the spectacle of the Walkway of Lights danced above us. We wandered into a piano bar and watched a few acts while sipping tall boys of PBR (which does taste different out there) before heading back to the hotel.

The next morning, we packed the car and made our way to breakfast at the unpretentiously-named "eat."  Peering over the menu, I saw a word I had not seen before.

"What's this say?" I asked Alice.
"It's called chilaquiles. You should get them, they're good."

"Chilaquiles -  scrambled eggs, turken, jalapeno mango sausage, corn tortilla chips w/ red & green new mexican chili & pico"

What the description neglected to mention is that chilaquiles are more accurately called "breakfast nachos," or as I like to say, "breakfast fucking nachos." The meal came out in a stately casserole dish, with fresh-made salsa and a generous glob of unmentioned guacamole. Even writing about it makes my stomach pang. Our bellies delighted with fine food and dark coffee, we got back in car and made our way west towards the mountains.

Towering red rocks stood above the highway, like the statues of Argonath, as our car wound its way through boulder-covered scrub desert: Red Rocks National Conservation Area.

Wandering up the trail, the sun warmed my skin. It was late April, so the heat was not yet oppressive. It was a nice change from the balmy spring weather back East. As we walked aimlessly through the open desert, Alice told me how it was unwise to approach a desert tortoise, as they might urinate and die of dehydration if harassed. Ahead, we spotted a large, adobe-colored rock, about the size of a one story cape home, pock marked with nooks and crannies. We followed a sand-covered channel that carved its way up the side of the rock, acting as a trail to the top. Hoisting ourselves up to the crown of the boulder, we sat and looked out on the valley before us, the wall of mountains behind, and the endless desert all around. In the distance, a vulture circled an unseen meal and the towers of Vegas were distorted by the waves of heat. We wandered up the trail, climbing over smooth rock faces as we pleased, before our water began running low and we turned back.

By the time we made it to the car, we realized we had about 40 minutes until Tomek landed, so we raced back to the city.

Tom squinted and beamed when he saw us.

"Yoooo!" He hollered, holding the "o" for a while before he broke into a delighted laugh. We all embraced before dispensing with the necessary small talk. How was the flight? It was fine. Did they feed you? Just a cookie and a coffee. Did you sleep? No.

The day was getting late and we were all hungry, so we made our way to Tacos el Gordo for tacos. It was located in a strip mall, next to a touristy tchotchke shop and a liquor store fortified with bulletproof glass. Inside, the florescent light faltered, slightly strobing the dining area, and we watched large cuts of mouth-watering meat sizzle on the grill or rotate on a spit. Although I don't "dine on swine," Alice urged me to try the spice pork, so I obliged and ordered one of those with a lengua taco to boot. People from the Southwest enjoy fighting over who has the best Mexican food while simultaneously reminding East Coast folk that ours is barely better than taco bell. While I disagree that East Coast Mexican food is garbage and am too ignorant to say which western state has the best Mexican food, I will say that Mexican food out there is something to behold. The second I bit into that taco, all my worry about Steph, Boston, the bombings and not being able to check in back home with ease (not much cell service in Death Valley, even on Verison), all of that vanished. I was man. I was eating taco. Taco was wonder. That was all. And before I knew it, they were gone. So I ordered another, wolfed it down, and got in the car to head further West.

We pulled up to Alice and French's new place, just down the street from their old apartment. A cool breeze blew across the valley and the stars glistened silvery behind swift passing blue-grey clouds. Their new puppy, Ethel, yipped excitedly, her wagging tail whipping her backside back and forth uncontrollably, her big feet stammering clumsily as we walked through the door. We dropped our gear and grabbed a beer before heading out to the driveway to look out on the valley, dark and grim in the night. It was hard to discern the mountains in the distance, how far the desert expanded before us, but the presence of the open grandeur of the place loomed like a ghost in our midst. Alice and French explained the itinerary of the weekend. We would make way for the Alabama Hills at the foot of Mount Whitney for a night of car camping before heading to Panamint City for a backcountry excursion. She pointed vaguely across the valley. Tomorrow, we would be heading away.

*     *     *     *

Tom and I listened intently to WBUR's telling of the previous night's events over the computer speakers as Alice and French worked on our breakfast, the smell of sizzling sausage permeated the house. We sat around their small kitchen table, Ethel waiting patiently by our feet for falling food, and talked soberly about what was happening in Boston. My brain working feverishly and my stomach fit to split, I excused myself and walked to the bluff overlooking the park staff village. The valley stretched out before me, a plume of dust traveled across it, revealing the endless beyond. 

The air was still and silent but for the sound of rocks and dirt crumbling under my feet. I called Steph to check in and make sure she was all set. I'd call her and text her whenever I had service, I told her. She told me to go have fun and that she'd update me with any developments. I put my phone back in my pocket, lingering on the sight of the park as I worried about venturing into it, out of reach of anyone who might need me.

We passed swiftly through the park, down to the belly of the valley, passing the bleak, open range and the kaleidoscope of browns painting the distant mountains. The rolling sands of the Mesquite Dunes rippled along the horizon and I rolled down the window to feel the dry, broiling heat of the desert. 

The road swept up before us, rolling its way towards the rising hills and away from the valley floor. The sky above us was clear and burning blue, and a haze hung in the mountains, like a fog that distorted our view, making the ranges seem distant, untouchable, unknowable. Before long, we were in the middle of the mountains, snaking along deep canyons and slopes. And oh! the colors of the mountains: Ivory to turquoise to adobe to blood red to charcoal to black. Rivets dug and wove into the sides of the hills like towering termite mounds. Beyond us, Panamint Valley opened up, a with blinding silvery sheet glazed across the playa.

Our ears popped as we dropped into the desolate valley. There was not another car in sight. No buildings to be seen. The only manmade object visible was the sweltering asphalt before us. As we sped across the playa, the distant mountains charged towards us, bulbous and lashed with white stripes. Back into the mountains, we stopped at Father Crowley Point, a dark, gaping canyon like a wound in the side of the range that emptied into the valley below. Alice and French told us that sometimes fighter jets will dive into the canyon, bringing to mind a certain scene from Independence Day, but there were no jets today. Instead, we found the Park outhouse riddled with bullet holes, likely fired from a high-powered rifle. Through the door were about twelve good-sized holes, with more perforating the stone structure. I opened the door to the bathroom, which rattled with lead from the still-trapped bullets. Only one had made it all the way through the door. Its resting place was in the wall above the toilet--about head level if one was sitting on the toilet. We joked about taking a group photo in front of the bullet-riddled door, but agreed that it was too grim (and probably bad medicine).

From there, we passed through more scrub-covered desert and dusty mountains. The land immediately around us flattened out and the road took a turn, revealing a stunning sight: The Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were still capped with snow, looming imposingly in the distance, an impossible tower of granite on the horizon slowly came towards us. I could only imagine the early settlers, after toiling through such unforgiving land, seeing the sight of those mountains must have been like a punch in the gut (or maybe a little lower). But for us, who did not need to make it through those mountains, the view was magnificent. As we came closer, blasting our way past Owen's Lake, the emerald forest at the mountains' base gleamed vibrantly in the midmorning sun.

Passing through Lone Pine, we made our way into the Alabama Hills. Big, bulbous rocks--ranging in scope from van-sized to building-sized--were scattered across the land haphazardly. The place looked like The Flinstones' Bedrock. There were a few other cars parked about, with rock climbers scaling their way up the face of these monoliths. We found a cul-de-sac to claim for ourselves (it's a big place and we didn't want to share our space with others) before grabbing a duffle bag full of rock climbing gear and making our way to a nice spot to scramble up.

The area we were climbing in was shaped like half a crater; a semi-circle surrounded by towering, tan colored boulders, some over 200 feet high. They grew and expanded beyond the cove floor, with the peaks of the Sierra Nevadas looming above them. Across the way, on a big, flat-faced rock, several climbers made their way to the lofty summit of the 200-foot boulder, appearing like lizards basking in the afternoon sun. The rock we chose was much more manageable. At 75 feet, a novice climber like me wouldn't have too much trouble.

French--the best climber in the group--attached his harness and lines, and made his way up the rock as quickly and adeptly as a mountain goat. Every few feet, he found an anchor and attached the line. He made it to the top, admired the view for a time, and rappelled back down to give Tom a turn. Tom nimbly made his way up the rock face.

"Move your right hand about two feet up," Alice shouted as Tomek searched for his next hold."Good. Now your left foot to where your knee is."

After Tom, Alice took her turn. And then it was my turn. I emptied my pockets--wallet, leatherman, pipe and tobacco--to make the harness fit more easily. I'd handed my phone to Alice, but after putting my harness on, I took it back thinking maybe I could snap a photo from the top.

It was tough going getting up the rock. My friends shouted footing suggestions as I ascended. Finally, I got to the top and pulled the line out to brake. I looked up at the snowy Sierras as the dry, warm breeze from the desert floor warmed my skin.

"How is it up there?" Alice shouted.

"Quite nice!"

"Take a picture!"

"Fuck that!" I replied, as I couldn't maneuver my phone safely out of my pocket. I enjoyed the view for another moment before making my descent to the ground, when I noticed my pocket shake. As anyone who's had a cell phone for a while knows, sometimes you get a "ghost text," or feel like your phone is vibrating in your pocket even if no one is contacting you (or if you don't even have it in your pocket). I figured this was what was happening--we were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and I hadn't had service for hours--so I ignored it. Until my pocket vibrated again. And again. And again.

I quickly rappelled down and took off my harness. Ethel greeted me exuberantly, with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses.

"My phone was going crazy up there. I wonder what's up."

Now normally, dear reader, I try to avoid using my phone while in the great outdoors. But aforementioned factors encouraged me to try to stay in touch with the outside world.

I took of my harness and pulled out my phone. Eight new texts. Most were folks asking me if I was okay, but the ones from Steph were alarming. The police were hunting for the bombers in Watertown--just across the river from our apartment. The city was still on lock-down. Everyone was ordered to shelter in place. Our friend Charlie was still over keeping Steph company. She had yelled at our upstairs neighbor for smoking a cigarette on the front porch--maniacs were on the loose after all! I shot her a text back. Stay safe. Don't open the door for anyone. I love you. Then I lost service again.

Throughout the afternoon, we kept climbing the egg-shaped rock, finding different paths up the side of it. Between climbing and being the anchor, I followed Ethel as she chased a kangaroo rat from hole to hole.

Every time I summited, I'd get more texts. I'd descent and respond. Mostly they were from Steph, and I was happy to get to talk to her. Otherwise they were from friends and neighbors who knew my residence's proximity to the action.

Are you safe? They all asked.

I'm in the middle of the desert in California. Couldn't be safer. Thanks for asking. I'd reply.

*     *     *     *

On my last climb, the texts from Steph got confusing. The shelter-in-place was called off. Then it was back on. SWAT teams were storming people's homes. One of the bombers was dead, killed by his brother. No one knew where the other one was.

By then the sun was waning and we had to set up camp and make dinner. I shot off one more encouraging text to Steph before I lost service. And that was all I knew for the rest of the evening.


After setting up our tents, we all cracked a Great Basin Icky IPA and wandered around our rocky cove. I tried to put my worries of home out of my mind and stay in the present. We found a cave in the rocks and wandered our way through it. Eventually, the cave narrowed to a foot-and-a-half wide slit in the rock. Alice scrambled through it and I followed, almost getting stuck at the end (what a fun way to spend the night that would have been!). At the bottom, we found a sandy den with charred burns on the ceiling--an old shelter from a passerby in the past.

We rejoined Tomek and French on the boulder above the den and watched the sun set behind the desert. As we were now in the shadow of the mountain, the air cooled rapidly. The land before us was baked in an orange glow as the shadows of the mountain crept across the desert, jagged and random, like the teeth of a beast slowly devouring the land into night. 

Back at the camp, we enjoyed a few more beers and started our dinner. We set about dicing up potatoes, onions, peppers, carrots and sausage before dousing them with olive oil and wrapping the mix in tin foil. Thrown onto the grill above the fire, we listened to our meal sizzle appetizingly as we sipped on cans of Olys. The tin foil blackened with charred markings, we opened up the wrap and scooped generous mounds of the food onto our plates before covering it with cheese. The entire meal was devoured in short order.

The sun left us and the sky turned royal blue, displaying a wondrous spectacle of stars. Big, beaming planets, clusters of distant suns and the Milky Way nebula slowly came into focus as the night grew darker. Thousands of miles away, police were firing hundreds of rounds into a boat containing the bombing suspect. The city watched shocked as he was pulled bloodied from his hiding place. My family, friends and coworkers all sat and reflected about what this all meant and where our city would go from here. But under the starlight, next to our campfire, I knew nothing of this. Surrounded by friends with a cold beer in my hand and food in my belly, I looked out across the quiet desert, said a silent goodnight to Steph, wandered to my tent, and remembered no more.

No Such Thing as a "Worst National Park."

National Parks are special places we set aside for future generations to cherish, lest they be destroyed by all manner of human industrialization. They may be majestic, but they are not always for the faint of heart. They are not there solely for our enjoyment, for they care nothing of us. They are reminders that our world is big, vast and wild, and these places should be protected, not paved over for ease of access. If you want comfort, stay at home and watch Planet Earth.


Also, Yahoo is a garbage site.


Author's Note: I'll post a Death Valley Story Soon. Sorry for the long delay!

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.