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.

Growing Up

When we were young, we all did cringe-worthy things. Few of us made it through adolescence without the burns and scars of youthful idiocy. (If you managed to make it through unscathed, please write a book about it.)

I was raised in a quaint little town on the South Shore in Massachusetts. Good schools. Good folk. Lots of places to explore. Very homogeneous. My parents were fine people, and raised my sister and me to appreciate everyone around us, to respect others, no matter their gender, race, orientation or income level, which was an easy theory to practice in a place where most people were like me. Slowly, things began to erode. Calling things "gay," shouting "faggot" and "cunt," or laughing at a rape joke becomes acceptable, because everyone around me acted like it's fine, leading me to think it was fine. Our gay and women friends didn't speak up, which we took as acceptance. In reality their silence spoke to discomfort and fear of being ostracized for calling us out rather than consent.

And then I entered the real world.

When I went to college, I still spent a large amount of time in my hometown, practicing with my band (who were all younger than me), hanging out with friends who hadn't graduated yet, spending the summer between freshman and sophomore year at home. It insulated me from understanding that this hate speech -- might as well call it what it is -- made me look like a horse's ass in front of my new friends and peers, who hailed from across the country and had, perhaps, grown to understand that speaking in such a way reflected poorly on that person. I said these things not because I was hateful, but because I was ignorant of their affect on those around me and those people's perception of me. Growing up has a learning curve.

Slowly, I realized that calling everything "gay" made me look immature. The crassness of saying taboo words did not impress those around me, so I cut it out of my vernacular, like one stops saying "like" before every statement. This seemed like a solid fix.

The other day, my friend Pat was telling me how in his neighborhood in New York, saying "faggot" in a social setting is immediate grounds for dismissal.

"Everyone just goes, 'Oh, hey, this person is clearly a shithead.' And everyone stops hanging out with them." Much the same way, I would imagine, most people would stop socializing with a white kid who said the n-word all the time.

In the winter of 2008, my band was slated to play a show with Bomb the Music Industry! and O! Pioneers. Because of a bad snowstorm, we didn't play. But I was in the city, so I still went. After the show, the bands were staying with some friends of mine, so I bought a couple cases of beer for us all to enjoy after the show. It was a dream for me, to hang out with musicians I respected and looked up to, and I wanted to make a good impression. Man, did I fucking blow it. After too many Steel Reserves (like I said, growing up has a learning curve), I shouted "faggot" at one of my friends. Everything was loud and drunken, and no one said anything to me about it, so I never gave it a second thought until a few years later.

Jeff Rosenstock of Bomb the Music Industry! agreed to produce an album my band was working on. One day, we were all hanging out, and Jeff brought up that instance to me.

"You know, I almost considered not working with you guys because of that."

I was beyond mortified. Someone that I respected so deeply thought that I was some trashy bigot, going around spewing hate speech, and believed this so much that he was nervous to be associated with me, all because of my cavalier use of hurtful words. I'm grateful that he gave me a second chance, but even today, the thought of this embarrassment makes me cringe.

But it's forced me go back and reflect on the other times I shouted garbage and didn't give it a second thought. There are days when I freeze up, my brain unable to function because of a memory of something stupid that I did or said. Laughing about Sasha Baron Cohen's Bruno soliciting Ron Paul for sex in front gay musicians I was playing a show with or referring to a punk band as a "girl band" because it was comprised of women. How I embarrassed myself and my friends with my carelessness, and how I hurt those around me. Cutting those words out of my vocabulary and distancing myself from that "humor" was a good first step, but I cannot undo those transgressions, so the ignorance of my younger days still plagues me.

I've been trying to make up for it by supporting friends who come up against this bigotry, sexism or assault. It is staggering to hear how often men cat call, molest, attempt to solicit, or shout hateful words at  people I know and love. It makes my blood boil. And the men (because it's always men) who do this seem to think that it's acceptable, that it's just part of a person's existence to put up with this gutter talk.

The other night, I was walking home late after hanging out with friends. A young woman was walking some 20 yards ahead of me. As she made her way home, I saw 4 separate groups--groups mind you--of young men leer and mutter disgusting things at her. Several times, one man drove by her in a car, told her he was going to take her home, speed ahead, pull over, wait for her to walk by, and say it again. It was terrible to watch, so when I caught up with her, I apologized that she had to deal with that and asked her how a person could put with such disgusting behavior.

"It happens all the time. But it's late, everyone's drunk, and I'm walking alone. I just try to get home as quickly as possible. But fuck them. They're trash."

I'd heard my girlfriend, sister, friends and strangers talk about being cat-called, but I'd never seen it with my own eyes. It is a seedy practice, and I don't understand how these men can walk away feeling like it's acceptable to make another human feel so unsafe. The men on this night were of no particular group. They weren't just BC Bros or shit punks. They weren't just blue collar workers, hipsters or regular guys walking home. No one subgroup can take the blame for being singularly responsible for these actions--it's men. It's our brothers, the guys we drink with, the men we're smoking next to outside of a bar. They're the ones telling our women friends to "smile"; who tell our gay friends that they're not homophobes, but they just believe in a traditional marriage; who laugh at slurs and rape jokes on crappy TV shows, making them ever-more profitable and renewable; who called my mother a "cunt" when she'd broken down in the middle of the road on a cold, rainy winter day instead of trying to help. They're the ones we've been shrugging off for years.

It's irresponsible for us to sit idly by and let them carry on like it's acceptable. So what if we don't change the world by yelling at some drunk bro for telling a woman that her tits look great or calling our friend a fag. The response of "Whatever, bro, I was just paying her a compliment" or "I don't care if he sucks dick, I can say what I want" (both things that I've been retorted with) shouldn't dissuade us. It's not about changing that person, but about making those around them understand that such behavior is unacceptable and those garbage people will and should be called out for their ignorance. It's about making our friends or the recipient of this hate speech feel safe and not alone. It's as much about what we say as what we don't say.

I'm pretty sure it's mostly people who read this know me well, so you know the kind of man I am, and the boy I was. These things have been percolating in me for a long time now, and I needed to spell them out somewhere. I know this is not usually what I write about in here, but as I've said before, it's my blog so I'll write about whatever I'd like.

There's been a lot written lately by some very talented journalists and bloggers about this subject, and it's inspired me to try to make amends for my transgressions in this matter, and to talk about how I've grown and learned. Mostly, though, I want to apologize to anyone I've offended or hurt. I was a shithead, but I'm trying to do better. I hope you can forgive me.

-Rory Thomas Nolan

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.

The Day the Cactus Came for Me

This country is a big place. While populations are booming and we're witnessing the loss of ever-vital wilderness, we're still lucky to live in a time where you don't have to venture far to get lost. Even here, in the densely-packed East, a couple hour's drive north, west or even south can bring you to seemingly untamed lands, big worlds where nary a city can be seen or the rumblings of traffic heard. Rejuvenating places where you can breathe and feel free.

While we do have such places here in the East, they are limited compared to the grandeur of the West, that harsh, rugged land that confounds our imagination and speaks to a world both old and barely understood. A land you can truly lose yourself in. Certainly the Rockies and other alpine areas have a lot to offer in this realm, but it is the deserts that so mystified me. I cannot understand them, as they do not speak to my sensibilities, yet they do speak to me. From my excursions in the Sonoran desert to my trip to Death Valley, I felt a growing adoration for the Great American Desert. Slowly becoming what some call a "desert rat."

But I'm hardly any T. E. Lawrence at this point. I am but a greenhorn, still in my genesis. Sure, I'd seen a rattlesnake and some big horn, and drank water from a prickly pear, but there was still many things I hadn't done. I hadn't touched the waters of the mighty Colorado. I hadn't ridden a horse through scrub brush. And, luckily, I hadn't yet been stuck by some unpleasant barb, cut by a cruel cactus, or scarred by a succulent. But nothing stays golden, and on this trip to Arizona, my luck would run out.

*     *     *     *

Scottsdale, AZ - May 2012

Fresh off my escapades in Death Valley, I was eager for more desert when Steph and my plane touched down in Sky Harbor Airport. We had a busy week planned that would bring us from the pine forests of Prescott to the blue waters of the Pacific. It was a grand week, full of delicious Mexican food, Matt's high school graduation festivities, Disneyland and mule deer. I'd driven from Phoenix to LA in the largest vehicle I've ever been in, all with only my driver's permit and some helpful backseat drivers (even though I grew up around cops, I learned that being near armed officials makes me rather nervous, and driving through the California/Arizona border crossing made my palms sweat so much I could barely hold the steering wheel). I'd also caught a desert horned lizard -- a week of many firsts for me. But the next first was the most unwelcome.

Our last day in Arizona arrived suddenly and I recalled a promise Steph had made, much to her dismay. Two months from then, Steph's family would take us to Glacier National Park in Montana. The issue was that Steph is not fond of hiking, and Glacier requires some ability of its visitors. So Steph vowed that we would do a little bit of hiking while in Arizona. Such a rugged landscape would surely prepare us for the trip to come.

After a short ATV trip through the country behind their property (we didn't take the ATVs out 'til the last day. Like ohmygod I know, right?), I told Mr. K about Steph and my pact. He threw us in the car and took us a few blocks from their house to the Lost Dog Trail in the McDowell Mountains. It is a charming path that winds its way up a small mountain, with wonderful views of Thompson Peak, the surrounding mountains and foothills that tumble into the vast valley beyond.

The hike was nice, with many lovely cacti and palo verde specimens, a few coyote dens and not many other hikers (my favorite). On our return hike, we noticed a family ahead of us. The father was so tanned from excessive desert hiking that he looked like an old boot. His wife and twenty-something year old son were escorting a young woman -- presumably the son's girlfriend, as she sported a paleness only accessible when you're from back East -- as she limped down the trail with one flip flop on, the other sandal in her hand. Mr. K buzzed by them, not wishing to bother us with the problems of strangers, but I was perplexed and walked by slowly to see what was happening. Which is when I saw the lobe of a jumping cholla cactus attached to the girl's forearm, with little ribbons of blood running down her arm.

"Oh shit!" I shouted. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, me?" She replied. The family stopped. "Yeah I'm alright."
"She just has a little cactus in her arm." The father replied, with what I assume was an Arizonan accent (do they have accents?).
"I can see that. Can we help?"
"Oh no," the father assured us."We'd need pliers..."
"Oh! I have a Leatherman!" I said, giving Steph a triumphant look. She had never seen the need for me to carry it around. Check-mate.
"Ah, don't worry about it." He said, replying that they would still need a first aid kit, and they had one in their car, a mile away.
"My dad has one with him." Steph said, at which point Mr. K turned around and produced the kit, a bit begrudgingly, as he wanted to get out of the heat.

With everything Tan Dad needed, he gripped the young woman's arm, took the pliers to the cholla lobe, and looked into the girl's eyes intently.

"Now, this might hurt a little."

And with that he yanked the cactus swiftly. The girl, seeming to barely notice the discomfort, let out a yip that was barely audible.

"Oo!" She whimpered, with a lightly surprised expression more fit for having a snap thrown at you than a cactus ripped off of you.

Brave girl, I thought. I don't think I could have been so tough.

The father began tending to the wounds, pulling out remaining prickers and applying rubbing alcohol, when I noticed the bedeviled lobe was still on the trail, near the victim's bare feet (one foot was shod, but if you're in sandals in the desert, you're essentially barefoot).

"Let me be helpful," I thought. "Let me move this cactus off the trail, out of harms way." Not wanting the cholla to get stuck in my shoe, I kicked dirt at it, hoping that would push it away. But no, dear reader, I was not so lucky. I looked to my shoe and saw that it was I who was now attached to the cactus. It is a play! A tragic comedy, I bemoaned to myself. Without much thinking, I gave my foot a swift kick, like one who has stepped in dog poop. The force was misapplied and the cholla was sent careening into my bare shin.

"Oh no," I thought. "How do I get this damn thing off of me before everyone notices."

As the thought finished in my brain, a voice of disappointment called my name.

"Rory!" Steph shouted.

And with that, all eyes were on me. And my guilty stare turned their gaze to my shame: My cactus-ridden leg.

Tan Dad looked at me with a slight air of annoyance (but how annoyed could he be? I was the one with the Leatherman after all), and set about removing the cursed cactus from my leg. I hadn't felt it go in, but I definitely felt it going out. He patched me up swiftly and I rushed Steph and Mr. K back down the trail, stung more by embarrassment than the cactus. We drove back home, where I had my balls busted -- with good reason -- for the rest of the night. As I packed for our return to Boston, feeling the bump left by the cactus in my shin (which is still there today, in case you were wondering), I thought perhaps now I was a little closer to being a true desert rat. But in reality, I was probably now much farther away.

The Last Best Place: Part I

Alberta Says Hello

Alberta, Canada - July 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calgary!

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

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

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

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

*     *     *     *

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

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

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

Lake Louise, right between those two big mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

Steph and me at Lake Louise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *     *

Downtown Banff

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

Oh, Canada...

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *     * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome Bienvenue

New Hampshire

"Live free or die."

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

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

Eastern entrance road to Glacier

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

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

"What road is this?" I asked

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

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

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

Finally, beer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope."

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