Dawn seemed stuck for hours that morning, trailing me west till the sun finally shoved through just south of Helena, the capital with its German-replica cathedral. Aside from random pick-ups and a herd of mule deer near Townsend, signs of life grew rare. On the road to Glacier National Park, I took them where I could.
Beyond Helena, Interstate 15 climbed through some mountain passes before U.S. 287 broke off again, teasing with peeks at the distant Rockies before returning to endless farmed plains. Horses and cattle were often the only life for miles. Tiny cities broke up the breadbasket - with their well-kept, eclectic housing, towns like August and Choteau were a welcome respite. But they spoke volumes about the life here - I didn't spy a single person under 60. Only the farming life can prevent the flight of youth, apparently.
Adjacent to Glacier lies the Blackfeet Indian reservation and aside from one giant construction delay and a strong showing from Bureau of Indian Affairs police, it was largely uneventful. As I crossed the plains, the desire to reach the park had gained a fever pitch. The mountains had been to my left for hours, yet the road had grown no closer. Earlier, the sun's glimmer on the upper rock faces convinced me I saw snow-capped peaks, but later those heights were revealed as highly reflective weathered stone.
If I hadn't driven across Kansas twice, it might have been the loneliest drive I've taken. The itch created by this mountain majesty made it worse.
Finally the reservation ran into national park territory, or so I thought. By heading to East Glacier, I turned onto mountainous journey I didn't need to take.
Meet on the Ledge
No sign in East Glacier warned that the road would soon rise thousands of feet, turn mostly to gravel and follow a 25 mph speed limit. While northbound traffic earned the inside track until the very end, the narrow road was a concern. Two Medicine Lake and the park's outer peaks sprouted across the valley, but my mind had to stick with the road or what little of it there was. Another car more or less attached to the rear of my rental, adding to the road stress.
Nine miles later it descended and a slightly superior drive replaced it for the path to Saint Mary, the park's east gate.
From the start, the vistas of Saint Mary Lake were unforgettable. I stopped for little hikes at Rising Sun and the nature trail at Sun Point because time wasn't on my side. For the larger journeys to the Granite Park Chalet or the Grinnell Glacier, take had already run too short. In underestimated the trip north, I resigned myself to Going-to-the-Sun Road and the trails close to it. The views were beautiful enough, and knowing I missed a huge chunk of the longer trails and backcountry is the perfect catalyst for another trip to Glacier.
Like most, I stopped for the Jackson Glacier overlook, gazing at the mountaintop ice sheet far in the distance. Glaciers are an endangered species with few ways to halt their shrinking. The giants which carved up this stretch of the Rockies are long gone, and their descendants don't have much life left. Upon the heights of the Hidden Lake trail, at least one other glacier became visible, but don't ask me to name it. After a time, discerning between ice sheets and glaciers became more difficult.
Going to the Sun, Going to the Goats
Aside from gliding ospreys and hawks, the wildlife rarely strayed into public areas for the first few miles. It was all glacial deposits, deep blue lakes and mountains scraped down to horns ... not that there is anything wrong with that. But I spent $40 on beer spray and wanted at least a vague feeling that I might need it. But the Glacier Bear Jamboree was not in the offing.
Still, I got a better view and newfound respect for one of the parks other, unflappable denizens. As I ascended the Hidden Lake Trail and my breath grew shorter and shorter, someone pointed out a small cluster of mountain goats snacking on vegetation wedged among the lateral moraine above the path.
As the ridge broke up to reveal Hidden Lake, I kept with the trail to the left, noticing a pair of rough-hewn white rocks off to the side. Then one of the rocks moved.
The path had finally com to the mountain goats, this time a grazing mother goat and her kid, who sat in the shade of a small pine. With the Yellowstone bison and elk, I knew not to get close, but the goats flashed a knowing indifference that said they would go on eating so long as I stayed on the path. Standing just a few feet away earned them my quick respect.
The little guy got frightened by the attention momentarily, letting out the saddest "baa" ever heard, but he got over it rapidly. Stretching his back limbs, he stepped closer to his mother; while too shaken to graze with her, his comfortable level definitely rose.
That little encounter told me I had gawked long enough. The intriguing, introspective goats were among the smaller creatures I saw wild for the first time, but they stuck with me more than any others. Bison at 15 feet away were something else, but I appreciate these two much more. These littler grazers survived among the peaks and the predators, yet held onto a calm demeanor despite those harsh surroundings.
With thoughts of goats in my head, I almost sprinted back from Hidden Lake, by lungs suddenly comfortable in the alpine climate.
Kalispell Never Failed
From the divide, the time for descent arrived. Thanks to construction, the move from 7,000 feet above sea level to 3,000 was slow, with way too much time to cast eyes on the steep valley below. Construction meant no stops at the Weeping Wall, a rock sheet with water constantly cascading down it. Crews reinforced the switchback walls and tunnels, beginning the repaving that will cut the park in two later in September.
Job I will never covet: Steamroller driver working backward up the outer edge of the switchbacks down from the Continental Divide.
As the sun plummeted, my time in the park grew short. The last eight or so miles traced the south bank of Lake McDonald, West Glacier's answer to Saint Mary Lake in the east. Standing at a few rushing waterfalls and just watching the reflected mountains dance silently on its surface was the perfect tonic to quench a few hours up above.
In a strange way, the park grew more beautiful that those lower altitudes. Looking up at the peaks and horns from the impossibly clear lakes gave them an august character that climbing their sides could never produce, because I would be too busy catching my breath to enjoy the views.
I grabbed a few Beltian White beers at the General Store close to the exit, bought the second shirt for my brother (more in a later post) and sped onward to Kalispell, gateway to Glacier. The regal nature of mountains and glacial rivers did not diminish outside of the park, partly because I knew where the Flathead River would lead.
While an hour later I found my hotel, a pleasant if spartan old lodge south of the central city, could not digest all seen in the previous hours. I hunted down some Alaskan White at a grocery (the Beltian Whites last all of 45 minutes) and grabbed chicken sandwiches at a local fast-food placed, Frugals, then tried to get my arms around all I'd seen in Glacier.
I'm still trying, in case you wondered.
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