Arriving by late afternoon, I drive the Sun Road as far as allowed, stop at the barricade, and walk a couple of miles along the road to see what there is to see. Bicycles are allowed as well for the nine miles until road conditions stop even those tires dead in their tracks.
"Last year, the Road opened completely on July 17," I am told by one of the Park rangers. "They're clearing out five feet of snow right now. Then we've had some rain that caused gravel slides and avalanches. They have to go back and clear again what they have already cleared."
I can imagine that it could snow again by late summer/early autumn, so the road must be open for only a couple of months, most likely with a parade of vehicles. I'll deal.
I stroll the road, mostly flat, with bear spray in hand, and an out loud song on my tongue. Cyclists wheel by in both directions, passing not only me, but other random walkers as well. Rain is due for tomorrow morning, so I walk tonight on a day whose length is elongated into the ten o'clock hour. But, I won't be walking into the dark hours since a free campsite is still needed.
According to my handy online resource, I find my way to the North Fork Road out of Columbia Falls, and look for National Forest turn outs and forest roads. I drive a few miles up one road, get excited about the possibility of an overlook view of the Park, but find only one viable site with people already tenting there. Foiled. I drive back down and continue along the North Fork Road which parallels the North Fork of the Flathead River. And alas, I pull off onto a rutted dirt path towards the river and there it is: a fire ring with no one there. The river runs below the site, and I turn my truck so the bed is facing the river. Mosquitoes seem to be few, but after the drive over the border, my awake time is fleeting. I take care of what is needed pre-sleep and nest myself in for the night. But the light comes up too early in this part of the world, and somewhere around 5 a.m. a vehicle drives into the pull off area and wakes me up. Hmmm. I stay put and listen.
I've never been bothered, and this may or may not be an issue. The rutted road continues past my site and follows the river to the left, and the vehicle drives in that direction. I wait and listen, but no longer hear a motor. Either the vehicle has stopped, for whatever reason, or the ruts lead the ruts back to the main dirt road heading from Columbia Falls up to Lodgepole. I wait and listen more, then drift back to sleep. Perhaps someone who has driven through the night has finally found a place to set up free camp. Or maybe anglers getting an early start on the river, attaching lovingly home made flies to their rods. Regardless, all is well, and with the threat of rain lingering in low cloudcover, I get my day up and running and head back to the Park Visitor Center.
Sing a Song to the Hump
The young Park ranger lays out a black bear pelt and a grizzly pelt on a table set up on the Visitor Center patio out front. She's planning on giving a twenty minute talk on "Wildlife Encounters in the Park". Because rain is now dripping off the eaves of the patio, I sit undercover and wait for the talk to begin.
About 300 grizzlies and 650 black bears reside within the Park boundaries, and have different behavioral attributes. She explains the physical differences to look for. Both bear types can be any color within the spectrum—black bears can be golden, brown, tan, cinnamon, or black. But, so can grizzlies. One must look for other features. Grizzlies have a hump on their back, short ears and a scooped snout. Black bears don't have the hump, have taller ears, and a longer snout. The claw nails are different as well, one for digging in the dirt, the other for climbing trees. Although, I can't imagine being up close and personal enough to compare claw nails.
"If an encounter happens," she tells us, "it's important to know which bear it is. Neither of them see well, so if they get spooked, they will defend their space bubble in different ways. We all have that, so do they."
For black bears, look big and make a lot of noise. Show them that you are the alpha personality. For grizzlies, look small and harmless and you are not a threat. This is why people are told to leave their packs on their backs and play dead. Threat gone!
"But," she continues, "the best defense is not to surprise them." Let them know you are in the area before they see you, and they will move on. They don't want the encounter either."
Make noise. Wear bells. Carry music playing. Sing out loud. Talk if in a group. Blow a whistle or a horn. And if an encounter happens that turns scary, have the darn bear spray and know how to use it.
Okay, I think back to a cartoon I saw years ago: two bears in the forest are talking. One says to the other, "I love the bells hikers are wearing. You can hear them coming, and that pepper spray adds a nice spice to the meal!"
"With both hands, hold the can, flip back the safety catch, aim the spray at the feet of the bear and spray in a zig zag motion for one to two seconds. The pepper spray is dense and will rise up and create a wall. Remember they can't see well, and now they can't smell you. Back away slowly and hide. The can has about seven seconds of pepper in it. You want to be able to use it again if need be a second time. But put the catch back on so you don't spray yourself by mistake."
Later, I place my can of spray in both hands, and practice flipping off the catch. If need be, I could definitely do this. Both hands are needed because anyone, even Rangers, would be shaking under the circumstances. I mentally make a list of all the song lyrics I know.
Rain falls. I peruse possible day hikes here on the west side, but my heart wants the east side, so I drive south, then east, then north around the Park. Without the Sun Road open, this is my only option, and I find my way to another free camping spot up along the dirt Skyland Road in the Flathead National Forest that abuts the Park lands before the paved road bisects Reservation Lands. The hills frame a view of snow crusted peaks in the misty distance, and a freight train rumbles through the valley below. Unfortunately, trains rumble on a regular basis through the night, rumble through my interrupted sleep, rumble through my patience level, even while I wear earplugs. Okay, it's not so much the rumble, but the horn blasts that cut through my paradise camp spot and leave shreds of peace laying all over the ground. Even paradise has it's compromises. Perhaps nothing really is free.
Only five vehicles randomly parked dot the trailhead and picnic area lot. An early start insures less crowding on the popular Grinnell Glacier Trail starting near the end of Many Glacier Road heading west from Babb. My less-than-paradise train disturbed sleep had become an alarm I couldn't ignore. Before starting the hike, I have my usual granola breakfast, with added trail mix, and floating in almond milk. Sustenance for all that singing to be. I gather my day pack, ready to go, hang my whistle around my neck for easy access, and carry the can of pepper spray. I'm most concerned with forested landscape since panoramic vision is limited. I walk. I sing the two songs I have memorized: Seven Golden Daffodils and Sounds of Silence. I alternate them. I try them in different keys. Every now and then, I hoot. Once past the length of Lake Josephine, the trees become fewer, the trail ascends and opens up, and I can put the can of spray into the outside mesh pocket on my daypack.
2. The two Australian men climb back over the sign hanging by chains between two trees: "Danger...danger....danger.... be prepared for avalanches, water under the snow, have a compass and map and know how to use them. " "How far did you get?" I ask in their direction. "About half way. See that small figure out there in the middle of the snow?" I look and nod. "He was about thirty feet higher than that. He just slid down to where he is. That was enough for us." The man with his young daughter, who had passed me along the trail once the landscape had opened up to a view of the lake and the glacier, sit uphill on a rock outcropping having sandwiches for lunch. | The man with the camera equipment, who also had passed me awhile back, starts to fold down his tripod. People think I'm really fast on the trail, but uphill is a slow slog. I have good knees, so going downhill, I make up the time. "Do you think he's stuck there?" the camera man asks the young men. "No. I think, now, he's trying to get some decent photos of his mate up on the rocks above him," one of them responds. |
In all fairness, I am carrying crampons, sun goggles, and hiking poles. No topo map though, so I have no idea how the trail goes on from here. Not a good day to get hurt or die. The actual glacier is still about a mile away, even though we feel like we can reach out and touch it. All of us tempted. We can see the footprints of the two men still out there on the snow, but nothing farther than them.
I linger amidst fierce wildlife, then say goodbye to the glacier still tucked mostly up behind the looming hill above the tiny dark figure set against the expanse of white snow. As I take one last look, I can just see him digging a flat spot with his foot. I doubt he wants to slide another thirty feet.
The daughter, with smaller legs and therefore downhill stride, stops to play in the patches of snow still lingering in shady spots along the trail. I catch up quickly, but there is no place to pass just yet. So I make conversation.
I ask her, as she is creating the perfect snowball, if they are planning a snowball fight.
"We've already done that," she tells me. "I'm going to carry it and see how long it takes to melt."
Sounds cold to me, but to each their own.
"You are really lucky to have a dad to take you hiking," I tell her. "I can't imagine either of my parents taking me hiking like this when I was young."
"We do this every year," she beams at me.
"Each year, we hit a different National Park," the dad says. "It's something we can do just the two of us. Normally we camp, but because of the bears, this time we rented a cabin for the week."
His daughter turns to make a bear grimace and show me the snowball, ever so slowly diminishing.
"Wait a minute," I say. "I thought you were carrying it your hand. I see you have it on a mitten instead. I was getting impressed with how much cold and wet your hand could take."
She giggles and adjusts the ball on the mitten back to the middle of her palm. The trail widens and I say goodbye as I pass them by. The parade of day hikers has started, and I pass a handful of couples and groups, including a whole Boy Scout troop of maybe thirty scouts accompanied by about five adult male leaders. I stand to the side to let them pass, since they are headed uphill and according to my memory, they have the right of way. The line of hikers dwindles the farther down I go, and once I enter the forest again, I take the bear spray out of my pack to carry in hand, and start the two - tune repertoire of lyrics once again.
Back at the lot, cars have filled every slot, have parked along the edge of the picnic area, and now bleed out onto the road. To make life easier because of the Reservation Lands nuzzling the National Park, I decide to buy a cheap Park campsite for the night, so I can zip back across the border into Canada in the morning.
4.
There were the Salish, the Kootenai, Pend d'Oreille. There were the Blackfeet. The French Canadian and British fur trappers. Lewis and Clark nearby. Pacific Railroad surveyors. Then settlers in the Flathead Valley and lands west of Marias Pass seduced by the area's fishing and hunting possibilities, timber resources, and possibly mining.
In 1885, writer and ethnographer George Bird Grinnell began yearly visits to the St. Mary's section of what is now the National Park, where he established contact with the Blackfeet tribe, and explored the passes and drainages. Grinnell's writing introduced America to the idea of a new National Park.
Once the railroad came through, not only freight, but passengers could find their way into Montana and north into the recreational opportunities of Lake MacDonald. And once recreation, those residing in the area could make money catering to tourists. Rental cabins. Transportation. Guide services. Grinnell urged the Blackfeet to sell off some of their lands to the government for the sake of the Park so that the white tourists and new settlers wouldn't have need to try to exploit their resources. 1.5 million acres for $1.5 million in 1897, signed into a Forest Preserve by Grover Cleveland. Once government managed, park rangers oversaw law enforcement against squatters, timber thieves and game violators, fire-fighting, surveying, and trail management.
Some online reviews were not favorable, but many were, so I chance a delectable delicacy and find a variety of huckleberry offerings. I opt for the lemon/huckleberry bread pudding. The huckleberry sauce slathered over the bread was amazingly yummy. I could have done without the whipped cream and maraschino cherry though. Sometimes "yummy" is enough, the added pizazz is not needed.
Open June through September.
twosistersofmontana.com
Meadowlands pop with sping pizazz of their own: along the roads of Montana and Canada
Peace, Baby!
Two countries. Two Canadian provinces. One US state. One shared border. It was 1932 when two hands reached across Waterton Lake on the cusp of Alberta and British Columbia over to the United States. This handshake combined forever more (hopefully) Canada's Waterton Lakes National Park (est. 1895) and Glacier National Park (est. 1910) in Montana. This shake showed the world what collaboration can do: Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park. In the 1970's, the joined Parks became Biosphere Reserves and in 1995 became a World Heritage Site. Come on World....follow suit....stop the wars, shake hands, make Peace Parks!
I still have to hand over my passport to the border guard, and if I were to hike a trail that steps over the border, I would need to have the appropriate paperwork on me. But, I'm planning on a day hike, maybe two depending on weather. With the exchange rate right now, I drive into Waterton Lakes National Park and turn right onto the Red Rock Road and then left into one of the campgrounds. Canadian $21 which makes it about $16 US. I am assigned Site #2 in the L loop since I don't plan on a campfire. An additional $8 CA would be added for a fire, and I would be assigned a site in a fire loop. Obviously a bit pre-season still, my campground loop of about eight sites is empty except for me. Peace and quiet this evening for sure. With my night taken care of, I'm off for a hike out to Goat Lake in the Red Rock Canyon section of the Park.
The parking lot at the end of the road and where the trails begin is full and people with cameras are milling about. The small wooden bridge spans the lower section of red rocks framing the rush of blue as it continues to eat away at the red. I pass over the span and find the trail sign pointing me towards Goat Lake. I'm packin' now as usual: bear spray and a few good songs. The first few miles are flat, and bicycles are allowed on this initial path. I stroll in stride to sing-song melodies. No bears in sight.
As the elevation increases, the forested vegetation decreases and the need for crooning also decreases. Now the hikers can see ahead. I do whoop once in awhile if I can't see around a corner.
Once back in uphill slog, I eventually follow footsteps of those who have come this way already today. Snow covers some of the trail and spreads more evenly over the terrain before coating the edge of Goat Lake. Unmelted ice slabs float along the surface shaded by the tall rock cliffs and shadowing pines. A German couple and ten month old son now picnic along the lake. I had passed them, then they me, on the way up. I follow holes in the snow now covering the ground completely, and place my boot in one at a time as it curls around the lake. The holes stop. I turn around. I am not disappointed with the lake or the views along the trail. No need to posthole my way any farther up. Back to Red Rock Canyon, and because light is abundant until ten o'clock, I will have time to check out Waterton Lake Village. |
Prince of Wales Hotel
Waterton Lakes /Alberta
Stormy Skies...Could be a Song in my Repertoire
Clouds gather overhead this morning, and rain is imminent. It will be a good day to drive back over the border, then south again on the road skimming the lower section of Glacier National Park. I know the library in Columbia Falls is open this afternoon, and now that I know camping possibilities along the North Fork Road heading north out of town, an easy and free campsite is at hand. Let the skies open up in deluge!
Home of the Brave and Free
Snow ices peaks in every direction as the open plain pushes the mountains out of its way. Ranches with "For Sale" signs puff out their chests along Montana thoroughfares Rt. 83, then Rt 200. Near Ovando, I turn north again, drive about ten miles along a forest road into the Lolo National Forest and the Big Nelson Campground/Boat Launch at Cooper's Lake. About five tiny camp sites with tables and fire rings are tucked around the launch area of the lake. Easy walk-in's from the parking area. Maybe a small tent can fit in each site. No need since I just need a flat piece of gravel or dirt to keep my truck level while I sleep. Private property surrounds the rest of the lake with small cabins and boat docks. Voices waft across the water from somewhere on the far side. Here, I have the place to myself. I play some Ukulele to a couple of ducks, sing the usual songs, and secure myself in the back of my truck—barricaded against advantageous mosquitoes.
Cowboy Capital
Once back to Rt 200, I pass by Ovando and head south on Rt 141 that connects me to Highway 12 into Helena, Montana's Cowboy Capital. Intersection of bandoneon beats collide with my body's desire to move. Tango Helena's calendar placed a practica and milonga along my trajectory south into Wyoming. Internet. Library. City life social party. I had, even in the cool of the morning, without anyone to see me at my private lake site, washed my hair and body, then dressed and turned the heat up full blast as I drove.
Helena is larger than Montpelier, my Vermont capital, but still small in comparison to other capital cities. I easily find internet and library and count out the location of tonight's Tango event, then the Walmart for my less than desired overnight camping spot. Nothing else was close enough to town. Nothing with a lovely view and privacy. I've been really lucky—no Walmarts since last summer. I find my earplugs for later, and make sure all my curtains are up and ready.
Helena became the state's capital in 1875, moved from the original capital of Virginia City near Bannack, once that site of the first gold strike dried up. And poor Virginia City, gold gone, was fated into ghosts and dust. The Bannack miners moved their hopes and dreams and pockets to Last Chance Gulch once word of gold was found by the four "Georgians".
That night, on July 14th, 1864, the men had decided to take one last chance in mining the nearby creek. As luck and fate would have it, the men found gold that evening. They named the stream they found the gold in, appropriately enough, Last Chance Gulch.
A boomtown blowout brought businesses and residents into town, and after throwing around town names like Crabtown, Pumpkinville, and Squashtown, the miners chose to honor Saint Helena, eventually shortened to just Helena. The capital's future was secured in 1883 when the Northern Pacific railroad arrived in Helena, further fueling the cities growth and preventing the collapse of the town when the gold ran out in Last Chance Gulch.
I arrive at the Tango Helena dance studio on Placer Ave downtown, set between Park Ave and Last Chance Gulch St. About ten area dancers find their way to the Thursday Practica and are thrilled that I found them online.
"It's working," E., one of the evening's hosts, remarks. "We had someone else stop in last month because she saw our calendar." We dance and chat for the two hour session, and I promise to come back tomorrow for the Milonga. E. gives me directions to her house for the pot luck prior to the Milonga. I assure her that I have no other schedule and will definitely be there. Others give me ideas of how to spend my Friday in the sunshine.
Walmart woes wear heavy on me. Placed annoyingly in the crotch of two bisecting highways, the parking lot also parallels the train tracks for freight trains going through town. More rumble rants in the night from both trains and semi's. Even with earplugs, the night feels like a decade.
Once the early light is apparent, I just get up. Definitely need hot chocolate and internet to figure out the list of suggestions given the night before. They will ask what I have done today.
Right from the city park in town: a hike up Mt. Helena.
Reeders Alley
Holter Museum:
Based on a Holter Museum exhibit of paintings based on Helena historical architecture found on dated postcards, I drive around to find as many as make sense downtown.
I learn about Native culture, Lewis and Clark, guns, pioneering, and trains. I peruse the huge exhibit of paintings, sculptures, and sketches by: |
Cowboy Artist
1864 – 1926
"Kid" Russell, an artist of the "Old American West", created more than 2,000 paintings of cowboys, Indians, and landscapes. In addition to paintings and bronze sculptures. Russell was also a storyteller and author.
The Embrace
Once at the pot luck, mostly all from the Practica attending, I recount my day to those who ask. I also ask E., since her neighborhood hosts many houses without driveways, if she thinks it would be an issue for me to leave my truck parked on the street and sleep in it. No damn way I'm going back to Walmart, free or not. Serendipity leans its head and E. offers me a spare room in her house, and a shower in the morning if I'd like. I help clean up after the pot luck, and we head over to the studio to set up for the evening. I'm happy to help. I have a bed to sleep in tonight, two kitty's to rub a bit, and quiet! Road life is good.