Montana

Aug 1,

 

We changed our plans in St. Regis and headed to Flathead Lake up 135.  Another evening arrival left us fruitlessly searching for an available campsite on the lake.  We settled for a little Mom and Pop park across the road with zero view to keep us until morning when we would head out early to find a site at our real destination, Glacier.  The Pop of the operation mentioned he had camped there many times, so I thought he would be a good person to allay Aidan’s fear of becoming a Grizzly snack should we choose to go hiking.  He wasn’t there however, when we went back to the office, and the Mom had to wax truthful and say, “I’m not going to lie to you now, people have been mauled.” My efforts to convince Aidan a hike would be well worth it were set back considerably.

 

We did make it to Sprague Creek campground in Glacier at about 10:30 the next day and were able to occupy a very nice little campsite just behind the trees from Lake McDonald. The park is really busy with visitors (the camp host said this is the busiest he’s ever seen it) so you have to try and time your arrival to get there as other campers are leaving. 

 

After a lot of persuasion, we talked Aidan into doing what is called the Garden Wall hike.  It’s a little less than twelve miles long.  We took a shuttle up to Logan Pass along Going to the Sun Road. This is the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen.  To fully comprehend the weight of the word magnificent, you have to make this journey.  We got off the shuttle at the top of the climb up to the pass and started the hike by trekking along a narrow path with a sheer drop-off and only lengths of garden hoses attached to the rock to grab. Ursula conquered her acrophobia and made it past this first part of the trail knowing it only lasted for a couple tenths of a mile. 

 

We passed a little family of mountain goats sitting on a ledge at arms-length above us and stopped shortly thereafter to have our sandwiches.  Wildflowers were everywhere and snow-melt cascading streams crossed the path again and again.  They extended miles up-hill to our right and miles down-hill to our left, weaving in and out of view in folds of the rocky mountain slope and running under tunnels of snow.  About five miles into the hike on a high mountain pass, we stood in a patch of snow about the size of a baseball diamond.  In our shorts and sandals, we threw snowballs at each other and let the cold stuff sting us between the toes.  Just six months earlier, this same soft and fluffy white powder, came crashing down the creases in the mountain in volumes the size of entire Virginia hills to comb the trees over and wipe out the roads below.   But the park is so big, these swaths of destruction aren’t really that disturbing. 

 

A Chalet for hikers to reserve sits two-thirds along the trail’s length.  About two miles before this place, we came across a Ranger and asked if she thought we were on track to make it to the end of the trail to catch the last shuttle.  She replied, “Not likely, but you can always hitch-hike.” We picked up the pace even though we were tired. 

 

The last four miles are in an area that was damaged by a vast forest fire six years ago.  The underbrush is well-established and all the thousands and thousands of trees are an endless sea of silver poles sticking out of waist-high shrubbery.  Whereas the first leg of the hike had been full of people (groups of two or four about every two tenths of a mile) we saw NO ONE on the last leg.  The reason, we ascertained, is because the recovering forest is prime bear country.  We walked fast, sang songs, and generally tried to get the heck out of there.  With frazzled nerves and aching feet, we made it to the pick up point with about twenty minutes to spare.  “Not likely” turned into “Wanna bet?”

 

The next morning we spent beside the lake and after noon, headed to Missoula.  We had worked up an appetite the day before and wanted to try the fare at a restaurant recommended by Markus, The Mustard Seed.  Vickie the GPS had the address in her memory; unfortunately, it happened to be a house on Russel, so we had to try our luck somewhere else.  Today is Sunday.  We’ll go into Missoula this afternoon and then strike out for Bozeman.