There were two big hikes on my list for Glacier National Park. And by “big,” I mean that they required a gentle day and plenty of hydration & fueling on the front end…and then a full day dedicated to the adventure. Given all of that and the rainy days that landed just as I arrived in the park, I figured that I would only be able to do one of them. I prioritized the trail that came more highly recommended by people who know things.
I arrived at the trail head very early in the morning and actually made my coffee on-site. Once I had the coffee and finished packing up my back, I headed to the start of the trail…and quickly found myself facing a barrier: “Trail closed due to bear activity.”
Well…I guess we pivot.
I wasn’t too upset by the pivot. The first chunk of the hike took me to the Grinnell Glacier. Many people actually hike up to the glacier, back down…and call it a day.
And that would make for a marvelous day! But why stop by going to see just the glacier? A connecting trail leads down to the lake that’s fed by the glacier.
Getting up close and personal with that lake involved pulling my socks and shoes off to traipse across a little stream, also fed by the glacier melt. The toes got very chilly, so I sat by the lake and enjoyed some sunshine while they warmed back up.
And here’s the thing about a hike like this…as you take a path that leads you to the start of something and then further along the journey, you begin to appreciate how connected the world can be.
So now, as I settle into a cozy little apartment in eastern Washington, I think back on the past three weeks of wandering and traveling and exploring. All of these moments feel disconnected from real life…but the glacier and all of the other elements that are connected remind me that everything comes together.
You know it’s going to be a good night when you’re 28 miles away from your campsite and the host calls and says “Uhhhhh….soo…we just got an inch of rain and uhh…you’re in a tent? I don’t know if you’ll want to do that.”
You assure him that your Crosstrek is very sleepable – you’ve done it before. Your concern is whether or not the car will be washed away or struck by lightning. No, that’s not the concern. It’s that a tent would get soggy just in the process of being set up…if you even could manage that. So you keep driving towards the beach (yes, a beach).
He meets you at the site and shows you what’s what. He says you can come up to the house and use the microwave, oven, air fryer…he seems slightly concerned for your well-being.
You assure him, this time, that you will be perfectly fine and that this is not your first rodeo. You tell him what happened in Kansas. You almost tell him about the time that you strung a hammock underneath a picnic shelter in North Carolina.
He is amused. But now concerned that you will get bored.
You assure him, now, that you have books and other methods of keeping yourself occupied while curled up in the front seat of your trusty car (aka Nessie).
He decides that you’ll be all right and heads back to the house…with a final request that you not be shy if you need anything.
You walk around the area and listen to mooing cows on the other side of the lake. You adjust your car to have the best view of the shoreline. As you head up to get water, you exchange semi-sarcastic greetings with one of the van-dwellers on the beach with you, “I’m doing great!”
They’re leaving a day early…6 am tomorrow. He says this like you should be warned about their pre-dawn activities.
You plan to leave around the same time to get to a trailhead. (Spoiler: You left at 6:40 and they were just rolling out of their van) It might be raining, but you rarely let that stop you from hiking. Especially when your in a new place for a limited time. And you just so happened to stop at a used gear store on your way up and found a very much not needed soft shell jacket. Well, you didn’t need it at the time. But now you’re glad to have the extra layer easily accessible.
Your rain boots on the other hand…are they buried somewhere in the car? Or are they in Arkansas?
I am constantly stilled by the display of wildflowers and butterflies.
There’s something special about these delicate bits of color existing in contrast to the backdrop of grey and brown…grit and roughness.
But it’s so easy to coast past them. If you have a destination in mind or a pace planned for the day, it’s easy to stick to your path without looking left or right. You can plow through the butterflies dancing ahead and the wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
If you’re so focused on moving ahead, it’s easy to miss where you are in the moment. Over the past two weeks – hopping from trail to trail and park to park, I’ve worked so hard at staying in the moment. It’s tempting to rush ahead and plan the next hike or think about what’s for dinner…or wonder if someone texted you back or how many unread work emails you have.
I’m coming to the end of this season, though. Next week, I’ll land in a spot and stay there for more than just a moment. So please excuse me while I disappear for 4 more days to dance with the butterflies and notice the wildflowers.
“The show” was scheduled for 10:25 am. I had arrived with plenty of time to find a bathroom, get the lay of the land, and enjoy a bit more coffee. The benches were full and people had started claiming spots sitting and standing around the wooden boardwalk. I took up the space left between two larger groups and made myself comfy. I sipped some more coffee and made sure that I was happy with the view. I thought about moving for a better photo op. By then, though, more people had gathered and I didn’t have high hopes for anything better. As we waited, I could hear the rustling of kiddos behind me and shifted a little closer to one of the groups.
As it approached 10:25, there were periodic teases of what was to come. After the collective gasps, you could hear murmurs of “Maybe it would start early.”
10:25 came and went and we were still just waiting. There were grumbles of frustration…impatience. But we all stayed.
At 10:28, an eternity after the schedule time, Old Faithful began the show. There were gasps and oohs and ahhhs…cameras snapped and children watched with awe. And then it slowly came to a sputtering stop.
People began to disperse. And there was a sense of…disappointment? Their shoulders and occasionally their mouths, said, “That’s all?”
It reminded me of coming to the summit of a grueling hike to be surrounded by fog. People would glance around, sigh in resignation, then turn and leave.
We have a tendency to treat nature like a tool for instant gratification. We approach nature with expectations, the same way we approach a coworker in a conversation about KPIs. And we get irritated when nature fails to perform on command. The audacity!
Instead…I choose to see whatever nature has to offer in any given moment as an opportunity to behold something wonderful. What an honor it is to sit and watch the display that is before me in any given moment.
It was not my favorite trail. For two miles, I had worked my way in and out of forest cover, spotting one steamy sulfur flat…but otherwise, questioning my decision. I could have made it so much easy on myself by driving to the trailhead with direct access to Bunsen Peak. But no. I wanted more mileage and more elevation, so I started four miles away.
Peek at Bunsen Peak in the distance! (What was I thinking?)
And while I wasn’t too happy with that decision, I had already started…so I might as well keep going. Semi-lost in my own head, but also paying attention to the sounds around me. Birds calling to one another…chipmunks yelling at their friends…the crunch of the trail underfoot..and then there was a different sound.
Something was crashing through the woods up ahead. It sounded like it was falling from the ridge of rocks lining the trail and it.just.kept.going. Was it a boulder? Was it a bear? The sound came to an end, but I could see the trees shaking in the path “the sound” had taken.
Note the terrified chipmunk in the middle of the photo and the rocky cliffs in the distance (Hoodoos)
What. Was. That???
I stood where I was and waited. I took a few steps back and tried to get a better angle at the gully where the sound had stopped. Too many trees. I took a few steps forward. And there – movement! Coming up from the gully was an elk. Harmless.
But…
Had he haphazardly and graceless made his way down the mountain for no other reason that to reach this spot where he now stood relaxed and calm? Or…was something chasing him?
I continued forward at a slower pace, making more noise, swiveling my head back and forth…watching for any movement that didn’t align with the light breeze. The wooded trail soon opened up in to a rocky trail…large boulders surrounded the trail, creating the perfect hiding places for bears. I knew that the best bet to keep bears away was to make noise. So, I alternated between having elementary conversations with myself in French and adapting the Addam’s Family song to fit the situation.
Eventually, my untrafficked trail met up with the more trafficked trail directly to the peak that was my final destination. When I finally reached the peak, I sat there enjoying a protein pop tart (it’s a thing) and questioning my life decisions.
It took a substantial amount of work to talk myself into heading back to my starting place, knowing that I would have to cross through Grizzly Alley for a second time. The return trip created ample opportunity for me to compose a second verse to my “Grizzly Family” song. If you’re ever in need of a song to sing along a potential Grizzly-filled trail, let me know. Otherwise…no, you can’t hear it.
Once upon a time, a group of French Canadian explorers were making their way across what is now known as “The West.” They saw snowy peaks of mountains reaching up out of the vast wilderness ahead of them and, perhaps missing the comforts of home, they named the mountains “Les Trois Tetons.” Or, The Three Breasts. There were other names over the years including, “Teewinot” as used by the local Shoshone popultation. But somehow, we remain with the memory of some scandalous French-Canadian fur trappers. (At least that’s how I’m going to tell it because it’s more entertaining.)’
Now you might be wondering, “Mary Elizabeth…surely you didn’t travel across the country just because there’s some borderline salacious story about how these mountains got their name.”
Look at these trails…do you really think I went because the name is funny in French?
No. I went because miles of trail stretched out before me, leading to pockets of nature unlike any I had ever experienced. I hiked to three different lakes that rested at more than 9000’ of elevation. Along the way, I encountered marmots, moose, elk, and pikas (no bears – thank goodness).
Every time I turned a corner, I would let out a little gasp of awe. The Grand Tetons are truly a unique ecosystem. But that’s what I find with each new bit of nature that I explore. If you have hiked one trail…then you have hiked one trail. There are many, many more to explore.
I came to the end of the vast openness of the plains early the next morning, after making my coffee while watching the sun rise over the Green River (not in Vermont).
Driving north on 189, I could see shapes emerge in the distance. But they seemed impossibly far away. Ever so slowly, the plains around me gave way to hills…and those hills became dotted with evergreens…and those evergreens grew thicker…and the forested hills grew into peaks. Those impossibly distant shapes were around me.
I was the person who stopped at every other pull out to savor the changes in the landscape. The road wove around a river, rising and falling between the peaks. I made my way through Jackson and back onto a wide open space…but this time, I could look east and west to find variations in the landscape. Out my driver’s side window, I could see the Tetons.
It seemed impossible that such tall, craggy peaks, each with their own personality, could just be here in such a wide, open space.
But here they were. And here I was…with time and space to explore.
As you drive from Kansas into eastern Colorado…and make your way north into Wyoming, you encounter a vastness. There is a wide openness that many people find freeing.
But I find it to be exposing?
It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, ungrounded. I need the safety of rocks and trees, forests and mountains, summits…valleys…gorges…anything but wide, open, flat plains.
But that’s where I found myself for hours and hours. I felt like I might just roll away. To the east, there were rain clouds…but I couldn’t tell you how far or how close they were. And to the west, the sun was slowly falling through the clouds. The pink rays were reaching through, striking the ground, spreading out, taking up space.
There was beauty in the openness…it was an opportunity to consider the wideness of space…an invitation to consider what it’s like beyond what you see and know. It forces you to wonder about people in those other spaces. What’s it like to be beneath those rain clouds? Or to be touched by the pink rays of the setting sun? But at the same time, it’s exhausting. These miles of driving feel exactly like the miles I traveled an hour ago…wide and open and never ending…
Sometimes trails give you exactly what you expect. You start in a forest and that forest remains the same for the entire hike, no break or shift or change. What you see at the beginning is what you get throughout.
But other times a trail surprises you. You start in an open rocky area, then clamber over pebbles and small stones. This leads to a climb up to larger rocks. At some point, you are finding “three points of contact” as you scramble up a chunk of rock in the middle of open space.
And you keep going. Eventually you find yourself moving through woods. There are tall trees and short, scrubby bushes and a range of grasses. You brush your hands through them…some are soft and smooth, but others are prickly. You realize that not all of the grasses are friendly. There are cacti and wildflowers and the rocks shift change their shape once again. You come to a dry stream bed and you make your way to the top of what is sometimes a waterfall but today it’s just a little puddle.
And those are the trails that surprise you. They keep you wondering what you’re going to find next…what’s around this corner…will it be large or small? What questions will it make me ask?
And it keeps you going moving, asking new questions at every turn.
Somewhere east of the middle of Kansas, the corn fields and cow pastures are interrupted by piles of rocks. One of those rocks is called Castle Rock. When the map told me that I had arrived, I found myself parking by fenced-in oil tanks. But, I had driven all this way…so I had to at least investigate. Even though the sky was slowly growing darker and there may or may not have been some sprinkles falling from the sky.
I decided that I could run down the trail for five minutes and, if it didn’t get interesting, I would turn around. Three minutes later, I turned the corner of a rocky outcropping and saw the castle. Poking up from the prairie land, Castle Rock was just…there. I ran faster down the hill and stood in awe. I know just enough about how rocks form to begin formulating some theories before my curiosity was interrupted by thunder…the scary kind. I took some pictures and began running up the path on the other side. I thought, “Surely this will trail will connect back to the parking area.” I got briefly distracted by sunflowers – appreciating the contrast of these sunny sunflowers with the epic rock formation and growing clouds.
My appreciation didn’t last long. The rain started. And there might have been some hail mixed in.
When I made my way (slightly off trail) back to my car, a truck was parked at the fences. By this time, the rain was pouring and I was soaked. He pulled up next to my car and joked about the rain. He asked if I wanted him to follow me out and I said, “Nah – I’ll be fine.”
A mile down the road and I questioned my decision.
I spent 4.5 years living in a state with five seasons – Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, Mud Season.
But this was a mud of a different breed. I felt like I was driving on slushy snow. So, I inched along. I saw lights coming up behind me and got as close to the edge of the road as I could without fearing that I would coast right into the pasture. The driver stopped and assured me that this sort of rain was unusual and that the road was, indeed, “slimy.” He offered a brief history lesson on Castle Rock before letting me know that he’d be down this road in a few hours and would keep an eye out for me.
I plodded along. About two miles later, I realized that something was…wrong. I could feel the rear passenger side of my car pulling. So, again, I pulled to the side of the road and got out to take a look. The mud was caked so thick on my tire that there was on longer any space for it to move. I considered my options, quickly realizing that I didn’t really have many of them. I pulled a hiking pole out of my car and began chopping away at the mud. Eventually, that seemed to stop working so I dug in with my hand.
That’s when I realized that this was a slimy mud mixed with slurry-like clay. And it was caked into every crevice possible in a wheel well (and there are many). A while later, when I had just about rediscovered my tire, another truck pulled up behind me.
Are you stuck?
…not really.
Flat tire?
No. It’s…well…there was a lot of mud.
He got out of his truck to stare at my tire. He suggested I get in the car and try to drive…he would watch to see if the wheel was moving. He reassured me that I was good to go and could make it to the main road (spoiler alert: it still wasn’t paved, but hadn’t received nearly as much rain). And then he told me he lived near the corner and would keep an eye out for me to make sure that I made it out okay.
And I plodded along. Eventually, making it to a paved road and breathing a sign of relief. I stopped for coffee and then hopped on the interstate. We were finally moving…until we were moving in a way that wasn’t right.
The car started shaking anytime I went over 55. So I slowed down to a snail-like pace (50 in a 75 zone…with my flashers on) and took the next exit. I didn’t even bother with the hiking pole and just went into the wheel wells with my hands. I dug out enough mud/clay to make a coffee shop worth of mugs.
And I plodded along…only for it to happen again. I pulled into a rest stop and, in a panic, called an auto mechanic who was just another exit down the interstate. He said he would take a look. So, with flashers and my snail like pace, we drove to the next exit.
When he came out, I asked, “Do you want the whole story or do you just want to take a look at it?” It was clear that I had gotten myself into some sort of muddy pickle. I responded to his quizzical look with the full story.
And then he power washed my car and I went on my way.
While this could be a lesson in not overreacting, I do not regret paying a Kansas auto mechanic for a car wash. The car (aka Nessie) is essential for this section of my journey. I’m willing to pay a little extra for the reassurance that all is well.
From Sunsets to Storm Clouds 