Going To The Sun Road: Glacier National Park Part II
One does not simply walk into Mordor.
One rents bikes.
We begin the day in warm, soft beds in a hotel room just outside of Glacier National Park. It was a little uncomfortable checking in last night when the concierge confirmed one room under the shared name of myself and one Tyler Mouzourka (which, yes, I have been calling my mom ever since) but they realized pretty quickly that they’d conflated our reservation with that of another party. At that point we’d been sleeping at a 45 degree angle for two days and would happily have shared a room with the Mouzourkas, who I’m sure are lovely people.
The next morning I gently wake my mom from her soft, flat, Mouzourka-free sleeping surface and we head down to the hotel dining room for the complimentary breakfast, where we immediately have our personal space invaded by Linda, who oversees the breakfast buffet. “Where are you from?” she asks. “How long are you staying? Do you have plans for dinner? Now I am Not open here but you can get a fine meal just up the road at Three Forks Diner which has lovely options and a back room with barbequethatyoucangetonoroffthebone with a side of, lets see, coleslawbakedbeansorsaladandthey’reonlyopenuntil around 8pm but then there’s the brewery, which is also a fineestablishmentopenuntil8pm…” Our eyes glaze over as we hear about and Tien’s Oriental Buffet and the mother’s day brunch at Pizza Hut but the fastest way out of this conversation is to nod and smile.
Much nodding later, we shake our heads free of extraneous side dish options as we make a break for the west side of the park. Most of the hiking trails are still closed for the season due to excessive snow falls this year that have piled up on trails or washed out bridges but I am dyyyyyyyying to get up into the heart of the park so we opt for a bike ride on one of the most famously scenic roads in America: The Going to the Sun Road.
In the summer the road is open to cars but this early in the season there’s still at least 30 feet of snow blocking the way at the top of the pass and cars won’t be allowed through until early July. That’s right: July.
It is a testament to how badly I want to see this landscape that I am willing to bike 40 miles to do it. Bike rides do not end well for me. Aside from that time I fractured my leg falling off my bike into a marsh in The Netherlands, I did quite a bit of damage to my legs biking Cades Cove last summer, and the biggest scar on my body is from falling off a bike. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Doesn’t she teach indoor spin classes? Yup. I do. But you can’t accidentally go 90 miles without water or food in a foreign country on a stationary bike so, you know, there’s that.
We hop on our rented bikes and head for the mountains.
Three miles in my Mom pulls into a trail head parking lot and parks her bike in a handicap spot. “I’m not” she pants “going to make it.”
This statement is not entirely surprising. We passed a helicopter tour place on the way to the bike rental store and my mom suggested I check the prices. She also took “going the scenic route” to a whole new level between the hotel and the bike rental place by driving down every possible side street under the guise of looking for wildlife. “It stays light until 10pm here Mom,” I say on our millionth side street. “Plus it’s a full moon. You’re not going to run out the clock.”
Whatever dread I feel about injuring myself on a bike ride, my Mom feels equally, justifiably dread-ful about going on a physical excursion with me. Anyone who’s done any outdoor related activity with me will tell you that my determination to go Up whatever there is to go Up is unparalleled outside of the world of professional free climbers.
We quickly come to the conclusion that it’s in everyone’s best interest if I carry on alone. I promise to be back in 3–4 hours and I jet off down the road leaving my very relieved mother to enjoy the view of glacial waters from Lake McDonald.
The sun is shining, there’s a glacier to my left, a duck is riding the river rapids like it’s a carnival ride, and off to my right is a black bear.
Wait. What. I stop my bike and turn to see the black bear that I just biked past at an arms length. My bear spray is at the bottom of my bag. I avert my gaze, glancing at it sideways to see if it’s watching me. It is. I try to remember the advice of the guy who sold us bear spray this morning. I think it started with “wear this on your belt at all times.”
Oh lord. This is what I get for not listening to the wizened, toothless shop keeper. The bear climbs down to the road and starts walking in my direction. I keep my head down and prepare to bike for my life but the bear makes a turn to cross the road and disappears down a rocky outcrop. I breathe a sigh of relief and reposition the bear spray in an outside pocket of my backpack. Much as I would love a bear best friend, I think I’d prefer a baby bear so I can groom it to not maul me to death.
I bike on. The hill is incessantly Up and I have no idea what gear I’m in other than a visceral sensation that it’s the wrong one.
Many 100% uphill miles later, I reach the trailhead for Glacier’s most famous trail: The Loop. I desperately want to hike it but I definitely don’t have 30 miles worth of provisions and I would be just a touch outside of my 4 hour time limit. Not to mention the snow and washed out bridges and what not. As I contemplate just hiking, like, a little bit of it, I’m greeted by two women who have also stopped for a breather here at the northernmost part of the road. The views are spectacular and we soak in the glaciality of it all as they tell me about how it looked when it was on fire. They were at the park in 2003 when a massive forest fire ravaged 14% of the park’s forested area. That’s an insane amount of land. I read an essay last fall in a fantastic book called The Hour of the Land about a woman who was staying in one of the chalets on the mountain that you have to hike into and out from during the fire. They doused the chalet and the surrounding area with water and hunkered down while the fire raged around them. They survived but it was by no means a given that they would. And these two women had been hiking here, too, watching this very ridge burn before their eyes.
I bike on. The road is cleared of snow a ways ahead so I continue on past snow mounds twice my height, a lone mountain goat way up on the cliffs, and one of the birds (a grouse, I later learned) with a call like a heart beat and body art to match.
Both my clock and my quads are telling me that I’m nearing the hour at which I’ll have to turn around but it’s just so BEAUTIFUL up here at glacier level, having passed or been passed by barely a dozen other bikers, drinking in the vastness and quietness of the glaciers. When will I ever see this again? There were 110 glaciers here in the park in 1910 when it was founded and now there are 25. It’s estimated that within the next 13 years all of the remaining glaciers will be gone. I may never see this sight again in my life, let alone in such peace and solitude.
I bike on. The hill that took me an hour and ten minutes to bike up takes me twenty minutes to coast down. I get it now. This is why people bike. The downhill part is fantastic.
I stop to hike one little baby trail, Trail of the Cedars, on my way down. It ends in a spectacular little gorge waterfall. I could spend all day staring at that little fall but I’m running late as it is and I make it back to the start of the road 45 minutes outside of the allotted time slot.
“Sorry I’m late Mom.”
“Oh! Hi! I thought you’d be much later, actually.”
It’s still light out so we drive north on the west side of the park to Polebridge, a little known and (for us) impossible to find entrance to the park. But the drive was far from a waste as we spotted a beautiful herd of elk, a beaver building up it’s home in a roadside river, a redheaded woodpecker, and a baby deer that was without a doubt the cutest thing I’ve seen in my life. Much as the mama grizzly bear was tiring out the baby grizzly yesterday around dusk with a little roughhousing, so it was with the mule deer. Today, the mother stands guard over the meadow while the baby runs laps around the field, dipping in and out of the woods, leaping and hopping as it goes. If it was out of sight for more than a few seconds the mother would trot over to where the baby last was to keep it in view. “You can just hear it’s inner monologue,” my mom says. “Stay where I can see you Bambi!” I think back on the wolf scarfing down that baby bird yesterday. Nature is brutal and beautiful and I’m glad to be sitting here with my mom watching happy families with plenty of room to roam and play here at the park.
