By HUNTER O. LYLE
GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, Mont. – As I crept along through a corridor of chest-high wild weeds, my eyes darted from side to side, my heart raced and my hands clung to the canister of bear spray that hung from my shoulder.
Walking along the Snyder Trail in Glacier National Park, I could barely see ten feet in front of me. Between the constant switchbacks, the loping hills and valleys and the foliage that choked the hardpack trail, visibility was scarce. With just over a half-mile to go until reaching Snyder Lake, this had been the furthest I had ventured into a backcountry that had reportedly seen a mother bear and two cubs just a couple of days before. One afternoon before, I had turned back after realizing that bear spray was really a necessity rather than a suggestion and now I had returned, forcing myself to complete the mission.
Suddenly, a series of thumps echoed from somewhere off ahead. My feet froze and I cupped my hands around my ear to amplify what sounded like something whacking against a tree. There was a pause and then a few more deep thuds. I climbed atop a boulder just off the path but still couldn’t see through the ocean of lush, green vegetation. A few tense minutes after the sounds stopped, I stepped back onto the path and drove myself to keep going, spray in hand.
I HAD REACHED MONTANA on Wednesday after two and a half long days on the road. Thirty four hours behind the wheel, with stops in Madison, WI and Circle, MT, had landed me at Emery Bay Campground, which sits just 25 minutes from Glacier National Park. A year before, during my 71 days on the road, I had been mesmerized by the beautiful navy blues and neon greens that coated the skyscraping Rocky Mountains of Glacier and in the time since, I had become obsessed with finding a way to return.
Reaching the campground with a few hours of daylight to spare, I spent my initial night setting up and furnishing my tent before meeting four foreign exchange students – Nat from Thailand, Mo from Jordan and Raul and Ioana from Romania – who were also spending a night under the stars. The five of us christened my six-day trip with a night full of cards, stories and stargazing, but the next day my adventure would begin in earnest.
The main goal was to put as many miles under my boots as possible and I began with a familiar trailhead. At the climax of the Going-to-the-Sun Road, the main thoroughfare through Glacier National Park, is Logan Pass. Nestled amongst the high altitude peaks and surrounded by a panorama of breathtaking views, the Logan Pass Visitor Center sees a lot of action, evident by the swath of cars continuously circling its always-full parking lot – even at 5 in the morning.
Parking a mile or so down the road and hitchhiking my way to the visitor center, I set off down the Hidden Lake trail, the lone hike I had done in my previous visit. Although the start towards Hidden Lake tends to be jammed packed, the crowds start to thin as you head into the higher elevation and tougher terrain and soon you find yourself in a sparsely dotted track into the mountains.
Besides the views, which I struggle to believe are even real at times, there’s another reason why this trail is so popular: the wildlife.
Just a mere 20 minutes into my trek, I passed a crowd spectating a mountain goat, whose snow white coat stood in beautiful contrast with the green meadow speckled with purple and yellow wildflowers. Further down the line, another mountain goat, this one a mother with her youngling following in stride, walked down the path ahead of me before darting up the steep cliffside to take in the view of the caravan of encumbered travelers.
On the way down to Hidden Lake, as I carefully lowered myself down the sheer and rocky 550-foot descent, I came face to face with a big horn sheep. We both paused as we decided what to do and as I began to step up the embankment to give him the right of way, the sheep took off sprinting towards me. Jumping into the hillside, the strong-headed animal clambered past, coming within 10 feet of me before it took off up the cliffs.
WHILE THAT ENCOUNTER certainly gave me a jolt, it was nothing compared to Grizz Country. Each step past the boulder reverberated through my body before resonating in my throat, where my heart was currently hiding. Still, I pressed along towards another blind corner.
However, just around the bend, I spotted the cream colored helmets of the Montana Conservation Corps (MCC). The sounds, apparently, had come from them as they worked to clear debris from the trail. I had met this particular crew a day before when I ultimately turned off the trail and we shared a laugh.
“Man, I’m sure glad it was you guys making all that noise,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
As I passed, they informed me that the sow and her cubs had been spotted beyond Snyder Lake, up along the ridge that towered over top and that there was no immediate threat. Still, as I left, they called back a light-hearted warning, “stay safe!”
Knowing that I wasn’t necessarily alone, I picked up the pace as I cleared the last half mile. Cutting through the last few branches and weeds, a sage-colored lake encompassed by towering, jagged peaks shrouded in pine trees and low hanging clouds opened before me. Setting down my pack – but keeping the bear spray ready for action – I sipped from my water bottle and scanned the ridges high above me.
Besides the varying red, green and gray striations and the scattered pockets of forest, there was nothing to be seen, certainly no hulking grizzly bear with two teddys trailing behind her. As my heart began to finally settle, I circled the water’s edge, continuously searching for any signs of life but to no avail.
FINALLY, I WAS forced to leave as an afternoon drizzle began to fall from overhead. Throwing on my rain jacket and stowing away my camera, I picked up and began the four-and-a-half mile walk back. As the rain thickened and my pants and boots began taking on water, I started a half-jog, carefully stepping over moist rocks and quick flowing streams that had begun to form across the dirt path.
But once again, the quiet chorus of raindrops was split by another sound which ran down the sloped hills and into the valley. Rather than the thumping noise I had heard before, this one resembled a muffled and sporadic chainsaw, however, its wavering pitch and intensity shook the notion of it being man-made. My jaw dropping to the now-mud ground, I spun to face the mountain, eyes darting once again to hopefully get a glance of my ‘white whale.’ But between the fog and dense thickets of pine trees that speckled the hillside, it was impossible to get a glimpse of anything with any certainty.
I continued to search and look for a round flash of brown but as the drizzle gave way to a full on storm, I finally relented. Passing the MCC crew once again on the way back, they confirmed in just one word what had made the roar, “grizzly.”
Awarding myself half-credit for at least hearing a bear, I continued back down the path with a big smile stretched across my face. Had I not been worried the MCC crew was following behind me, I might have even broken out into a skip. However, the new-found elation was washed away with the downpouring rain and I soon began to tire of the trail. With each step, my boots sloshed as water oozed out of the toes and my nylon hiking pants became suctioned to my legs, both of which sent shivers up my body.
THE NEXT THREE-PLUS miles were dreary as shin splints, minor cramps and other signs of general fatigue began to set in. Looking to get out of the elements as quickly as possible, I cut back on my rests, instead swinging my backpack around my shoulder for swigs of water when needed. After close to an hour and a half, I finally reached my car in the McDonald Lodge, instantly peeling off my boots and skin-tight socks in exchange for a fresh pair and flip flops.
Tired, sore but still holding onto some smoldering bear-born euphoria, I began the hour drive out of Glacier and towards camp, where I would be welcomed with a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup and an even hotter campfire.
