Glacier National Park
After a previous days drive arriving into Waterton from Calgary, and a blissful night of deep sleep in Kilmore Lodge’s most comfortable of beds, I drag myself out into the early morning crisp, cool breeze coming off Lake Waterton. It’s a sunny day but the wind takes the temperature down a notch or two, but it would be harsh to be critical of nature in such a beautiful arena. The wintery air gives clarity to the mountain setting with the peaks in clear focus magnifying each crevasse and undulation in the expanding sunlight. A bit like downing a double expresso and your faculties suddenly become alive and in tune with the world. Reluctant to leave, I set off for the US border, savouring each mile along the highway till I depart Waterton Lakes National Park. Waterton Lakes (Canada) and Glacier (USA) are two separate, distinct national parks managed by different countries. However, they are connected at the international border and managed jointly as the Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park.
Spectacular scenery abounds as I pass around Chief Mountain, a magnificent example of a great mountain, with its chunky shape and flat top suggesting power and gravitas. I guess that’s why it’s called the chief.
Flowing rivers disappear under bridges and on into deep pine forests amid captivating valleys and mountains, while the road climbs high into the hills. Due to the harsh winters and high elevation, Chief Mountain USA Border Crossing only operates from May to September, and luckily for me it has just opened. Considering the scenery that is available, surprisingly, it only gets 65,000 “guests” coming through the crossing every year. This is probably why, since I am one of their first customers of the year, Border Force want me to get out of the car, step into the office and get questioned. They probably just need someone to talk to. I opt out of asking them about the effects of loneliness in this distant posting, as they may be here as a punishment. Maybe even a bonus. The questioning is gentle and polite. They can’t make their mind up about my UK driving licence, which doesn’t come as a surprise since my picture makes Shrek look handsome on a bad hair day. Just remember, if you look like your photo, you’re too ill to travel.
We part on friendly terms – theirs of course, and I suddenly find myself in Montana. Now this is a big deal. I’ve wanted to come to Montana ever since I could read a map. It’s been a fascination for some considerable time. It’s the majestic empty spaces, the frontier spirit and the big sky that’s the attraction. It is most definitely the big sky ! How can a sky be so big here than anywhere else on this planet, but it most certainly is.
America has now changed the route number on my road to 17 and it’s another hour to St Mary’s at the beginning of the Going-To-The-Sun Road across the Glacier National Park mountains to Lake McDonald. Sadly, there is no going to the sun for me as the road is still snowbound with fifteen foot drifts. It just gives me a reason to come back. I make it as far up the road as Jackson Glacier where I can still see the effects of the Reynolds Forest Fire way back in 2015 which burnt through 2,000 acres of forest.
With my tail between my legs, I drive back down the mountainside to St Mary’s and take the long way round the park which doubles the mileage. However, it’s a wonderful drive and I soon get over my disappointment with a healthy lunch at an out of the way, wayside diner. It’s seen better days but they do know how to make a great French Toast with an endless supply of coffee.
Two hours later I arrive in Whitefish and drop my bags at Grouse Mountain Lodge. It doesn’t have a lot of grouse but does have a lot of golfers. I head into town in search of sustenance. Whitefish – population 10,000 serves as a gateway to the mountains. With nearly 3,000 acres of ski-ing opportunities, it offers a fun and funky downtown vibe and close access to all that nature has to offer, coupled with plenty of boutique shops and restaurants down Central Avenue.
The sun streams through my bedroom window at 6am, and I’m woken by a noisy band of brothers congregating on the path below my balcony preparing to take on the extreme challenge of 18 holes of golf. I say extreme only because they don’t seem to have recovered from their previous nights partying. The sound of beer cans being opened and bets being made filter through my room as the cacophony of chatter becomes even louder. I make a mental note to let down the tyres of their buggy if I get downstairs in time, but forgiveness comes in many forms. Hunger overcame anger and I make for the breakfast room instead, before heading out to Lake McDonald Lodge on the shores of its namesake. Among other things the lake is famous for are the coloured stones which pepper its shores. All the pictures that are seen in brochures are somewhat enhanced, but nonetheless it is a remarkable sight.
The surface of the lake is mirror-like while a dusty mist hovers over it this early morning. The famous red tour buses sit silently outside the doors of Lake McDonald Lodge and the stillness of the surrounding forest begs for the tranquility to continue for the rest of the day. Slowly at first, then with a growing hubbub, the tourists start to arrive and soon the place is awash with activity and noise, spoiling an otherwise perfect scene.
To escape these annoying tourists (I never count myself as one – I’m a traveller) I decide to take to the water on a guided one-hour tour on the Motor Vessel De Smet, built way back in 1930 with the wooden seating still lovingly polished. It’s easy to forgive the slightly hard benches as we glide across the water because it is a beautiful old cruiser. The commentary is entertaining and informative and as we reach the opposite shore, the full extent of a forest fire back in 2015 becomes apparent.
Bare, burnt trees stand at attention seemingly in black shrouds stretching way back from the bank of the lake, devoid of foliage, with the few green shoots hardly making an impact on the practically dead forest. It is an eerie scene with the mist hanging around the base of the trees. What it does do though, is give a clear line of sight to a family of eagles close to the shoreline, high up in one of the more substantial trees. We watch for a while to see if they take to the air, and while the passengers are patient, the captain is less so, as he has a timetable to run to. Wild eagles don’t do timed performances, but to see these extraordinary kings of the sky in the wild is an uplifting experience in more ways than one.
The following day I make the long run to get back across border to Canada via the west side of the mountains, stopping for coffee in Eureka before crossing at Roosville. I’m booked overnight at the Destination Inn in Radium Hot Springs and it turns out to be a nice upmarket motel, with its best feature being its location, situated right behind a local bar that brews its own beer. After a couple of refreshments in the pub for research purposes, I set off looking for food and come across The Old Salzburg Restaurant. There doesn’t seem to be any particular reason why an Austrian restaurant has landed in this outpost, but it’s been a feature of Radium Hot Springs for over fifty years. The place is up for sale, but it is busy, busy, busy. The food is very good if a little slow in delivery.
Morning arrives and I make an early start. I pass McLeod Meadows and into the Kootenay Valley. I haven’t seen any wildlife since I left Lake McDonald. I don’t know why, but on route 93 just half a kilometre south of the Simpson River Trailhead at Vermilion crossing, I pass a pull-out, and look back to see what the view of the river is like. I decide to turn round to take a few last photos. As I park up, a huge bear comes out from behind a large plinth right in front of the car. I get a real surprise to see it standing so close. The odd vehicle passes on the highway, but none stop. For the next half hour, I have Mr Big Bear all to myself and what a joyful and exhilarating experience it is, enjoying our time together – just him and me. Mind you, it could have been her and me, but we were never formally introduced so I’ll never know.
There is a plaque on the large plinth, which said it was dedicated to Sir George Simpson, a Scotsman who ran the Hudson Bay Company and ultimately became Governor of Northern Canada.
As I cross the Continental Divide in Kootenay National Park at an altitude of 5,382ft heading home, I amuse myself that somehow it was the ghost of my fellow Scotsman who tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look back at the pull-out, suggesting I stay awhile and have some bear-time. Another “Last Flight Out” moment.
Mileage – 240