I like Calgary. It’s a nice town, but leaving is no great hardship considering the extraordinary sweep of plains and towering mountains that surround the city. I’m heading on a solo four day circular trip to Glacier National Park. Once on the road south, it’s not long before I enter Diamond Valley. The place is anything but diamond-like, and the few outlets at the intriguingly named Sheep River Crossing don’t help to enhance the area either. There is little sign of any sheep, and no crossing to distinguish either, which I take to be a judgement by most of the herd that this is a place to avoid. I guess they decided to cross somewhere else.
I scoot out of town to my next stop which I had read about some weeks ago. The equally intriguing Okotoks Erratic lies just a short detour down Route 7. Nicknamed “The Rock that Ran”, it turns out to be a large piece of split quartzite rock sitting in the middle of a huge field.
Clearly the Albertans have been taking lessons from their close neighbours in US about creating a tourist attraction out of nothing. To be fair, there are two other people in the car park, but it turns out they’re sitting in their van eating what appears to be their lunch, with little interest in the rock sitting proudly on the grasslands in front of them. However, as I walk down the path towards the monolith, I learn from the various noticeboards about the great spiritual significance this rock has for the Blackfeet People. Legend tells of the story of Indian warrior Napi who sheltered by the rock and was allegedly chased by it. Now, not wanting to question the reliability of this story, but it does seem improbable that this 30 ton piece of mountain could have chased anyone – at least at any speed that is. I imagine that most native Americans would be able to out-run it pretty easily.
The rock is definitely interesting, but it is still only a rock, whereas the surrounding grasslands are fascinating because they are covered in prairie dog burrows which unsurprisingly, are populated with hundreds of prairie dogs.
These sweet looking creatures are everywhere, popping up from their caves and then disappearing again. I could watch them for hours. Apparently, these animals support at least 136 other species through their various activities. So basically, they are the Chicken McNuggets of the grasslands. With their complex underground dog towns, their entire annual mating season is apparently only an hour long. Males, apparently jump from group to group—but the females stick together for life – don’t think that is a surprise…….!
As I move on further down the highway towards the border, the detritus of a broken economy litter the landscape. Not in an ugly way because there is a kind of beauty to the ageing, rusting vehicles and farm equipment that lie embedded in the fields and homesteads that appear by the roadside every couple of miles. Gentle reminders that people once lived, worked and sweated the land around here. These artifacts are left as little monuments, so we do not forget their toils, otherwise what was it all for? I ache for the ghosts of the past to be able tell the stories that lie behind these broken dreams.
It’s another world out there……..
A few miles southbound on route 2, I take another detour at Nanton and travel eastwards to the alien sounding name of Vulcan. Sadly, its name originated not from any thoughts of the universe, rather in 1910 a Canadian Pacific Railroad surveyor who had a fondness for Roman Mythology, named the town after the Roman god of fire.
However, this sleepy town has not been resting on its laurels. Awakening the entrepreneurial spirit, in November 1995 the town created created a space-themed visitors bureau to tap into the growing curiosity surrounding the town’s name. The idea quickly grew into a group effort between the various local bodies and the wonderfully named V.A.S.T. (the Vulcan Association for Science and Trek). The Trek Station’s official grand opening was on October 23, 1998 and was designed to look like a landed spaceship.
Apparently, thousands of people from all over the world and beyond, make the “Trek” to Vulcan to visit this unique attraction. However, some far travelled aliens (foreigners) might feel somewhat let down when they visit from a galaxy far, far away. Entry to the “museum” is by way of a donation, and I drop in five dollars thinking that is a fair price. Not even close. The dollar bills go into a slot which operates an electric door. The door opens and I step into what can only be described as a large closet stuffed with mannikin’s. I say stuffed but I think I only count ten Star Trek characters, but the place feels full. They are paraded in a small semi-circle before another door opens and I am transported immediately back to the visitor centre reception I’d left only seconds ago. I personally don’t feel cheated as it had already been on my route, but I pity the poor souls arriving from out of state expecting a Star Trek extravaganza.
Instead of an automatic electric door perhaps they should have spent that money on doubling the size of the exhibition. I mean what would it take? Another three feet? I am bound to say though, the large replica of the Starship Enterprise sitting high on a plinth outside the visitor centre does make up for the lack of substance inside. What really makes me smile though, is all the street-lights along the centre of town are made of mini-Starships. Now that’s worth visiting for. Vulcan, may the force continue to be with you.
Fort Macleod and Buffalo Jumping
I leave that galaxy and move on, passing through Staveley and Claresholm without even noticing, possibly because there isn’t anything to distinguish these settlements before reaching my namesake, Fort Macleod, just in time for a late lunch. The fort was named in honour of the then Commissioner of the North-West Mounted Police, Colonel James MacLeod who was born in my homeland in Drynoch in the Isle of Skye, Scotland in 1836. Founded as the Municipality of the Town of Macleod in 1892, the name was officially changed to the already commonly used Fort Macleod in 1952. Another Scots boy done good then !
I choose, quite naturally, to have lunch in Macleods Restaurant behind main street, and then somewhat regret that decision when I walk in. It is dark and dingy, with only a couple of old timers getting their daily sustenance – probably gravy and grits. I order Spaghetti Bolognese and it turns out to be very, very good. Once again, the MacLeods save the day…….
I walk down the deserted main street as the silence is only broken by the muffled roar of huge trucks trundling up and down the two highways that lie on either side of town. The shops look closed but as I pass them, through the dusty windows I can see lights inside. I walk past the lawyers, the accountants and the beautiful, elegant old Empire Theatre.
Somehow, I get the impression that people are peering out from behind their curtains wondering who the stranger is walking slowly through their town. Maybe if I had a kilt on, they wouldn’t be so afraid. Two people appear from nowhere and walks towards me. They promptly cross the street, so now I’m feeling paranoid until I realise they’ve just gone into Subway for lunch.
Fort Macleod claims it has 3,297 residents and growing according to the last census. Apart from my friends in the restaurant I’ve only seen two. Maybe it’s siesta time, although we are some distance from the Mexican border.
Apparently 19 movies have been filmed in Fort Macleod although I only recognise a few of them. Ghostbusters, Interstellar, Brokeback Mountain and In Cold Blood. More notably it’s been a location for the TV series – The Last of Us. Its only other claim to fame is that Joni Mitchell the singer, was born here in 1943.
At the east of town down an alleyway, I cross the main highway and find myself at the actual Fort Macleod. Rebuilt somewhat from those heady days of the 1800’s, when after a gruelling two-month, 1,300 km trek across the prairie from Dufferin, Manitoba, Colonel James F. Macleod and his contingent of North-West Mounted Police arrived here on the banks of the Oldman River.
The North-West Mounted Police were sent to the prairie with the purpose of stomping out the illegal liquor trade, which was wreaking immeasurable harm on the Blackfoot people of the area. As a Scotsman he would have had plenty of knowledge to deal with that kind of scenario! Macleod and his men raced against the oncoming frost to construct a fort that would house them through the winter, effectively establishing what would one day become a thriving community, if you can call a town of 3,297 residents thriving.
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Fort Macleod has more surprises in store. As I turn into the car park of what looks like a huge warehouse, this is the home of the Bomber Command Museum of Canada, where the building is in fact a huge treasure trove of military aircraft and memorabilia.
So good is it, that I spend over two hours here, especially marvelling at the restored Lancaster bomber in all its glory. I happen to make a comment to a fellow gawper called Frank, who it turns out is a Westjet pilot on a trip to see the museum and shares so many facts and figures, I can’t keep up.
We wander among the warplanes and the not-so-war planes as I listen to his great stories about some of these bygone relics. I realise I am way behind schedule, so I say goodbye to my new best friend, and he disappears into a distant engine repair room. Although he obviously felt he wasn’t a big enough best friend to offer me a discount on Westjet.
I tear myself away from this diamond in Diamond country and head out to the hinterland and my next destination of Head-Smashed-in-Buffalo-Jump World Heritage Site. This remarkable museum is built into the cliffside from where you get a real sense of the vastness of this country as the Rockies stretch majestically into the distance towards the west, and the sweep of the Great Plains is laid out for hundreds of miles to the east.
Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump is the best-preserved example of communal hunting techniques that the Plains people engaged in, thanks to the massive herds of bison that existed in North America for over five thousand years.
North America, where the intricate practice of using bison jumps were utilized by the indigenous people of the North American plains. When the Europeans arrived, they came with guns and ammunition which led to the bison being hunted almost to extinction. The museum is a stunning example of how a museum should be, which maybe is the wrong adjective to use when the subject matter is about killing bison by landing them on their heads.
As I head south again towards Glacier National Park, I come across a rail bridge over the road where the graffiti letters spell “Freedom” accompanied by a little hand-painted white kilted warrior Braveheart beside it. I almost feel like I’m back home…..
Waterton and Glacier National Park
I leave the main highway and take the road to Waterton entering Glacier National Park. The first building I see is the extraordinary Prince of Wales Hotel, a huge alpine-like structure on a promontory overlooking the lake.
My own accommodation for the night is Kilmory Lodge in Waterton, which while being a little less luxurious, nonetheless has the same spectacular views and is the perfect spot for relaxing in the bar and restaurant. My window looks onto the Prince of Wales Hotel just to keep me in my place and not to get above my station.
I go for a walk around town, but it’s a holiday so everything is shut. I say everything but there are a couple of bars open, and one restaurant. This is a quiet place and reminds me very much of Loch Lomond in Scotland. The choppy waters, the brisk wind, the snow topped mountains, the mobile ice-cream van……
I take a walk up to the by now familiar hotel on the hill, because it can be seen from every vantage point in town. It’s hard to take a photo without it being in the frame. There are numerous hotels round the world named after various Prince of Wales’s but none I imagine have scenery surrounding them quite like this one. With water on three sides, it sits proudly like a king surveying his kingdom and all before him The entrance hall and lounge to the Prince of Wales is breath-taking as you gaze through the huge floor to ceiling windows in the reception area, all the way along the length of Waterton Lake to the monster 10,500 foot Mt Cleveland in the distance. Snow topped mountains line the length of the lake in front of the hotel, disappearing into the far distance.
As I pass by, I wonder to myself if the Prince of Wales gets free rooms in any of these hotels. I think it’s the least they could do after pinching his title. The hotel lays claim to having the oldest working elevator in North America. A survivor from the golden age of railway construction in Canada the hotel was built in 1927 by the Great Northern Railway company and quickly became an oasis for thirsty, deprived Americans from just over border in the US, where prohibition was still enforced. Canada was a prohibition free zone as they would call it today, which is basically why the railroad didn’t build the hotel next to a railroad but situated it miles away in a beauty spot where visitors might like to stay awhile and therefore drink more.
After a blissful night of deep sleep in Kilmore Lodge’s most comfortable of beds, I drag myself away and set off for the border, retracing my steps to the main highway and on to the USA.
Spectacular scenery abounds as I pass around Chief Mountain, a magnificent example of a great mountain, as its chunky shape with flat top suggests 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 some captivating valleys and mountains while the road climbs high into the hills. Due to the harsh winters and its high elevation, Chief Mountain USA border crossing only operates from May to September, and lucky for me it has just opened. Surprisingly, considering the scenery that is available, 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, they 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 about the effects of loneliness in this distant posting, as they may be here as a punishment or maybe, even a bonus. The questioning is gentle, but 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 most of my life. Well, ever since I could read a map, so around 35 yrs of age I guess. It’s been a fascination of mine for some considerable time. I think it’s the majestic empty spaces, the frontier spirit and the big sky. It most definitely has to be the big sky ! How can a sky be bigger than anywhere else on the planet, but here 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, which I kind of knew before I got here, but 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.
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 some wayside diner which has seen better days but they do know how to make a great French Toast with a supply of endless 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. Now I like golf, and I generally like golfers, but when I’m looking for an afternoon’s hour shut-eye and outside my first floor room is a group of said golfers drinking from cans of beer in their golf carts shouting at each other, I do think that is taking the piss from the pissed. I can’t even open my window far enough to chuck some water over them to cool off their ego’s. I take some comfort from their loud conversation, that their golf scores seem to have been as weak as their choice of beer.
The sun streams through the window at 6am, and I make for breakfast 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 you see in the brochures of these pebbles are somewhat enhanced, but nonetheless it is a remarkable sight.
The surface of the lake is mirror-like covered in a dusty mist 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 silence 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 morning.
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 the 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 a long run for the border stopping at Eureka before crossing into Canada at Roosville. I’m booked overnight at the Destination Inn in Radium Hot Springs and it turns out to be a nice upmarket motel, 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 came across The Old Salzburg Restaurant. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I need to find out why an Austrian themed restaurant is sitting in the middle of a small town in British Columbia. Turns out there is no particular reason why its an Austrian restaurant but it’s been a feature of Radium Hot Springs for over fifty years. The place is up for sale, and it is busy, busy, busy. The food is very good if a little slow in delivery.
The next morning arrives and I make an early start because I’m flying back from Calgary to the UK tonight. En route I pass McLeod Meadows (spelt the correct way) and into the Kootenay Valley. I haven’t seen any wildlife since I’d left Lake McDonald and I don’t know why, but on route 93 just half a kilometre south of the Simpson River Trailhead at Vermilion crossing, I passed a pull-out and looked back to see what the view by the river was like. I decided to turn round and drive back to take a few last photos. As I drew up to park, a huge bear came out from a large plinth right in front of my car. I got a real surprise to see it standing so close. The odd car passes on the highway, but none stop as my vehicle was probably blocking their vision. For the next half hour, I have Mr Big Bear all to myself and what a joyful and exhilarating experience it is enjoying this time together – just him and me. Mind you, it could have been a her and me, but we were never introduced so I’ll never know.
There was a plaque on the large plinth which hid the bear as I arrived, 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.