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 Day 11 Lake McDonald Lodge, Glacier NP
A cold
rain is falling today, so after breakfast in the lodge we warm
our feet by the grand fireplace while we write postcards to family and
friends. Nearby sit some dejected motorcyclists who had planned to
cross over the Divide today, but a lodge staffer has just informed them
that, with the days growing colder, "if it's raining down here, it's
snowing up on Logan Pass." We drive to the Apgar visitor center to
again check on road conditions, then to the West Glacier grocery store
to buy gifts for friends and family. Besides, we're almost out of Trout
Slayer Ale.
Determined
not to again have our little home on wheels burglarized by
marauding backwoods mice, I peruse the latest in home pest control.
Despite all the talk from corporate cheerleaders about the proverbial
"better mouse trap," it seems things haven't really changed all that
much since the time of Lewis and Clark. Aside from the classic
spring-mechanism snap trap, and the traditional and ever-tasty poison
containing sweetened drain cleaner and glass shards, I find only a
value-pack of "Mouse Glue Traps". Made of cardboard and shaped like a
little pup-tent, the trap's interior surface is evidently covered with
a tenacious gluey substance to which the rodent in question
inadvertently adheres itself. According to the chirpy directions, you
then simply "Discard mouse and glue trap."
I dunno. Were I to choose the method of my own
death, and given a choice between fluoride-induced respiratory
paralysis, or terminal exhaustion and heart failure caused by a vain
struggle to extricate myself from a big sticky pup-tent, I think I'd
opt instead for the snap trap. There's just something stoic and noble
about having my skull instantly crushed by a large steel bar.
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Sure, they're filthy rodents and
pests, and they left tiny turds in my bag of Fig Newtons, but they're
God's creatures too, after all, and they deserve to die
with dignity. I'll see to
that.
I select the version with the attractive yellow
trigger that resembles a tiny slice of Swiss cheese,
and place it alongside my beer on the checkout counter.
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When we
pull into a nearby fuel station, we see a cherry '79 Westy parked at
the cafe, and as I'm tanking-up our Vanagon, the Bus putters over and I
see that it is driven by a bearded and jovial Jerry Garcia. He's
looking pretty good, considering the circumstances, and offers sage
advice: "You know, you really oughta get rid of that thing. They don't
last." And with a mischievous wink, he motors away. I wonder if he is
road-tripping with Elvis.
We point the freshly-provisioned Westy north
and soon pass through numerous burned areas in various states of
recovery. Just over a year ago, in July of 2003, a small fire broke out
somewhere near the foot of
Lake McDonald and burned nearly sixty thousand acres. That fall
was a hot and dry one, and eight scattered fires burned a total of over
one hundred forty-five thousand of Glacier's million acres of forest.
Now some areas are so deeply scorched that it will be years before
regrowth can begin, while other places exhibit Nature's green
resiliency.
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When we
strike the north fork of the Flathead River, the road turns to
gravel for the next thirteen miles, and pretty rough gravel at that.
After a few miles of slow, bone-jarring chatterbump driving, we learn
that, counterintuitively, such a road is actually best driven at about
forty mph, and our wheels soon skim smoothly along the high spots.
We stop briefly at the Polebridge Mercantile,
last vestige of civilization in these parts. A tiny enclave of small
cabins and log homes, Polebridge is inhabited only by a few hippies and
some shady
characters that desperately want to be left alone. The place has no
piped-in electricity or water, so everything is powered by gasoline,
kerosene, or propane, even the Mercantile ovens which produce
positively heavenly bakery items. I don't know what these flower
children put in their croissants and sweet rolls that makes them so
addictive, but we aren't asking any questions, and instead just order
seconds before continuing north.
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Just
past "the Merc" we pass through the slowly recovering vestiges of the
1988 Red Bench Fire, stop at the Polebridge ranger station, and
continue east to Bowman Lake in time for a late lunch in camp. This far
into the remote northwest corner of Glacier, and this late in the
season, there are only a small handful of other hardy campers here, and
when we finally disembark from the van, it is the most vacuous and
boundless silence I have ever heard.
This is by far the least-visited corner of
Glacier, and is the only place in the continental United States where
gray wolves have reintroduced themselves, from Canada. Indeed, from the
trailhead in our campsite, we are only fourteen miles from the Canadian
border. |
We walk
around the lakeshore trail for a while, as high clouds adorn Square
Peak with a new mantle of snow. While making dinner, several
white-tailed deer browse in our site, and a swift and silent red fox
glides through the campground.
When darkness falls, we stroll down to the lake
again and are regaled by a grand view of the Milky Way splashed across
the clear black sky,
reflected again in the glass-smooth surface of Bowman Lake.
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