|
 Day 6 Many Glacier Campground, Glacier NP
We amble over to the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn this morning for breakfast,
and are reminded again of the deceased founder of Glacier National
Park, for one of the breakfast entrees offered here is the Frittata ala Grinnell, an Italian
omelet with diced vegetables and meats. Hardly a fitting tribute for
"the father of American conservation", but actually it sounds pretty
tasty so I order it, just to hear the old chap take a few spins in his
grave. In fact, if my own friends can't find a mountain or a glacier or
a lake to name after me when I'm dead, I suppose an omelet would be
okay too.
| Where
Swiftcurrent Lake flows over a steep ledge and into Lake Sherburne sits
the Many Glacier Hotel, a lovely old Swiss-style chalet built in 1915
by the Great Northern Railway. The stories of Glacier National Park and
J.J. Hill's great railway are intricately interwoven: Hill needed a
glorious natural wonderland to attract profitable passenger traffic for
his railroad, while the movement to preserve the park certainly
benefited from the public's awareness of its beauty. Yet both had to
tread a fine line between preservation and over-commercialization. It
is a struggle that continues today, but with new commercial interests.
|
 |
|
|
|
It is
cold and wet today, a forty-mile-per-hour wind whipping in across
the lake, making the old lodge creak and groan. The jagged peak of
Mount Grinnell slices open the bellies of the low-moving clouds,
spilling their contents of sleet and snow and rain. Camped-out around
the grand fireplace, the centerpiece of the lodge's great hall, there
is already a big pack of old folks, crocheting and doing crossword
puzzles.
 |
We
carefully edge a little closer to see if we might find a spot to warm
ourselves by the fire, but the oldsters scowl and hiss at us like a
pack of wrinkly iguanas defending their big flat sunning rock. We
hastily retreat, and decide to brave the elements and board the boat
for a ranger-guided cruise and hike up to Grinnell Lake. |
The reluctant sun makes alternate appearances between the
light showers now as we motor across Swiftcurrent and Josephine Lakes,
then hike through the woods up to the lake. The water here is icy-cold,
and as I reach in to examine some colorful stones, my hands are
immediately
infused with an aching pain. Perched high above, just below the
knife-like edge of the Continental Divide, Grinnell Glacier melts and
flows into the lake, beginning its journey of thousands of miles to
Hudson Bay nearly seven thousand feet below.
On the hike back to the boat, I ask the ranger why she occasionally
sings out loudly to alert any passing bruins that might be on the
trail, instead of wearing the silver bear-bells popular in all the
finer park gift shops. Don't they work, I ask? "Around here," she
smiles knowingly, "we call them dinner bells."
Back at the hotel, Lorie and I hurry to take in a ranger presentation, "After the Party: Winter in Glacier".
We finally return to camp and turn in for the night.
|
|
|
