BARRY’S GLACIER HIKING TRIP


2



THE RIDGE OF DEFEAT



My itinerary for the upcoming week read like Jeremiah Johnson’s travelogue. There probably wasn’t another person on the shuttle bus with me who would recognize any of the spots that I would be camping, save one familiar designated campground where I would be, in theory, tomorrow night. This night though, I was heading for an area called “Twin Lakes.”

Enter Logan Pass Trailhead
08/15 St. Mary Undesignated: Twin Lakes
08/16 Lk Ellen Wilson Campground
08/17 St. Mary Undesignated: Blackfoot Basin
08/18 St. Mary Undesignated: Red Eagle Pass
08/19 St. Mary Undesignated: Red Eagle Pass
08/20 St. Mary Undesignated: Jackson Basin
Exit Jackson Glacier Overlook Trailhead

There is essentially only one road in the 1,600-square mile Glacier National Park. The Going-To-The-Sun road cuts East to West right through the heart of the park and over the Continental Divide at Logan Pass. It was constructed in the 1920’s by men wielding pick axes. The road is quite narrow and winding with sheer drops offs, sometimes thousands of feet. In places there are little rock walls on the edge but on the east side of the continental divide, there are few guardrails due to heavy snows and the resultant late winter avalanches that have repeatedly destroyed every protective barrier ever constructed. The park began the free shuttle service running on Going-To-The-Sun road in 2007 in order to lessen traffic on the highway which, incidentally, is limited to vehicles under 21 feet in length. It is quite a ride. By the way, you have seen this road before – in the opening credits of Steven King’s "The Shining." Who could forget it.

The ride from St. Mary to Logan Pass was both exhilarating and nauseating. At 6,600 ft., the trees at Logan Pass are stunted, miniature spruce Christmas trees. Most of the area is barren tundra, except for the visitor’s center, which sports bathrooms, a gift shop, a restaurant and hundreds of tourists. This was my trailhead. I had one last civilized pee, then set off up a 4-foot wide boardwalk towards the Hidden Lake overlook. I was wearing a 40 pound backpack and had trekking poles which were continuously and maddeningly getting stuck in the slots between the boards on the walkway. Everyone else – and I mean everyone – was walking unfettered, or only with tiny daypacks. I was getting some looks. I even passed a couple of rangers whom I was certain would ask to see my permit, but they were oblivious.











The wooden steps were cruel and unending and it was hot out, nearly 90 degrees and the sun was searing through the thin atmosphere. The planks and steps went on for nearly a mile, then gave way to a natural, rugged trail filled with throngs of people moving every which way and taking photos of mountain goats cooling off on a snowfield, long-horn sheep and friendly marmots who someone once fed. I didn’t have time for marmots; I was busy preparing myself mentally for the upcoming view of Hidden Lake and Bearhat Mountain. I had studied many pictures of it and of my entire route, and I hoped that I had a realistic grasp of the scope of things. I would try to gauge the scope of a photo by the estimating the size of the trees in it and I had gauged the trees at the base of Bearhat to be 30 to 50 feet tall. Of course this method no longer works above the tree line or even in alpine scenes where stunted trees can appear much larger than they actually are. Often what looks like a pile of gravel can actually be a pile of boulders.

I slithered through the throngs of people to the overlook, a wooden deck with a railing. It was difficult to get a view as everyone was elbow to elbow. The view from the railing was framed exactly as the photo in Backpacker magazine. Exactly. The ground fell away under the deck 1,000 feet down to Hidden Lake and across it, Bearhat Mountain, a solid pyramid of rock, rose up from the opposite shore. I smiled, feeling as though I had just walked right into the photo from the magazine. I could hardly believe I was finally here! And I was relieved. Relieved that it was exactly as expected, no bigger and no smaller, and that I had not been humoring myself all along that I could do these crazy backcountry hikes.


BEARHAT MOUNTAIN AND HIDDEN LAKE

With a renewed sense of purpose, I set off down the trail to the lake. For most of the crowd the lookout was their final destination here but a few ventured down the steep switchbacks to the lake, some with fishing poles and lunch boxes. A couple asked me where I was heading with my big backpack and I explained that I was happy that I would not have to come back up these switchbacks, but was instead heading to the head of the lake, now out of view, over the ridge beyond, then over a glacier. “We didn’t know about that! Is there a trail there?” No, there is no trail.

At the foot of the lake was a shallow stream to cross and it felt good to get my boots off. The water was numbingly cold and only a few people ventured across. In the company of friendly goats, I had a bite to eat then taped up my heels before putting my boots back on. I could already feel the blisters coming.

There was a faint trail along the backside of the lake for those who thought the best fish were back there, but I saw no one on it. I was really heading out now! As the trail began to fade I came across the couple I had talked to earlier; they were enjoying lunch on a huge, half submerged boulder.

“I guess this is it!” I said confidently, “It’s all mine now!” and they waved as I turned my back and disappeared into the brush.

About now you are saying, “How on earth do you find your way without a trail?”

It’s not a problem, you see, I had instructions. Explicit instructions. I had meticulously copied relevant pages out of Gordon Edwards’ book, “A Climber’s Guide to Glacier National Park” and was following the instructions to a tee. Of course the book covered treacherous climbing routes to the all peaks of the gnarliest mountains in the park, but one had to get to those mountains somehow through the more gentle valleys, and this was one such route described in the book. Known as the Floral Park route, the caveat was that you absolutely could not camp at Floral Park or you would suffer severe pain of death. Or so it sounded when the ranger reiterated this several times in front of Hiking Daddy causing him to vouch for me, “No problem. I’ll make sure she doesn’t camp there.” They knew him and they trusted him.

Floral Park’s tame grade, gem of a lake, and position midway between Hidden Lake and Sperry Glacier made it the perfect spot to camp and refuel on this route. I observed these unique qualities on my map months before and, in fact, this is how I met Hiking Daddy. I asked him about camping there.

“DON’T DO IT!” he wrote, and then he told me about the spies, “They can see you and they’ll throw you out of the park!”


FLORAL PARK

The issue with this tender area seems to be twofold; 1 – the impact of human boots, tent footprints and waste harm and erode the tender alpine environment and 2 – there are daily paid guided trips to the Sperry Glacier overlook, which in turn overlooks Floral Park, and what paying person wants to go that far to look down on what is supposed to be pristine wilderness and behold a big ol’ orange dome tent right in the middle of it all?

And so my permit says “Twin Lakes” and not Floral Park.

“Where the hell are Twin Lakes?” I asked Hiking Daddy after we ordered our hamburgers and pie to-go. I spread the map out on the counter and we searched. He couldn’t find it – he said he needed his own map. The problem was that Twin Lakes wasn’t any where near Floral Park or even on the way to Sperry Glacier. The Twin Lakes were on the other side of what is known as the Dragon’s Tail, an 8,000-foot tall, paper-thin wall of vertical rock which forms a lovely “S” curve on the landscape. Note that I said “the other side” – the lakes are on the other side of this thing.

“They can’t be serious!” I challenged, and was quickly losing my appetite.

“It’s not that bad” he replied with a mouth full of French fries.

THE DRAGON'S TAIL IN THE FOREGROUND, MY ROUTE TO IT'S RIGHT AND TWIN LAKES OFF THE PHOTO TO THE LEFT

There were signs all along that I was in over my head. Exactly why I chose to ignore these signs may be a mystery to most, but the truth is I was already committed. I was in the quicksand up to my waist and there was no turning back. And so, there I was under Bearhat Mountain with blisters forming on my feet, trying to find the “faint game trail,” which is actually a synonym for “bent blade of grass.” There was no cutting through the forest; it was a craggy mass of twisted and intertwined limbs, so there was a fair amount of circling and retracing my steps before I made any progress and finally came upon the famous “cut” behind Hidden Lake. Again, it looked just like it did in the pictures, maybe a little steeper. It was already 3:00.


THE CUT BY HIKING DADDY AND BY ME

The “cut” is a slot in a rock wall, requiring the use of hands and feet to climb; like a steep, irregular stairway. Not bad. But then there was more. And more. Up and up I went and over and around boulders and streams in the heat, sweat stinging my eyes. It was about at this point that I realized that my months of training, including thousands of squats and push-ups, jogging and running between little orange cones at “Boot Camp” was all a complete joke. How does one train for this? It would be impossible.

On I went, finally reaching the shelf behind the lake and it was steeper than I imagined. I forged on; from the top of the ridge, a mere 500 feet above me now, I would be able to see Floral Park, Sperry Glacier and… the Dragon’s Tail. I made switchbacks up the grass slope, back and forth, pausing occasionally to catch my breath. With each step, the air became thinner. Half way up, there was a slight leveling out, then another 200 feet of steep, loose shale leading to the summit. I wound my way up, looking for cairns (piles of stones) placed by previous hikers or any signs of a path, but there were none. I looked back and couldn’t believe the ground that I had covered that day and how far away Logan Pass was.

A LOOK BACK, LOGAN PASS NEAR THE CENTER OF PHOTO

It was 5:00 and I had been at this for 6 solid hours. Exhausted, I finally reached the top of the ridge and the view literally took my breath away.

There was no “saddle” on this ridge – it was a knife-edge of loose shale. I had just come up a 50-degree slope and on the other side of the knife-edge was a near sheer drop 4,000 feet straight down to Avalanche Lake! I used my poles to steady myself as the wind whipped my hair into my face. To the left and 900 feet below was Floral Park and behind it, the rocky route up to the entire Sperry Glacier basin, the Little Matterhorn and Gunsight Mountain all upon the foreboding backdrop of the Dragon’s Tail. Three words escaped my lips, “Holy fucking shit.”

WHERE I EMERGED ABOVE AVALANCHE LAKE

“I’ve got to reassess” I thought, “I must sit down and calmly think about this.” But there was nowhere to sit! And if I took my pack off, it would have slid down one way or the other. So there I stood, frozen in time, the wind whirling around me.

The climbing book had a lighthearted description of this ridge, “Scramble up the scree to the lowest part of the ridge and look over the other side. SURPRISE!” But this was no surprise to me; I knew what was there, I saw it on the map. But it is difficult to wrap your mind around 4,000 vertical feet. If you were ever fortunate enough to visit the observation floor of the World Trade Center before the fateful day, you may think you understand heights. The glass on that deck went all the way to the floor and the adventurous soul could step down into a little cubby in front of the window and press her toes and nose right up to the glass and look straight down to the sidewalk below. A whole lot of people just couldn’t do this and it’s no wonder; the Trade Centers were each 1,368 feet tall. So stack them both one on top of the other and then add one more and that is the surprise I was looking at!

But it wasn’t just the height; it was also the reality of the route up to Sperry Glacier that had my head spinning. For months I had a photo of that exact scene on my computer desktop and I knew it inside out. I knew the route but somehow, sitting there on the ridge, I just couldn’t see it. What looked like a soft fold of rock in the photo was in reality a 500-foot vertical gash containing a huge, raging waterfall. The melting glacier poured down the mountain in frothing rivulets like angry fingers pushing away, guarding its prize. The static photo I knew so well had come to life before me like a giant, writhing beast.

I took a deep breath and began to carefully pick my way along the ridgeline, as per instructions. I didn’t get far when I came upon a large snowfield clinging to the slope, blocking my way. “I can’t cross this! I don’t have an ice axe! This late in the season there wasn’t supposed to be snow!”

I contemplated then decided that I should try to get underneath it. I traversed the scree slope on the edges of my boots, using poles to stabilize myself, and I soon realized that the problem with going under a snowfield was that it is of course melting, the result being an ice-cold concrete mix containing chunks of sharp shale, which I was now trying to traverse. Not good. I was soon on my ass, sliding down just trying not to gain speed. It was at this exact moment that my body had had enough. My left calf went into a screeching spasm, the kind where you’ve got to get up and walk around, but there would be none of that and any move was likely to send me careening right back down to Hidden Lake. I grabbed my foot and pulled, “Arrrgh!” No good. I flipped over in the mud and stuck the toe of my boot into the concrete mix, pushing down on my heel. Relief. I flipped back over and realized that I had cut my leg on the shale just below the knee and blood was running down, mixing with the mud. Now I was sitting, and now I could think this thing through.

I waved a mucky hand to Big Brother who was presumably watching me from Logan Pass. This had to be the best entertainment they’ve had all summer! I was perched half way up the slope above Hidden Lake. “Man, I suck at this!” It was almost comical. I tried to be objective and I made a list: 1 - Could probably make it to Floral Park today, but no further; out of question due to pain of death. 2 – Might hurt myself doing so anyway due to exhaustion and clumsiness. 3 – Not sure I can make it up Sperry Glacier at all, route looks daunting. 4 – Would never make it all the way to Lake Ellen Wilson campsite tomorrow night. 5 – I’d be camping illegally either way I go, but Hidden Lake may be the lesser of two evils. 6 – Hate to disappoint Hiking Daddy. 7 – They are watching me.

I counted 6 negatives and only one stupid reason to go on, notwithstanding my own pride, so I made a semi-controlled slide down the slope to the gentle green meadow above the lake. I rinsed the caked mud and blood off my legs and arms in the brook that had been created by the snowfield I had just attempted to circumnavigate. I tilted my head and looked back up at the big patch of icy snow and from that angle I could see that there was a sliver of rock above it. I could have made it over the snowfield after all, it was just a matter of perspective.

I took my boots off, unrolled my sleeping pad and stretched out on it, the Ridge of Defeat looming over me. I had a long time to examine it as the sun slowly lowered, casting a dark shadow across it.


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Barry's big adventure

Barry's back from her Woman in the Wilderness adventure, and she has some tales to tell.

Here is Part 1.

Hiking Daddy



I was about to travel 2,500 miles to have a face-to-face meeting with a man I knew only from the Internet. I didn’t know what he looked like; only that he drove an orange, 25-year-old VW camping van upon which he occasionally made his own repairs. He touted himself as a 73-year old Canadian ex-hiker who knew the park like the back of his hand – Glacier National Park that is, nestled along the Canadian border in Montana, and it was only a short ride from his home. So, he said he would meet me there – no, better yet – he would get there before me at 5 a.m. then get in line for the daily hiking permit lottery and try to get me the hike of my dreams. And then he wanted to take me for a ride.

Who knew it would ever come to this when “Old_Hiker” responded to a question I posted on a Glacier hiking bulletin board site months ago. I was interested in a particular off-trail route known as “Floral Park” which had been outlined briefly in Backpacker magazine. They described it was a pleasant and little known alternative to the crowded trails in the park. Hey, I like getting away from the crowds! In fact, I like to get away from pretty much everyone, which is why I hike alone. That’s right, a woman in the wilderness totally alone with all the bears and mountain lions and crazed rapist ax-murderers just waiting to get at her. I enjoy it – so shoot me. This would be my third big trip. I’d hiked the Sierras and the Tetons successfully on my own and had decided that solo was the only way – in fact the best way – to go. My reasoning is simple; there is no group dynamic to cloud my decision-making process. No one to say, “Hey, we can do it!” when I get an intuition that things just aren’t right. No one to disappoint but myself when I bail on a climb because of the weather, my perceived abilities or just on a hunch. And that’s the way I like it. Seems safer if you ask me, and so far I have been right.

And so it was a sunny blue-sky day when the free Glacier shuttle dumped me off in the St. Mary Visitor’s Center parking lot and I spotted the orange van with a human silhouette inside. As I approached I could see the figure sitting, hunched over a book through the large open side door. I was leaning my shoulder and the heft of my enormous backpack against the side of the van before he noticed me, “Barry!!” and he leaped out of the van and threw his arms around me.

Hiking Daddy was also known as John Lethbridge, happily married with beloved kids and grandkids. Nearly as much as these, he loved his mountains. He had hiked Glacier Park extensively in his day and had posted a plethora of photos and descriptions of many routes on the Internet. He no longer did long hikes but instead enjoyed helping others with their great wilderness ambitions. He was a wealth of information and he was my personal concierge this summer.

The only thing that had me a little concerned was that John thought everything was easy. He was fond of writing, “It’s not that bad,” or “You’ll be surprised how easy it is to get around in the park” then he’d add a counter note like, “If it’s too steep you can pull your pack up behind you on a rope.” Pull my pack behind me on a rope? Are you serious? Partly he was testing me and I rose to the challenge, “No problem,” I’d reply, “I’d much prefer this kind of thing to stampeding with the herds on the main trail!” I charted his wild routes on my topo map and even challenged him on areas I thought were dubious. He’d send me scary pictures of gnarled rock and glaciers and I’d go on Google Earth 3D and get right down there and position myself where he was and snap the same shot. He liked playing the game and so did I. He also had convinced me that Big Brother would be watching me at all times in this park. “The rangers have a lookout on Logan Pass and can watch you the whole way” he said, causing a near abortion of my trip. I freaked. Big Brother in the wilderness? But he convinced me that they only wanted to know if I made it through o.k. and it was all for my own good, so our conversations continued for months, right up until the day I was to leave.

And so that is how I came to be standing in front of a uniformed backcountry permit ranger on this fine August day in Montana with John Lethbridge vouching for me, “No problem. She’s hiked with me before.” I was applying for a week long, mostly off-trail, fairly unknown route of sizeable magnitude requiring route-finding and bushwhacking and they gave it to me like a lark. With John by my side I didn’t even have to watch the bear movie or list my next-of-kin. It all seemed too easy. Way too easy to be sent out there all alone with the bears and mountain lions and crazed rapist ax-murderers.

“Let me show you around!” John jeered with a smile as we left the visitor’s center before noon with the sacred permit in-hand. This little piece of paper stated that tomorrow night I would be camping on the side of a mountain somewhere near a glacier far, far away from any trail or any body – almost incomprehensible, but I would think about that later. For now, we both piled into the front seats of the old VW and were soon tooling down the road past endless fields of golden grass and barbed wire. John pointed out and named all the mountaintops behind mountaintops, which cropped up right out of the golden plains. He showed me extensive areas of burnt, toothpick-like trees from a big fire 2 years ago. He pulled into a turnoff with a fine view of the mountains in the distance; this was his favorite car camping spot. We stopped at a local roadside café and ate our hamburgers while perched on barstools and we left with 2 hefty slices of their famous “razzleberry” pie, wrapped in cellophane on paper plates. We explored 2 “outfitting” shops, a grocery store and a gas station looking for the proper fuel for my tiny camp stove. Then – what I should have known to be inevitable – happened. We got into the van and there were no gears to be found. Well, maybe second… good thing we’re facing downhill in the parking lot! Then the big admission, “I had a little car trouble this morning…”






Things seemed fine for a bit, but then, at a stop sign, it happened again. So we rolled over into a parking lot in front of some really large, concrete tee-pees – presumably for hire as truly local flavor hotel rooms – and John rolled up his sleeves and slid under the car. “The mechanic who fixed this earlier today just tightened this nut and…” I was becoming concerned. Apparently, it was only through a twist of fate that he was able to meet me at all that day. Very early in the morning the thing had acted up not far from the park and through the advice of some locals he found a mechanic who was not only an early riser, but who came to him and performed the miracle of tightening the secret nut and all was well with the world! “Put it in first gear!” John barked form under the van. The stick shift was moving, as if by some ghost, and I grabbed the knob and gently pushed it forward. “That’s good!” I heard from under the floorboards. A little more jostling of the gearshift and then he appeared, upright and with blackened, greasy hands, “Let’s give it a try!” and he climbed in. Heading down a slope, he managed to find third gear. “Keep going!” I yelled as we crossed the parking lot, “There’s no one coming this way!” and soon we were heading down the main road towards the sainted mechanic’s home and away from the lonely mountaintop that had my name on it for tomorrow night.

It was about 4 p.m. when, still in third gear, we pulled into the dirt and gravel driveway. The mechanic’s home appeared to be an old turquoise bus with a sort of wooden shack built onto it. As we walked up to the dwelling, we passed several cars in various states of disrepair, piles of tangled barbed wire, a stack of boards and fence posts and some unidentifiable, rusted machinery scattered about. The door to the shack was padlocked.





By pushing the VW’s passenger seat forward and swinging it around a secret little toolbox was revealed underneath. Full of multi-colored screwdrivers, wrenches and pliers, John dug in and grabbed a handful of tools along with a small butter tub full of nuts and bolts. He spread a black plastic trash bag on the gravel and disappeared under the van once again. This time he was there for nearly an hour, jostling the stick shift back and forth to no avail. We agreed it was definitely time for pie.



He fired up the little stove, boiled a pot of water and carefully placed tea bags in 2 well used mismatched plastic cups. We enjoyed the famous razzelberry pie with tea, he on the sofa and me in the reversed passenger seat, straddling the secret toolbox. 6:00 and still no mechanic. We took a stroll across the street, down along a little pond. A group of native American cowboys wearing baseball caps – real cowboys with stiff ropes hanging on their saddle horns – rode by on horses, “Woop! Woop!” Back at the van, we shared our life stories until dusk. Over a cup of hot cocoa John admitted that he secretly wanted to get rid of the old van anyway. It was time for something more reliable. Maybe he would just leave it here tomorrow and hitchhike home. As for me, the next day I had a mountain to climb and it was nowhere in sight.

Once the sun dipped behind the hill, the temperature plummeted and I was made fun of for piling on layer after layer of fleece. John pushed on the roof of the van and it popped up, revealing an upper bunk. “I can’t get up there any more, so it’s yours.” I was soon in my sleeping bag, fleece and all and John down below in sheets and a comforter.

The night was dazzlingly clear and cold. At some point I heard the cowboys pass by again, clippity clomp. I imagined that they had been out there under the stars rounding up cattle all night, wooping and laughing and doing what cowboys do. At 1:00 the magical sound of a car coming up the driveway woke us both, though not a word was said. It passed us slowly then went on up to the turquoise bus, a door slammed and it quickly turned around and left.

In the morning John said that someone had come during the night looking for the absent mechanic. I suggested that the mechanic had been dropped off after a long evening. When I asked if he had heard the cowboys coming home from a long night on the range he said that they were most likely only returning from a long night at the local tavern. So much for the romantic version.

I may have been wrong about the cowboys, but by 8:30 the mechanic was soon walking out his driveway in the morning mist towards us and the poor old van. I was packing up my backpack as the 2 men discussed their next move. The mechanic offered to drive me to the park once he had the van fixed, but who knew when that would be? So I said goodbye to John, offered him some cash, which he wouldn’t accept, stepped 50 feet from the van to main road and put my thumb up. I figured with a backpack it would be easy. There was a car every 3 or 4 minutes. Some SUV’s full of families going to the park and some farmers in pick-up trucks, but no one gave me mercy. The mechanic was under the van. I shuffled in the dusty gravel in the warm morning sun as car after car passed me by. Next thing I knew the orange van was coming toward me, “Get in!” John grinned and I opened the sliding side door, threw my backpack in and hopped in the front seat. John searched for gears; no first gear. No second. False alarm! Another hug goodbye and the mechanic was under the van once again and I was back at the pavement with my thumb up.

10 minutes later the van was moving again. Unbelievable! I hopped in and this time we had first gear, third gear and fourth. Very doable. I said “Go straight for home! The mechanic will take me to the park!” But John headed south toward the park entrance, determined to get me going on the arduous route I had spent so many months training for.

With some very careful shifting, we made it to the visitor’s center and I got out in front of the Shuttle stop. We said our final goodbyes and I watched as Hiking Daddy slowly and deliberately shifted through the unique gear pattern and the old orange van made its way toward Canada.