WEST GLACIER, Mont. – Far off in the distance, we heard a rumbling boom.
The sky was dark as we rode through the rolling hills of yellow grasslands, the sun racing to dip behind the horizon as it fled from the incoming storm. We had just entered Montana and the welcoming party didn’t appear to be that inviting. As we ascended a small knoll that blotted out the road ahead, a thick flash of white cut through the purple evening followed by another round of rumbles. As the bolt seemed to linger in the air for just a second longer than normal, Taylor and I gasped and laughed with amazement.
Cresting the hill, we were suddenly presented with a massive body of water that stretched on into the dark distance. As the storm began to build, the wind lashed the surface into vicious waves that crashed against the docks and beaches of the town of Elmo, which hugged the shoreline of Flathead Lake.
As we circumnavigated Big Arm, the section of the lake home to Elmo, the lightning grew more intense around us. In every direction we looked, whips of electricity cracked at the ground before momentarily carving through the sky like a fluorescent vein. Our fascination forced us to stop and take an extended peek. As we sat at the pull off and gazed at Wild Horse Island, a small rocky clump in the middle of Flathead Lake – I checked the time and realized it was 10 minutes before 7 p.m.
Frantically, I grabbed my phone and opened the recreation.gov website, impatiently pacing and tapping the roof of my car as Safari battled through just one bar of service. Due to the massive amounts of tourists that make a pilgrimage to national parks every day, the Parks Service has implemented car reservations to a handful of parks. Tickets for these reservations sell out almost instantly and I wasn’t going to miss my chance to claim ours. Staying in northwestern Montana for just one full day, our sole objective was to explore as much of Glacier National Park as we could.
Nicknamed the Crown of the Continent and established in 1910, Glacier National Park houses a colossal maze of snow frosted peaks, lush valleys, fertile meadows and a host of natural wildlife spanning from pikas to grizzly bears. Glacier’s 1,583 square miles of land – almost double the area of McKean County – is also home to roughly 25 active glaciers, a number that has significantly decreased from the 150 that were originally identified in 1850.
For Taylor and I, we wanted to visit the park before that number reached zero, which is predicted to be in 2030. But first, Taylor and I still had to make our way through the weather to camp.
An hour after passing Elmo and Flathead Lake, the storm had seemingly come and gone without much of a fuss. The sky’s initial tantrum of thunder and lightning had given way to just a sprinkle of rain that was easily whisked from the windshield and from our mind. We were now cruising through cattle country, its long stretches of prairies bathed in the warm golden hour light. Soon, however, the storm would return with a vengeance. Montana wasn’t finished showing off its marvelous might.
We could see what looked like a few raindrops splattering on the road ahead, but once we made our way under the darkening clouds, they opened and unleashed their pent up, watery aggression. Fat drops of rain crashed down on Pearl in rapid succession, rendering the wipers useless as we blindly made our way down the road. Slowing to a crawl, I navigated with small glimpses of yellow and white lines we could make out through the waves that rolled over us.
Suddenly, something slammed into the hood with a loud thud. Taylor and I looked at each other with confused gazes. There was another thud, followed by a few more before soon the banging bellowed through the cab by the dozens. As the punches rained down upon us, flakes of white debris sprung up across the windshield. Taylor and I had apparently found ourselves in the midst of an August hail storm, one that threatened to dent and ding our already road worn vehicle. Between the gushes of rain that still blinded us and the volleys of hail that continuously clobbered us, we were paralyzed, sitting ducks at the mercy of Big Sky Country.
Then there was silence. The storm had disappeared and we had returned to the peaceful countryside that still clung to the honey colored evening light. Now, however, we were greeted by massive, lone peaks on either side of us that streaked from the ground in unrivaled solidarity. We had battled through the gauntlet and now stood on the doorstep of the northernmost range of the Rocky Mountains. To the east, a double rainbow glimmered in the soaked air, our unofficial red carpet entrance.
Soon after, Taylor and I reached Glacier Campground and made camp as quickly as we could, lest we be caught in the middle of another round of battering weather.
We woke up early the next morning, packed our adventure bags with snacks and plenty of water before heading off to Glacier National Park. Making our way through the morning traffic that led to the park, Taylor and I stopped at the Apgar Visitor Center to get recommendations on what to see and where to go. Looking to get a glimpse at some of the various park residents – especially a grizzly – we were directed to Logan Pass where we would embark on a five-mile round trip hike to Hidden Lakes.
After an hour on the Going-to-the-Sun scenic byway, we arrived at a small parking lot on the absolute peak of a steep mountain. At first glance, we were initially disappointed. Over a hundred cars were crammed in the tiny lot and pedestrians doubled or tripled in number, all bustling around the visitor center and up the trailhead. Following a half hour of circling and searching for a spot, Taylor and I were finally making our way down the trail, following a train of other hikers, families and group excursions on a wooden boardwalk that split through a meadow of purple and yellow flowers.
Despite the frustrating crowds, we couldn’t help but appreciate the views around us. On all sides were tremendous peaks, their gray shale cliffs standing in contrast with the color-sprinkled valleys below. As we continued on, hoary marmots scattered through the grasses, occasionally pausing to look at a passing traveler before letting out a high pitch warning to the others. Waterfalls gently slipped down the rock faces before converging into clear streams that flowed down into the valley.
Eventually, about two miles down the path, the crowds dispersed along with the boardwalk and Taylor and I found ourselves virtually alone. During a water break, a man fitted in a hefty backpack, boots and trekking poles came up to us, telling us about something up ahead in a thick accent. Given his excitement, we cut the break short and quickly carried on.
A few minutes ahead, we saw two clusters of wide-eyed onlookers quietly pointing and snapping photos with their phones. In between the two groups, meandering and chewing on the grass, was a big mountain goat. As it casually moved from one spot to the next, the afternoon sunlight filtered through its soft, snow white coat. After a few silent moments, the goat decided to move on down the trail, nonchalantly passing the crowds. Luckily for us, we were heading in the same direction.
For the next half hour, Taylor and I followed our new line leader – now nicknamed Bundt Cake – as he guided us down the descending trail. Now and again he would stop for a snack or a smell or to just look around, giving us plenty of opportunities to snap a couple photos that captured him and the dramatic cliffs in the background. Finally, as we arrived on the final descent to Hidden Lake, Bundt Cake wandered off into the tall grass and took his rest. His job was finished and now he could sit back and relax.
Nearly 1,000 feet below us sat Hidden Lake, a beautiful, turquoise river that swirled in the wind. The two guardians of the lake – Reynolds Mountain at 9,130 feet tall and Bearhat Mountain at 8,689 feet tall – looked down upon us as their snowpacks glimmered in the sun. We stood stunned, staring at perhaps the most jaw-dropping and spectacular view we had ever seen. The moment washed over us with an air of ridiculousness. After walking through a field of vibrant flowers through a hallway of mountains, a goat had brought us to an breathtaking panorama. What had our lives become?
Twenty minutes later, we were at the shoreline of the lake. While we only dipped our toes in the freezing, clear water, others around us waded, splashed and swam, letting out giddy gasps as their heads resurfaced. Unfortunately, our stay was short lived. The trek here had taken just under two hours and it was time to hump it back up the nearly vertical hill and back toward the visitor center. By the time we made it to the rim, with still two miles and change left to go, our legs were giving up on us. It would be a tough and slow walk back.
Despite the pain in our quads and calves, we kept our spirits high by reveling in how lucky we were to see so many astonishing sights in just one park and just one hike. It seemed like nothing could get better. However, Montana chose to prove us wrong and show us just one more miraculous display.
We were just a few hundred feet from the visitor center, eager to set our packs down and refill our water bottles, when someone called out, “Heads up!” Toward a hill to our left, we heard what sounded like the thunderous rumble of horses. Seconds later, a herd of five bighorn sheep clambered over the mound and stormed toward us. The sheep cut through the walkway, nearly trampling a few stunned hikers, before dashing off into the distance, following the setting sun toward the meadows and mountains beyond.
Taylor and I just looked at each other, shook our heads in disbelief and chuckled as we made our way back to the car.
Up next: South Dakota/Wyoming
(Hunter O. Lyle is a summer travel columnist for The Era with publications of his two-month trip across and around the United States appearing each Friday. To contact the author, email drifttrip2024@gmail.com)
