A Northbound Departure

Summer 2012.  What can I say, but that it was a summer to be remembered.  It was three months that felt like a year, and in that time I can honestly say that I became not only a travel addict, but finally began to feel the sense of self-reliance I realize I was missing.

I left Bozeman the first week of June all nervous and anxious and reluctant.  That makes complete sense for the onset of adventure, I know, but honestly I was scared to be alone again. The final month of my pre-Bozeman travels through western Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming were not exactly during prime tourist season, therefore my experiences included mostly me, myself, and I.  I was afraid to feel that loneliness again, caused by not having anyone to share in my experience.  So, needless to say, when I arrived in Whitefish, MT during a rainstorm, after I five hour drive, I was not the happiest of campers...

Once you leave the city of Bozeman and drive in any direction, there is literally nothing for miles and miles.  You may pass ranches, and rolling fields, and a blip of a town here and there, but for the most part it is aptly fits the Big Sky country description. It is such a contrast from the population distribution of the northeast.  Although one accustomed to human domination could describe the Montana wilds as "empty", it is comforting to see forests and mountains expanding for miles before you, untouched by industry or development.

At one point, I believe I saw a pack of wild horses.  They were gathered in the road, and as I approached them they took off running alongside the road, and then bolted into the woods, galloping through the trees.  They were inspiring free and spirited, and it was wicked cool.

In addition to feeling somewhat apprehensive about leaving a completely comfortable and familiar place, I noticed that my car was leaking something.  Fantastic.  I recently had one of the CV shafts on my car replaced, and after stopping at a random mechanic, was informed that the axle seal was cracked and leaking gear fluid.  Fabulous.  So not only was it raining and cold when I arrived in Whitefish, but I was super paranoid about loosing gear fluid and destroying my car.  Not to mention leaking it all over the place.  Luckily, I managed to find an auto shop that could fix it, but it would be a couple days until the part they needed could be shipped from Idaho.  Cars are so fun.

I'll be honest, I was having quite the pity party for myself.  I moseyed around the town, and was feeling pretty crappy, so I decided to find a cafe since I was in obvious need of warmth and food.  After a delicious plate of eggs and toast, I did feel better. This was also due in part to the eye candy gathering of guys who sat right next to me. Woot.

Yay... rain....

Pardon?

Salvation!

I keep hoping that I am learning to deal with change in a mature and graceful way... cough cough.  Right.  I wish.  I'm finally starting to face that fact that I go through at least a week long adjustment period when I go undergo lifestyle or location changes.  It happened the first week I was at collage, every time I moved home, the first week I studied abroad, when I first left for this trip, when I first got to Bozeman...  Its an inevitable, recurring pattern during which I am usually somewhat depressed, moody, and doubtful about my decisions.  So of course I called my Dad who, as always, gave me the kick in the pants I needed to pull out of it.  Thanks Padre.

I decided to go camp in Glacier National Park, regardless of the rain, and just sleep in my car.  The forecast was calling for sunshine the next day, so I was hopeful about getting in at least one day of sigh seeing.  As I left the town, the rain subsided and the fog started to lift, along with my spirits.  At the campground, I pulled into a site across from a small yellow tent accompanied with only a bicycle and its rider.  He waved, I waved.  I began re-organizing my car to that I could just sleep in the back instead of having to set up, and then take down, a wet tent.  That's never pleasant.  The rider came over, we did the small talk thing for a few minutes, and then I realized, "Aha! You could go hiking with me and I wouldn't be alone!" (PS, there are over 300 grizzly bears living in Glacier National Park, so the whole might-see-a-bear thing was kinda on the front of my mind).

Dylan is from San Francisco, has a degree in English, had been working for a book fair company, and was now riding his bike across the country.  There is a mapped route across the country that begins in Anacortes, WA and ends in NYC.  The trip had lead him through Glacier where he was hoping to wait out the rain. We decided to get together the next day and hike to Avalanche Lake.  I went to bed feeling excited that I had already made a new friend.

The next morning, sun shafts split through the trees and the air was crisp and clear.  After my usual breakfast of oatmeal with cinnamon and craisens, Dylan and I prepared to take off.  I was going to drive up to the trail head and he was going to ride. Part way up the road I thought, why the heck am I not riding too? So I pulled out my bike and joined Dylan up the rising Going-to-the-Sun Road.

Glacier National Park is in fact one of the most spectacular places anyone can experience.  The sharp mountains undulate along the horizon and around every corner is a new expanse of rising peaks.  The first view I was greeted with was the clearing clouds that revealed the mountains beyond.

The hike to Avalanche Lake was only about 4 miles round trip, so we decided to keep riding up the road.  There was construction work being done to the road, so it was closed to cars after about 6 miles.  It was open to pedestrians and bikes, which meant we had the road to ourselves! We traversed the switchbacks and ascended another 11 miles up the road before we hit the road work and couldn't go any farther.

 
It was an amazing ride. However, I got pretty chilled on the 17 miles of downhill that followed.  Unfortunately, the campground didn't have any showers, and I had to wash my hair under the ice cold water in the bathroom sink.  It was decided that both Dylan and I had earned a warm meal, so we went to the small diner at the park's town center and enjoyed a pot-roast dinner.

It was hard to part ways the following morning, having bonded so abruptly and solidly.  But we both needed to move on and were heading opposite ways, so goodbyes were said and promises made to visit him in San Francisco.  I headed west filled with renewed spirits and high hopes.