Bear-attack stories are told so often in Montana that they begin to take on a
fairy-tale quality — that is until you hoist a pack on your back, step into
the back country of Glacier National Park and walk straight into an official
warning sign that shouts ENTERING GRIZZLY COUNTRY. There’s something about
the illustration of a cranky-looking bear at a lonely mountain trailhead,
combined with the reiteration of the park’s rule number one (don’t hike
alone), which gets under your skin — especially if you’re in the vicinity of
the most infamous bear attack in US history, as I was, and doing it, well,
alone.
My right hand crept down involuntarily to the bear repellent hung on my hip
like a six-shooter — a canister of Mace-like pepper gas. Experienced hikers
are divided as to how effective the stuff is: although it sprays a blinding
cascade for seven yards, it only works if you hit the bear right in the eyes
and the wind doesn’t blow the gas back in your own face.
Pressing forward, I tried not to think about the dreaded “Night of the
Grizzlies”, back in 1967. Up until then, there had never been a bear
fatality in the park, which was founded in 1910, despite the growing numbers
of hikers encroaching on grizzly habitats. But just after midnight on August
13, 1967, two bears attacked without warning at camp sites about nine miles
apart. One broke into a tent at Trout Lake and disembowelled a sleeping
camper; an hour later, a completely different grizzly went wild at the
so-called Granite camping ground, killing one woman and mauling a man. Over
the next 20 years, another 10 people would die at Glacier in grizzly attacks.
“Don’t worry,” added the park ranger who had recounted this cheery tale, “we
only get an average of two bear maulings in Glacier a year now. Rarely
fatal.”
This was great news, given the huge number of visitors who come to the park —
great for all but two people, I guess.
The second attack in 1967 had taken place just below the mountain refuge I was
hiking towards — the historic Granite Park Chalet, a 1914 edifice, truly
antique for the American West. It was built by the Great Northern Railway,
as one of 18 back-country chalets in the park for the use of wealthy
Americans and English “sportsmen” on horseback tours of the Rocky Mountains.
Today, just two of the structures survive, and they can only be reached on
foot. Granite Park Chalet is perfectly situated, at the end of a rugged
seven-mile trail on the very knife-edge of the Continental Divide. The
accommodation is rustic-chic dorm-style and, yes, you bring in your own food
(although they will provide blankets).
As I trod cautiously around the edge of sheer precipices, the spectacular
alpine scenery of the Highline Trail made me forget about grizzlies —
almost. It was about half an hour later that I heard a rustle in the bushes
beside the trail, whipped out my bear spray — and came up against a very
large brown squirrel. Was I hyperventilating or was it the crystal mountain
air?
THE SURFEIT of solitude had been hard to imagine only an hour earlier, when I
first drove into Glacier National Park on the Going-to-the-Sun Road. This
precarious route, barely wide enough for two-lane traffic, was tortuously
carved through the park during the Great Depression. It quickly became
famous as one of the world’s most scenic roads, offering a sense of drama
that outstripped almost anything else in the US Rockies. Today,
Going-to-the-Sun is still a highway to the American Shangri-La, with
stunning vistas at every turn — the catch is that, in summer, they often
have to be appreciated in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But in true American
style, less than 2% of visitors to Glacier actually leave the roadside. No
sooner had I set off to hike the Highline Trail than my only company was a
trio of staring mountain goats.
Summer arrives late in Glacier, and I found myself crossing ravines of
unmelted snow as well as fields of lush yellow glacier lilies — and every
twist of the trail revealed another raw spire of granite, confirming why
this is considered by aficionados the premier park in the American Rockies.
Although I still grasped my bear spray for dear life, and sang every song I
could think of to warn lurking grizzlies of my approach, I knew I wasn’t in
too much danger. The real risk with bears is if you accidentally surprise
them — and I was above the alpine tree line, so they could see me coming
from a distance. It’s in the pine forests of the park that most accidents
tend to occur.
Still, after three hours of solid hiking, I felt a definite sense of relief
when I spotted Granite Park Chalet on a distant ridge. It was framed
superbly by a ring of jagged, snow-covered mountain peaks, with a trail of
smoke rising from its chimney, looking like a haunted cottage from the
Brothers Grimm. When I finally staggered onto the front porch, a couple of
hikers were nursing coffee cups and enjoying 270-degree vistas — almost
absurdly picturesque views of Heaven’s Peak. From here, you could watch
whole rain systems drift back and forth across the valley far below,
shooting bolts of lightning into a bed of green.
It was obvious why the chalet had been named a National Historic Landmark: in
this isolation, it felt as ancient and stately as a Scottish castle.
Generations of American hikers have also made it as comfortable and
well-worn as a favourite set of boots. The communal kitchen had been
efficiently organised to combat the chalet’s twin threats — fire and mice —
and was already filled with the activity of the dozen or so guests. I had a
corner room upstairs, with a choice of four bunks, each with a better view
than the last.
I had signed up to stay for three nights, so soon figured out the chalet
schedule. By day, everyone headed out, hiking into the wilds, reaching such
remote wonders as Grinnell Glacier, a river of blue ice that forces its way
through the Continental Divide. After dark, everyone unwinds by the log
fire, recounting their adventures and, more importantly, trading bear tales.
“Oh yeah, the Night of the Grizzlies,” recalled one sun-bronzed Montanan
woman on my first night; she spoke with deep authority because she lives in
Whitefish, close to the park. “On that particular evening, guests staying
here were woken by screaming in the camp site down below us. The chalet was
turned into a makeshift hospital.”
I hadn’t brought a torch for my trip to the outhouse, but it was hardly
necessary: a full moon lit up the entire valley. Still, there was a spring
in my step that night, as I dashed past virtual armies of imaginary
predators.
When Montanans are not talking about being torn apart by wild animals, they
are talking about fires — specifically the 2003 conflagration that ravaged
the park and almost consumed the chalet. In the 1950s, fire lookouts were
set up throughout the West, and those Americans with hermit-like tendencies
signed up to reside in them all summer. (Perhaps the most famous
fire-watcher was Jack Kerouac, who spent a season at the job in 1956 and
turned out Desolation Angels.) On my second morning at Glacier, I decided to
hike to Swiftcurrent Lookout, where a “lady schoolteacher” had apparently
stayed every summer for 10 years. It seemed an utterly remote refuge,
looming high on Heaven’s Peak, and even though wild weather had set in, I
set off through gale-force winds.
“If you’re not back in eight hours,” the Montanan woman said cheerily as I
stepped out of the door, “we’ll eat your food.”
Along the way, the wind buffeted me left and right; first rain hit, then
freezing sleet. I began to feel like Frodo trudging up Mount Doom. When I
finally reached the peak, the “lady schoolteacher” was nowhere to be seen,
and her glass-walled lookout, designed like a crystal lunar module, was
locked up. Perhaps the appearance of the storm had convinced her she should
take a well-earned break. All I could do was sign the waterproof guest book,
read the thermometer — zero Celsius, a fine summer temperature for this
altitude — and drink in another stunning view.
WHEN REJOICING in all this primeval American emptiness, it’s tempting to
assume that it has been a “wilderness” since time immemorial; it appeals to
our modern romantic longing for places untouched by the hands of man. But,
of course, like all western national parks, Glacier hasn’t always been
uninhabited. Until the park was founded in 1910, it had been the exclusive
preserve of the Blackfeet Indians.
Before coming to Glacier, I’d met a Native American elder named Curly Bear
Wagner at the Museum of the Plains Indian in Browning, Montana, who filled
me in on the park’s true history. In 1805, the Blackfeet guided the first
white explorers, Lewis and Clark, across this part of the West. “Our first
sally in the tourist industry,” Curly Bear laughed wryly. By treaty, the
northern half of what is now Montana was marked off as their reservation.
But in the 1880s, eastern outdoor-lovers discovered the natural beauty of
these far northern mountains, while a series of harsh winters saw the
starvation of some 600 Indians. In short, the US government made the
Blackfeet an offer they couldn’t refuse, and bought the land that became
Glacier National Park for $1.5m. The Blackfeet’s hunting and fishing rights
were quickly curtailed as “environmentally damaging”; today, they live in
the hot, sparse plains to the east of the park boundary.
“We were upset about selling the mountains,” Curly Bear told me. “We were
always told that they were sacred. We go up to fast and pray and gather
roots. Four young people are fasting up there right now.
“We don’t hike, though,” Curly Bear added flatly. “No fooling around.”
“Because it’s sacred land?” I ventured. “You don’t want to offend the spirits
of the region?”
“Hell, no. We’re afraid of the grizzly.”
Travel brief
Getting there: the best jumping-off point for a park visit is
Whitefish. Fly to nearby Glacier Park airport at Kisipel. Opodo (www.opodo.co.uk)
has fares from Heathrow from about £600, with United via Denver. Or try
Trailfinders (0845 058 5858, www.trailfinders.com).
Where to stay: in Whitefish, Grouse Mountain Lodge (00 1-406 862 3000, www.grousemountainlodge.com)
is a good bet; doubles from £55 a night. There are several hotels within the
park, including the well-located St Mary Lodge (406 732 4431, www.glcpark.com;
doubles from £53). But for the full Glacier experience, Granite Park Chalet,
the ultimate American hikers’ shelter, costs £36pp (888 345 2649, www.graniteparkchalet.com).
It can only be reached by trail and is open from late June to early
September: you bring your own food. For £8, you can also get a linen service
— a bargain, as it means you don’t have to carry a sleeping bag. For other
suggestions, see the excellent www.nps.gov/glac.
