blazing through Northern Montana

No fewer than 12 wildfires, most of them caused by lightning, blazed through the forests of Montana last week, scorching close to 600 square miles of combined land. The largest of the infernos was the Chippy Creek Fire, located about 26 miles southeast of Kalispell, home to Glacier International Airport. As of Aug. 16, the Chippy Creek blaze had charred more than 82,000 acres, costing the state some $6.5 million. Although well over 500 firefighters were called upon to subdue the flames, the fire was only 30 percent contained late last week.

I flew into Kalispell on Aug. 11 to visit some old friends in neighboring Columbia Falls, a town of 3,700 people known as the “Gateway to Glacier National Park.” Predictably, the fires were the talk of the town. The Chippy Creek Fire, along with the Brush Creek Fire and the Skyland Fire, sent up massive plumes of smoke that smothered the sky like tremendous clouds. Ash sometimes fluttered to the earth like snowflakes, covering parked cars with thin layers of soot.

The sole benefit of the fires was that the smoke tended to produce dazzling sunsets in the vast Montana sky.The sun turned blood red and glowed like an ember, smoldering in a brownish haze, the belly of which turned shades of pink as the sun descended to the west. As a small group of locals gathered on my friend’s patio, they debated over which fire was contributing most directly to the veil of smoke overhead.

The home belonged to my friend Ali, who hosted our mutual friend Grey and myself for most of the week. The three of us met while attending the University of Colorado in Boulder, but I had not seen Grey, who now lives in San Francisco, for about two years, and neither of us had seen Ali for close to five years. We were determined not to let the fires interrupt our long-awaited vacation, and we talked ambitiously of hiking, camping and kayaking.

The day after I arrived, we drove up to Logan Pass in Glacier National Park, accompanied by Ali’s husband and their one-year-old son. According to the Daily Inter Lake, a local newspaper, approximately 1.2 million people had visited Glacier this year by the end of July, up 11 percent from the previous year. Extensive construction on Going-to-the-Sun Road, which winds up the mountains to Logan Pass, did not stop tourists from flooding the area on Aug. 12. Although the trail to Hidden Lake was choked with hundreds of hikers, abundant wildlife was in plain view. Minutes after we started hiking, we saw a majestic mountain goat grazing about 100 feet from the trail. It was an enchanting sight—the muscled creature’s white fleece cast against a green canvas dwarfed by towering crags in every direction. But, by the time our hike was over, the sight of mountain goats had become so commonplace that it barely spurred a mention. We saw around a dozen of the animals, some better groomed than others, and most of them so accustomed to humans that they were not afraid to walk right onto the trail by our sides. We also saw a group of bighorn sheep lining a ridge, a few marmots and, during the drive home, a bald eagle.   

Only a handful of the peaks in Glacier National Park protrude more than 10,000 feet in the air. This seemed relatively unimpressive, since we were accustomed to the 14,000-plus-foot mountains of Colorado. But, what Glacier’s mountains lack in height, they make up for with exceptionally steep slopes and formidably rocky peaks, which look even more menacing when partially obscured by smoke. Envisioning the slow-motion collisions of earth that led to the formation of these mountains sends the imagination spinning.

It was in the spirit of adventure that Grey, Ali and I braved the fires and headed into the mountains the following day for a two-night campout. Riding in Ali’s Subaru, we drove over gravel roads along the western edge of Glacier National Park until we came to a secluded campsite by the North Fork of the Flathead River. With us was Ali’s dog, a part German shepherd, part husky mix named Mali. We pitched our tent and, since there was a ban on campfires, spent most of the night skipping stones on the river and slurping cans of cheap beer. We were all getting a bit drowsy when we heard something lumbering in the water upriver. It was too dark to make out its shape in the starry night, but it was big enough to displace rocks on the riverbed with its steps. We stared wide-eyed into the darkness for some time, aware of the odor our cooler of cold meat and beer was exuding, until the sound faded away.

Late that night, after Grey and I had retired to the tent and Ali to the back of her Subaru, Mali started barking uncontrollably. Grey and I waited in silence for Ali to take care of the situation, but the barking continued unabated. Finally, Grey hollered at the dog to shut up, and she reluctantly obeyed.

Grey and I arose before Ali and decided not to wake her, knowing it was the first chance she’d had to sleep late since she gave birth to her son 15 months earlier. As we waited for her to wake up, Mali suddenly erupted in a strident refrain of barking and howling. At first, she faced directly across the river, but her gaze seemed to follow something through the woods on the other side. I was about to yell at her to be quiet when I caught sight of a large bear running on all fours in a clearing downriver. Thankfully, the bear was running away from us, presumably spooked by Mali’s barking. I pointed the animal out to Grey before it disappeared, and we debated whether it was a grizzly or a black bear. I had seen black bears before in New Hampshire, but this animal was too far away to get a clean view.

Later, when Ali got up, she told us why she hadn’t hushed Mali during the night. She recognized the longwinded bark, she said, as a “bear-bark”—one the dog only employs when in proximity to a bear. Ali has lived in northern Montana for about six years, and she has come to know how her dog reacts to bears. On the day of my arrival, I had read an article in the paper about the 40th anniversary of the day two different grizzlies killed two people in Glacier National Park. After I related the story, Grey felt like a fool for quieting Mali the night before.

Nevertheless, we were excited about the sight, and about the rest of the day, which we planned to spend floating down the river on kayaks. We had brought two inflatable kayaks, and Ali had borrowed a hard-shell, along with a second vehicle, from some friends who lived nearby. We left one car near the campsite and drove the other far upriver, launching our vessels into a swift current from a rocky riverbank.

I’d say we floated for about four hours, paddling laboriously at times, at others lying back and letting the kayaks spin in lazy circles. Occasional rapids were broken by stretches of calm water, where we sipped cold beers and tossed a tennis ball between our boats. Sometimes the river would wind around a bend and give way to magnificent views of mountain peaks in the park. At such times, we usually floated in silence. At other times, we made our kayaks into bumper cars and deliberately collided with one another. We made frequent stops to explore the riverbank and relieve ourselves, at one point taking a dip in the placid, chilly water. 

A highlight of the kayak trip came when a large bald eagle soared overhead and landed on a bare treetop. We eventually realized that it was eyeing a group of merganser ducklings on the river and was probably frustrated by our intrusion. But it remained perched on the treetop long enough for us to float directly beneath it and stare up at its regal, white-feathered face. 

Before returning to the campsite, we stopped at a small bar in Polebridge called the Northern Lights Saloon, where we met up with two friends of Ali’s, named Teckla and Matt. We later headed to the couple’s nearby cabin, where we feasted on bighorn sheep burgers, buffalo ribs, elk, antelope and salmon. We also drank wine, continuing a pattern of alcohol consumption that had become a theme of the outing. Over the course of the trip, the three of us consumed a 30-pack of Hams, a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, two bottles of red wine and most of a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon.

The next morning, we took our sweet time returning to Columbia Falls, stopping at two pristine mountain lakes along the way. The first lake was small and surrounded by green mountainsides that came all the way down to its shores. Grey and I took a dip (along with Mali), but the water was cold enough to knock the wind out of you. The second lake was both larger and warmer, and we lounged around for awhile, swimming and lunching on Indian food prepared on a camping stove.

Returning to Columbia Falls, we were bushed and filthy, but satisfied with the success of our trip. The smoke in the air was thicker than ever, producing the effect of dark storm clouds in the early evening sky. Flakes of ash spiraled to the ground, and we stared in amazement at the surreal, reddish orb of the sun. Grey and I were flying out the following day.

Coincidentally, both of us were headed to Seattle, Grey to visit family and I to attend a wedding. Naturally, we were sad to part ways, but we vowed not to let another five years pass before our next outdoor adventure.