Glacier Grizzlies
It was a cool late September morning on the far east side of Glacier National Park when I first came to understand what proper grizzly country was. The night was especially pitch black on our drive into the park, with no one else on the road except for an elk that pranced in front of our car. We hit the trail at first light and the timber was thick from the start, with head high shrubs mixing in between and creating a labyrinth of possible hiding places for all of the creatures that call the Northern Rockies their home.
We had seen a grizzly mom and her two cubs the previous day, out in the open while on a trail out of Logan Pass. She looked right at me from twenty yards away after I had crested a small hill that shrouded her position. My stomach dropped, but a look of indifference was all she had for me before she brought her black eyes back to her cubs. We passed her with a wide berth and then watched with genuine horror as she suddenly spun and charged towards a group of hikers on a different trail who had drifted too close to her cubs. I could see her muscles ripple through the fat on her back even from my distance, but just before I managed to find my voice and yell out to warn them, she stopped dead in her tracks ten yards from the group. None of the hikers ever noticed.
Back at the parking lot, we watched as rangers closed the trail behind us and radioed to one another in hushed tones. It was a thrilling encounter but one that didn’t immediately make me fearful of an attack. It probably should’ve, but it didn’t. It was the next day on our east side adventure when I felt like prey walking through the forest, a feeling that only a large predator can instill.
As I mentioned, it was first light when we hit the trail. I didn’t realize in time that we would’ve preferred more light, especially for the first section. The foliage around us was so thick that if you took two steps into it you would disappear entirely from view. The air smelled of mud and wet grass. The pines around us shrouded any sun and I flinched at every small movement. I could feel that one was in there with us, at least I believed I could.
I’ve always believed that humans possess some sort of ancient instinct for danger, a trait passed down by our most paranoid ancestors. I was less nervous actually looking at three grizzlies the previous day than in that dense forest in the low light, where my hair had already stood straight up on the back of my neck. Even as a passing visitor, this country felt hostile and wild. I thought of the indigenous people and the settlers that spent time in this same spot and who, without the aid of artificial lights, had to deal with whatever trouble the night held in store for them. These thoughts relaxed me and reminded me of my place as an interloper in a land I no longer truly belonged.
As the forest finally cleared and the light grew brighter, the mountains blended with the haze from the California wildfires and the high alpine sun basked the whole landscape in a golden hue. The foothills were carved in straight lines, marching upwards from the lowlands of the lakes and streams to the jagged rocky summits that cut into the sky with silver, serrated stone. Dark lines stretched horizontally across the rocky ridges underneath the peaks, with perfect symmetry all the way across suggesting movement or water or something else I didn’t understand.
I thought back to a quote I heard from author and adventurer Steve Rinella, that he prefers to be in country that has grizzlies than areas that don't. I strangely understood what he meant despite my earlier fears. The air seemed to have a tangible feel that America’s largest predator still breathes in its midst. This seemed to make the wilderness feel in an odd sort of balance that I could feel if I focused on it.
As we continued to hike upwards, the reward of marching through these fears and these feelings seemed amplified. The mountains surrounded us like perfectly sketched cathedrals that were pleasing to the eye in ways that wouldn’t make sense to put into words. Most places change, but the ones that stay mostly the same act as time capsules for a world that would’ve otherwise been forgotten. We could now see another group tracing up the trail far below us, making our modern moment in time more apparent and snapping me from a wilderness induced daydream.
The other hikers we passed on our return journey weren’t enough to shake the feeling I had stepped back in time for a day. I was breathing the same air as the grizzlies, the same air as the moose and the elk and the elusive wolves that had been here longer than any man. For some strange reason this feeling must have always provided humans enough excitement and resolve to press over one more ridge to see unexplored lands. For now, I’ll have to settle for brief moments where I can still feel the spirit of the West and the wild, something I’d never truly felt before I walked into the land of the grizzly bear.
