Every time I return home to Montana, I’m startled by its sheer capacity—for plant and animal life, for landscape, for story. And I think others are struck by it, too. Name one person who has returned from Glacier National Park and kept quiet about its rough and tumble beauty. Or Yellowstone. Or any of the state’s many forests or rivers or prairies. Case in point.
What’s perhaps more startling then, is that many of the settings for the experiences we find enchanting—in Montana and elsewhere—belong to the commons, places we inherit or create jointly, such as our National Parks. What is so special about wild, public places? I’ve certainly felt their lure and return to many time and again. Have you? Where to?
On this jaunt home, I visited two of my faves, which I’m eager to share.
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| I must admit blanket lust for my grandmother's new (used) Pendleton |
My main squeeze Patrick and I whiled away our first weekend on Flathead Lake, the largest body of fresh water West of the Mississippi. There, we watched the sun rise from behind the Mission Mountains and cross over The Narrows, the skinniest part of the lake where the water runs quick and cold. We spotted eagles and osprey en route to an avian refuge called the Bird Islands (pictured here on the far left). The air coming off the water smelled rain fresh and brought back memories that only scent can recall. Do you have a summertime memory-scent?
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| New undergrowth and wildflowers |
I also do my very best to make a trip (or two or three) to Glacier when I’m home, so P and I later rendezvoused with my friend Brett, who’s living in the park this summer while working for the USGS and researching boreal toads for her Masters in Organismal Biology and Ecology. Sounds exotic and amazing, no? It is.
We settled on Granite Park Chalet for a destination, hopped a shuttle to the Loop trailhead half-way up the Going to the Sun Road, and started our ramble through the burn area of the 2003 Trapper Creek Complex. The fire torched 19,150 acres of land and was one of three that ripped through over 144,000 acres of park land in total.
Fire isn’t all bad, though: it restores ecosystem health and creates new vistas for the camera-happy hiker, too.
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| Heaven's Peak, elevation 8,987 ft |
After a somewhat soggy final ascent through a half mile of snow, Patrick, Brett, and I were rewarded with another stunning view of the Livingston Range.
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| View from the Granite Park Chalet |
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We couldn’t relish our endorphin high for long, as the last shuttle was slated to leave the Loop trailhead at five o’clock sharp. So our trio scuttled down the mountain in record time, only to be met with an impossibly long line at the bottom. Bummer. I was tired, probably dehydrated, and uncomfortable in the 95 degree heat. But I took notice of the others who waited with us while the shuttles made a last-ditch effort to shorten our wait time. There were many and some who came from faraway places. Then I thought about the commons.
As a kid, I used to hear my dad call this magical place our backyard. And it is. A public place in the commons, such as Glacier, is everyone’s backyard—a shared space for which anyone who visits can be a steward. Even the guy with the pompadour from Seattle. Maybe that’s one of the reasons these common spaces are so special: they are unifiers, serving as contexts for unlikely communities, like the tired bunch of hikers and biota on the Sun Road. What a motley crew we were.
But don't get me wrong, I love my time at home, too. You never know what you might find in your (literal) backyard.
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| A Robin took up residence in our hanging fuchsia plant. (Photo courtesy of my mother) |
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| Just before the chick chicks took flight |
If you're interested learning more about the commons, be sure to have a look at Jay Walljasper's new book All that We Share. I have yet to dig in, but it's on the top of my list.
