COLUMN: Cling to all hope, you who enter here

The trees drip snow melt like rain as I hike up Snyder Ridge, leaving the snow cratered on either side of the trail. The climb is steep and I’m out of shape, having gone more or less into hibernation for the winter, and within minutes I’m shedding my heavy winter coat. I stop every couple of hundred feet, and I can’t even flatter myself with the excuse that it’s to take in the view; here, in a thick old-growth forest of cedars, hemlocks, and black cottonwood, I can’t see a thing except for patchy old snow well on its way to joining the little channels of meltwater runoff chasing each other down the ridge and toward Lake McDonald. The altitude leaves my heart hammering at every pause.

It’s been months since I’ve passed the roadside advertisements for the Montana Vortex, the turnoff to Hungry Horse Reservoir, and the distinctive signs for Glacier National Park. When I last visited in October, I entered at Polebridge and drove north to Kintla Lake––my typical route. This is the first time I’ve seen Lake McDonald in at least six months; I’m allergic to the crowds and traffic that reduce the Going to the Sun road to an agonizing crawl.

Even on a Sunday morning in mid February, I find that the central part of the park is too full for my taste. The Going to the Sun road is closed at McDonald Lodge, and the parking lot there was full when I drove up to take a look, packs of cross-country skiers and folks in windbreakers and light running gear roving up past the barriers to explore the next leg up toward Avalanche. There’s only one other vehicle at the Lincoln Lake trailhead, on the other hand, so it seemed like a more natural choice.

As I climb and the patches of snow grow deeper and more pristine, the tiny cascades cut dark holes in the white expanse. Trailblazers more adventurous and better-prepared than I am have cut a narrow trail with their snowshoes. I follow one star-shaped cleat imprint religiously, but still my own booted feet sink a little with each step––and sometimes slip sideways into deeper snow, leaving me thigh-deep and flailing madly for traction. As always, I’m hiking without the proper gear, and the Lincoln Lake trail is not forgiving.

But it is beautiful. Scattered evergreens drop loads of snow on and off the trail, and red cypress trunks leap out of the grey and white and green middle distance, mottled with moss and lichen coming awake after a short winter. The native lichens sport some of my favorite colloquial names in plant taxonomy: green old man’s beard and black horsehair and wolf lichen drape every trunk and branch, glittering with captured droplets of water that catch the light.

I’m taking one of my many breathers when I hear laughter and the tell-tale slap of snowshoes. A few moments later, the four snowshoers I’ve been following come into view, retracing their own footsteps down the trail. The first couple stops when they see me, and the man in the lead casts a skeptical eye at my boots and backpack. “Are you out here alone?” he asks. I take a long moment to ponder the deep existential implications of his question before answering in the affirmative. I ask about the trail ahead.

“Oh, it’s beautiful once you get up top,” he says. “It opens up a bit more at the trail crossing. You’re almost there.” And as the others caught up to them, they took off with a friendly wave, leaving me to scrabble on in silence. It’s less than two miles from the trailhead to the trail junction he mentioned, and there I’m forced to turn back. My knees are in rough shape from post-holing through the snow, and more importantly, I’m running late.

The way back is easier, of course, but no less hazardous. As I skid down the last quarter mile, I pass a couple in an active state of slipping on a slick patch. It’s Valentine’s Day, and they seem happy to fall against each other. “Have a nice hike,” I say as I slide past, headed for the car.

At the Glacier Park International Airport, a friend is waiting patiently in the baggage claim with two enormous suitcases and two cats in carry totes. The airport is her first glimpse of her new home. She looks up from where she’s sitting, then grins, and for a moment I feel time warp around me, to when I first took a leap of faith and moved to Montana a year ago. There’s something magical to falling in love with a new landscape, and I can’t wait to see the magic spread into her life also.