East Glacier Park to Logan State Park (Montana) – 213 miles plus 16 miles running

There’s an old bit of advice for writing narrative – everything going well might be lovely for all involved, but it sure doesn’t make for a good story! Imagine a book where everyone were happy to start with. Everyone happy in the middle. And happily ever after. Where’s the drama? I’m bored already – how dare these characters have it so bloody easy? I want misery! Fall overboard Dick from the Famous Five. Now, that’s better! Yep, Pooh Bear, stick your paws in that honey in which everyone at the party last night stubbed out their cigarettes. I’m gripped! If  you are Samuel Beckett, you might be able to write a brilliant novel where darn little happens, but don’t tell me that anyone in Waiting for Godot is happy exactly. Nope, as good old Aristotle told us, you need a narrative arc. Start with some conflict or inciting incident, build up to crisis and finish with partial resolution, during which process something has changed (and ideally there have been many miserable characters along the way). Now that’s how a story looks…which is a bit of an issue for those of us writing cycle touring blogs.

I don’t want drama. I don’t want things to go wrong. I want to be a character who you hate because I’ve got it so good. Being charged by a bear? No thanks. A bad cycling accident? No sirree. Running out of water on a hot day – that’s happened to me once when cycle touring when in the South of Italy  and I don’t need for it to happen again! So how to tell the story of my time in Glacier National Park, without just saying, ‘it was awesome?!’

What’s incredible about the approach to the Rockies from the east in Montana is how suddenly they come upon you. One minute, second minute, and third hour you’re in the plains, and then boof, they rise up with barely any foothill prelude. The second leg of my Amtrak journey from Chicago to East Glacier was significantly longer than the first, as it wound up through Wisconsin and Minnesota, and across the vast expanse of North Dakota. Out of the window to my right was a river (almost an estuary in fact) which was badly flooded. Who knew that the Mississippi river was already so broad and swampy so far north in its journey through America? Who knew that the USA was currently flooding? I’d had far better weather as of late, albeit imagining that the weather in Minnessota might be similar to that in Vermont is like expecting the weather in Bolton to mirror that in Toledo… I was about to write that you’ll find all human life aboard an Amtrak train, but this isn’t actually true. There’s a large swathe of the US population who I’m sure wouldn’t consider it in preference for driving or flying, or at least not in the coach class in which I was travelling as opposed to the sleeper cabins. Yet still, I was surrounded by a proper mix of peoples. Those I’d guess were retired college professors. Amish peoples, and other communities which I didn’t recognise. Latino families. I got chatting to a woman who was travelling to Idaho for a family gathering by the lake, and looking forward to the relaxed cannabis laws there and many beers. She’d previously been an addict for 20 years, she told me.

‘Wow, respect,’ I said, ‘for having come clean.’

She looked me in the eye. ‘You wouldn’t believe how hard it was.’

And I believed her.

There was a group of recent college graduates off to hike in Glacier National Park. A couple coughing and spluttering in the seats behind me who I guess are the source of my current cold, and the reason for me drafting this blog post earlier than usual.

It was after 7pm when the train rolled into East Glacier Park station, and even though the nearest National Park campground was only 7 miles away, I was glad I’d ignored my budget and booked a room in the nearby ‘hostel’. Besides anything else, when I got off the train in the second wave of those disembarking (since the platform wasn’t long enough for the entire train to get off at once), I was fairly certain my bike wouldn’t appear too.

‘How do I get my bike?’ I asked a train conductor, pointing to the front carriages of the train and the baggage car which were now well beyond the platform.

Even he looked concerned, and didn’t have an answer to my question. Once, when I flew to New Zealand to visit my sister and nieces for Christmas, my bike hadn’t arrived off the carousel in Newark where I  transferred, let alone in Auckland. How was I now meant to cycle south? Yet on this occasion it wasn’t my luggage which had been forgotten. There was Spike, happily loaded onto a luggage trolley, wondering why he couldn’t always travel this way. There were my four panniers. Yet there wasn’t the luggage of the poor elderly woman and grandson who had also disembarked.

‘I don’t have any spare clothes,’ was the only complaint the woman made. Meekly. I could empathise. The first thing I did when I got to the hostel was shower and get into something clean after 52 hours of travel. Yet for me? Still no drama. So far so good for my own travels, and less so for this blog.

That evening I made some plans. The next day I would cycle up to Many Glacier campground, in the NE of the national park and starting point for many of the best day hikes, and when I got there I’d run up the 10 mile Iceberg Lake Trail. The next day I’d cycle over the wonderfully named Going-to-the-Sun road and then do a run up to Avalanche Lake. The next day a cycle back up to Logan’s Pass and up the Highline Trail…! My eyes were bigger than my glasses which were bigger than my belly or my belt let alone my poor legs. When was I ever going to want to go for a 10 mile run after a hilly 54 mile cycle when I had a ‘still cool’ beer which I could drink instead?

The first day of cycling I rode over from East Glacier to St Mary’s via two long climbs, skirting the edges of the Park without entering until I headed up the dirt track to Many Glacier (these days better named fewer glacier, I’m sure). You can’t fault the Americans their friendliness, even if it still can’t compare with the people in Nova Scotia. I was busy taking yet another photo of the view when a big white truck pulled into the layby behind me; two native American women leapt out, with the sole purpose it turned out of asking me what I thought of the mountains / the view! They lived in a reservation just east and north of here.

I had no words in reply. I just spread my arms wide, and boggled my eyes. ‘Do you ever tire of it?’ As if I’ve ever tired of mountains when I’ve lived in them.

They were on their way to Great Mountain, which they explained was a place of great cultural significance to them, but before I could ask them why, they’d leapt back in their van. Their fellas waved from the back windows. The livelier of the two women revved the engine high. Slightly further on, at the top of the pass I met Patrick, an early 30-something (sorry if I’m wrong Patrick!) American guy who was sitting enjoying a sandwich with the most incredible view down towards the mountains. We got chatting. He was from West Virginia, called Seattle ‘home’ these days, but mainly spent his time travelling around the country working in IT from his truck, and trail running at any opportunity. Then, just before the next big climb I suddenly became aware of two cycle tourists behind me, who had apparently dropped from the sky (for goodness forbid they had caught me up!) I got chatting to Daniel, a late 20-something German as we set off at an accelerating pace up the next climb. He had been travelling already for 8 months, and his high-vis vest holier than your most religious Midwest American. He had hooked up with Agi, a Polish woman, at a warmshowers host’s, and they were cycling the continental divide together.

That evening my almost cold beer won out over running. Of course. ‘I’ll go tomorrow morning first thing instead,’ I said to Daniel and Agi when I met them again at the campsite that evening. As it turned out, they set out even earlier than me, and I met them on both way up and down. And who else might I meet again but Patrick, who had also headed up the valley to run. The interactions I make might not have any depth, but to say that my cycle tour is isolated simply isn’t true.

Daniel, Agi and Patrick were all pleased to see me. Some of the other hikers on the trail reacted less warmly.

‘Show off!’ said one man.

‘Over-achiever,’ said a woman.

Mutter mutter mutter said many others, whose filters were equally removed, but more quietly so. I’d set off running before 7.30, with the mountains standing out wonderfully in the early morning light, but even bearing in mind its name, I had no expectation what awaited me. Mini icebergs were literally still floating in the turquoise lake water, surrounded by an amphitheatre of cliffs.

Did you go for a swim?’ a man and adult daughter asked me as I ran past them on the descent.

‘Respect,’ I said, admitting that indeed that I had not. I’m not known for my love of cold water, even when it looks so turquoisely beautiful that you could wear it. ‘Over-achievers,’ I muttered under my breath once out of earshot.

The Going-to-the-Sun road lived up to all expectation as one of the most scenic roads in the US, even if cycling it after a 10 mile run was a bonkers plan. More turquoise lakes. Craggy snowy peaks and escarpments. Huge waterfalls toasting the melting snow. Smaller waterfalls enjoying landing on my head to cool me down. It was no more climbing than the day before, but coming all at once in the hottest part of the day it felt like so much more, not to mention the run I’d already been on. But not even my legs could hate me too much, such was the scenery. The higher I climbed, the more people cheered from the windows. I’ve climbed mountain passes with bike luggage which are higher than 2045m, but somehow this being the Continental Divide, and the snow still closing off trails…it felt big.

The western side of the road is notoriously narrower and more dramatic, as the road hugs and winds along the cliffside. Until Glacier National Park there have been few occasions where I’ve felt like I’ve been at an advantage as a cycle tourist. This is a world made for groups and vehicles. No? Campground fees have most benefitted those travelling en masse in the biggest RVs. Roads are for motorised vehicles, with bikes tolerated (mostly). Yet in Glacier NP the campsites had areas set aside for hiker bikers whereby we could share the cost of the pitch. Meanwhile, those driving vehicles needed to pay and reserve months in advance to drive this road, whereas for cyclists it’s free; the only restriction relates to safety. We aren’t allowed to cycle the western side between 3 and 6pm.

‘That’s fine,’ I’d said to the park ranger at the booth at the bottom. I’ll just sit around and wait til 6pm and then cycle down. If indeed I’d made it before 6pm then I sure this might have sounded like a great plan! That evening I didn’t run up to Avalanche lake either. I cooked, pitched tent, slept. And my plans for the next day to cycle back up to Logans Pass and run the Highline Trail were fortunately thwarted by the trail being closed for snow. Instead, I drank some coffee. Enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Read the first couple of chapters of Prophet Song by Paul Lynch, the Booker Prizewinning novel imagining the descent of contemporary Ireland into an authoritarian regime. While cycling through New Hampshire I’d passed a township (and associated cemetery) named Gilead, where I’d picked up a Handmaid and her child (cultural reference to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood for Dad and others who don’t read so much!) and packed them in my panniers to deliver to Canada. Now, both them and I began to feel freaked by the volunteer NP campground wardens talking to each other via walkie talkie! There was something sinister about how seriously they were taking their ‘jobs’…What’s startling about Lynch’s novel is how close his focus remains on ‘normal’ family life, disrupted by regime. His writing makes it all feel very close, and possible, not least in our increasingly unstable little world…

Yet still? For me? For this blog post? The lack of real drama has now reached crisis point.

The 6 mile run up to Avalanche Lake was touristy and busy, which provided the ultimate audience for my bravery when I finally took the plunge at the far end of the lake. Only a teenage lad was already swimming, as I stripped off to sports bra top and shorts, waded in a bit like Daniel Craig waded out (I’m sure), launched forth like an inelegant frog, swam a few strokes and then spun back round towards shore. Shit it was cold, but nothing for it. It didn’t count if I didn’t put my head under.

Bugger.

Everyone on the beach was stationary, staring at me. I’d felt them go, and had reached out to try and grab them before they sunk, but the water was surprisingly opaque, and I only succeeded in punching them further away.

‘Your glasses!’ cried a young girl from the beach, stating what everyone was thinking.

Yes, my glasses. My vari-focal middle-aged woman prescription glasses costing £250, which were now at the bottom of the steeply sloping lake. Drama. Hadn’t I told you that I did not want any drama? Wasn’t this ruining my no-drama-narrative? But at least a hero was on-hand. The young girl’s father stripping so his swimming shorts and attempted to dive down, but came straight back up shortly after swearing about how cold his eyeballs were! I stood in the water for a while, imagining duck diving down the lake bottom. But I couldn’t. My feet were already purple.

It occurred to me as I trundled along the shores of Lake McDonald that there was some strange justice in Glacier National Park stealing my glasses, as if it were taking back the views and vistas that I’d stolen. Or at least, that was the more poetic version of my thoughts, which were more accurately G-rated! (a new phrase I’d learnt on Amtrak for language taking the Lord’s name in vain). At least I had a spare pair of glasses for now. Which were mine Glacier National Park. Mine.

That afternoon I revisited my planned route over the next few days in response to the upcoming heat warnings. The route Komoot proposed passed right through the wilderness, with barely any towns or villages for several days, and with many miles of unsealed roads. Not what I wanted in almost 40 degree heat. The alternative followed a major highway for a large part of the way, but at least that way if I started suffering from heat exhaustion I wouldn’t be on my own. But it was certainly time to start nailing earlier starts – by 7.15am I was on the road, and honestly? Not in the mood for it one bit. It’s inevitable that I will have days where I don’t want to ride. It’s the same with anything that becomes a routine; some days I will listen to it, and other days I need to just get up and get on with it. This was one of the latter cases, since I was keen to reach the house of Todd (an old Canadian friend and ex-boyfriend from when I was eighteen who I haven’t seen for 28 years) in Creston by Thursday evening as promised.

The morning’s temperatures weren’t too bad, and I’d made good progress by the time I stopped for supplies in Walmart, Kalispell, powered on by a frappe in a drive through coffee joint. It was incredible again how quickly I’d left the mountains, which were now on the skyline beyond the fields of maize and rapeseed, and horse-grazing for horses, and mockingbirds trying to attack me for coming too close to their nests. I almost moved in to Walmart, the air-con was so nice. The peaches would have made a nice soft juicy bed…yet when I returned outside it was like someone had turned the pressure cooker on high. Shit, it was going to be a hot one. My phone said it was already 37 degrees.

A rails-to-trails cycle path saved me from a good 10 miles of Highway Route 2, but soon there was nothing for it. The shoulder of the highway was narrow, but I’ve cycled along worse roads in Europe, and despite Montana drivers’ bad reputation for driving (and the terrifying number of crosses on the verge), not a single one actually came dangerously close, even if the speed limit was clearly optional. My aim today, while it was forecast to be marginally cooler, was simple – cycle as far as I could until I didn’t want to, in clear contra-indication of the fact that I hadn’t been wanting to all day! I drank 5 litres of water. Cooled off in water sprinklers in gardens…I was aiming for a campsite which seemed to advertise an amazing rate of $4 for hiker bikers, and cycled further than I should have just to get there, as the sun and heat began to bite.

Ahead, a car flashed its lights at me and waved for me to slow down.

‘Oh shit, there’s a bear and cubs on the road ahead,’ was my first thought. But no. This is the drama-free blog remember?

‘We saw you this morning – we thought you might need this!’ shouted the driver, reaching through the window with an ice cold Sprite.

The campground by the lake was chilled and understated, and what with the office being closed and not knowing where the hiker biker site was located, I found a shady spot by the swings. Dipped in the lake to wash. Tried to have a shower, but it needed tokens. So instead I was stripped off in the ladies restrooms when the campground ‘host’ popped her head around the door and told me that the campground price was $24 not 4. You what? I grabbed a towel to my chest to cover up as much as possible, and tried to argue my case based on what I had read on their website, but talk about arguing from a place of disadvantage!

That night as I crawled into my tent, I didn’t only feel grumpy about being charged the same as a group of 8 in a lorry sized RV / caravan. It was increasingly apparent that I really was coming down with something that I’d tried to deny all day. My nose was running. My head banging. My throat scratching. So not only had I done my longest mileage yet that day at 84 miles, but I’d done so coming down with a cold? When my alarm went off at 6am the following morning, I wasn’t having it. By 8am I still felt really quite rubbish, and messaged Todd to say that I would be arriving a day late. The forecast was for 39.5 degree temperatures, and I had no idea how to cycle through that feeling well let alone poorly, and the last thing I need right now is to become properly unwell again.

It’s amazing that I’m out here at all bearing in mind how ill I became in the months before travelling. In mid-January I started feeling breathless. In early February I came down with an awful chest infection, to the point where I could only speak one or two words at a time, I was so breathless. And I continued breathless through multiple asthma and other tests, including becoming so desperate to find out what was wrong that I paid for some private heart tests. I just really wasn’t right – the doctors and nurses told me to keep on running etc, but I had to stop every two or three minutes to regain my breath. Why they didn’t do sputum tests until late May, just before I left, I’ve no idea, but turned out the chest infection was Staph Aureus, usually a skin infection which the antibiotics I’d been given simply hadn’t touched. A week before I left, my lungs still ached, and even now I can feel how they suffered from lack of diagnosis, even though I now feel fine.

Drama, hey, drama! Maybe it’s my time for no drama. I had more in the months (and years) leading up to coming away, between being ill, relationship break-ups, house sales, job complications etc than you can shake a maracas at. So perhaps it’s become my time for drama free blog writing. If only Avalanche Lake hadn’t stolen my glasses. I can only reassure myself that it’s looking back up at itself through them from the lake bottom thinking, ‘my, ain’t I handsome.’ Because it would be right.