A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

I am usually drawn to fun/crazy/adventurous/dangerous/stupid activities and ideas. Anybody who knows me knows that. So when Rich proposed mountain biking, I was more than eager. Plus, my health insurance was in limbo, so why not fly teeth-first down an aggressively steep and rocky mountain on two wheels in the middle of Whitefish, MT.

We rented bikes and helmets ("Yeah, yeah, we've done this before." I lied to the guy at the counter of the rental office), took the ski lift to the top of the mountain, and tested our (lack of) skills on the terrain park. And I've never felt so unatheltic. And awkward.

But like any other part of this trip, I found my comfort zone after 10 or 15 minutes. What seemed like impossible hazards upon our arrival quickly settled into fun and routine feeling stunts. Rich had done this before, so his confidence in his own ability was legit. Mine, however, was a blatant lie. The teeter-totter was the most dangerous of the obstacles, so I made sure to test it until failure. Five or six times over it with no problem. "One last one - just to get a picture." That always ends the same way...


I don't know why, but I froze at the top. And that's not what you're supposed to do. And I know that. Especially now. A split second after the photo was taken, I fell off the bicycular-see-saw and collapsed into a pile, my bike tangled in my legs.

After making our way to the first aid station and getting my hands and arms bandaged up, we decided to head down the mountain. I had never realized that in many cases, mountain biking trails are no wider than a bike tire. That being said, the margin for error hovers somewhere around zero. Still, it was beautiful. And exciting. And terrifying.

With a camera around my neck and my sunglasses on, I uncontrollably navigated my way down the path, around less than comforting turns, over unforgiving rocks and logs, often veering off the dirt and into the grass. But then you hit a groove. And it feels right. And again, a false confidence buries itself in your heart and brain and you start to forget everything. You forget how to be smart. How to be careful. And you start going faster. And faster. And this goes on until you realize you're out of control. And in my case, this moment coincided with a bee flying under my helmet and into my ear. And without a thought, I took one hand off of my handlebars to swat at that wretched bee. Unfortunately it was my right hand. And in that fraction of a second that I took my hand away from steering, my remaining hand pulled the front wheel to a hard left, projecting me off the path, over my handlebars and down the side of the mountain.

While yelling a very emphatic "OHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" my bike and I completed our first summersault together and I landed on my back just in time to cushion the fall of my new worst enemy (read: bike.) For a second I thought I was paralyzed. Or dead. But somehow I didn't break anything: bones, camera, sunglasses, etc. This was the path I took:

After fighting to get the chain back on the bike and then suffer through the remainder of the eight mile suicide mission, we dropped off our bikes and hobbled back to the car, pleased that it was over. The rest of the day was spent at a lakeside bar, contemplating whether or not I'd have mobility the following day.

Glacier? I hardly know her.

I don't feel much like writing at the moment, so I'm not going to. Still I'd like to share a few photos... (as always, click to enlarge)


















Starting off the our first full day in the park, Rich and I did a couple 1-2 mile hikes to get acclimated with the park. Big horn sheep and mountain goats would pop up here and there. An occasional marmot would make an appearance. Referencing our map and discussion from the previous night with our camp guide, we decided to pack for the hike to Grinnell Glacier. It was a quick boat ride, a four mile hike round trip, and we'd be back long before sunset.

We departed from the famous Many Glacier Hotel, an historic landmark built in 1914-15 as a series of chalets on Swiftcurrent Lake. It would be impossible to walk into or around the hotel without being reminded of The Overlook Hotel. A beautiful and purposely antiquated space, it seems a great place to sit for a beer or coffee, but feels too much like the Shining. ANYWAY, after a 20 minute or so boat ride, we reached our destination and faced the option of going with the group for a 1.5 mile hike or going on our own for a hike 2-3 times that distance. After being told that a group of four people or more have never been attacked by a grizzly at Glacier, we decided to go on our own.

After about an hour of nothing looking remotely familiar, we began to wonder. Several hours/miles/cliff bars/gallons of sweat later, we discovered that our trail was a solid six miles each way. Every hiker walking the opposite way would give us intel conflicting entirely with the previous passerby. "It's a another 20 minutes from here" followed by, "it's a good 45 minutes from here" and they would all check their watches as if they were positive about the figure. As if to say, "I've been timing this and I know the exact answer." Regardless of timing, they all agreed on the same thing otherwise: It's worth the hike.

And despite our fear of getting stuck in the bear country after sunset, we kept on. And (because we were so far north) the sun hung in the same place, not far off the horizon, for hours. And eventually we reached it - Grinnell Glacier. Just over six miles and another 1,600 feet in altitude, we were there. Seeing a group of weird European tourists stripping down and getting in up to their necks, I took of my shoes, stepped in, and felt nothing. For a few seconds. Then came the excruciating and nearly coronary-inducing pain associated with water below freezing. Painful and beautiful, it was all part of a memory I will never forget.

But now for the hike back.

Rich and I made friends with a couple who didn't value their lives at $50 (bear mace) and instead opted for the $1 bell you tie to your shoe to keep away bears and annoy people that hike alongside you. As we walked, jingling and constantly on the lookout for bears, Jess and Jordan gradually opened up to conversation, although I've got a sneaking suspicion they were using us for our mace, should we need it.

Eventually, we returned to our starting point. Add two more miles because we would miss the last fairy back and have to go on on foot the rest of the way back to camp. I'm not saying 12-14 miles on top of a day where we already hiked a good three or four makes me an ironman, but I don't hike much and we were pushing it.






Double waterfall.





The snowdrifts in the winter are high enough to allow this: years ago, this poor S.O.B. of a big horn sheep walked onto the roof, fell through a skylight and killed itself. It was thereafter stuffed and has remained in the lobby ever since.


That night, at the advice of my travel guru (hey, that's you Casey), we found the Cattle Baron, a steakhouse that nobody in the area could say enough nice things about. A weird and random trashy little joint, every single server/busboy/employee otherwise could not wait for us to see how good the food was. And they were right. It was delicious. And Danny, the busboy pictured below shared a story of living all over the country because his father was a drug dealer who for years now has been in prison for being caught possessing hundreds of pounds of marijuana. So it goes. Needless to say, he was stoned out of his mind.