Season's End

The air is crisp and dry. The sun, which has been covered and filtered by the smoke of forest fire for over a month, sits lower and lower in the southern sky but is shinning brightly which, when combined with a gentle breeze, gives a sense of life and well-being to the forest around us.

It is September 19th and another campground season at Glacier National Park in northwestern Montana is coming to an end. The aspens, larch and what few deciduous trees we have are beginning to turn and shed their leaves. The berry patches, which dominate the undergrowth around us, are beginning to turn brown with only the Snowberry still having fruit. Only the chipmunks eat the Snowberry, so we have seen few bears. A doe with two of this years fawns routinely passes Nitsitapiisinni (Blackfeet for 'our way of life'), our twenty-foot camper-trailer home, munching on grasses, bushes and small trees.

Walking down the narrow ribbon of asphalt that constitutes the road through the deserted campground, the only sounds are those of nature around us. The creaking of the tall lodgepole pines is sometimes accompanied by the sound of a small rodent scurrying through the thicket, and occasionally a Raven will call or greet you as you pass. The campsites are vacant with the only sign of the tremendous number of people who had passed through this campground being some charred wood in the fire pit or a tree branch leaning up against a picnic table that had once been used as a make-shift walking stick by a young camper who was told she couldn't take it home.

You can't help but think of the people whom you have encountered over the seasons - those who lifted you up and those who caused you grief. There were the two women from some Atlantic coast state who came just to find the Varied Thrush. We had told them they were all over the area. They were so excited. There were the unbelievable number of campers who rented a U-haul trailer for their camping equipment. We always wondered what they left home. Then there were also those who forgot something. We keep a collection of things from can openers to sleeping bags and blankets for them to borrow. We met full-timers, like ourselves, who loved to swap information about places to visit. Families and young couples determined to go from Florida to Alaska or visit every National Park were always fun. One time we had a French family - Mom, Dad and two small children - who were riding bicycles from the east coast to west. There was also a couple in their late 60's who started their bicycle trip on the Delaware coast and were heading toward Alaska. And we can't forget all of the singles traveling the country in cars, vans and tents. There seem to be a lot more single women than single men on the road.

There was never a dull moment when all your sites were taken by 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning and you were trying to help folks find a place for the night. Walking the loops could take hours with all of the questions in the morning about trails and places to visit and all of the adventures they wanted to share as they began returning in the late afternoon. There is something refreshing hearing stories about animals you know well and trails you've hiked many times told by excited visitors seeing them for the first time.

Now all those campers are memories, ghosts of campers past who sit in the empty campsites as we walk by. The silence of the forest is wonderful and serene, and as I look around I am reminded of walking the loops late at night. That and morning rounds are my favorite. The campers are almost all asleep. Campfires are out and the only light, other than that of the moon, are flashlights and lanterns inside the occasional tent.

It has been a good season. We made lots of new friends and were reunited with many friends from seasons past. We have seen new rangers mature and watched old ranger retire. The rest of us talk about what we will do in the off-season and look forward to seeing each other again next year. We enjoyed a phenomenal spring, had another record breaking summer and survived a heartbreaking natural disaster.

With our home securely attached to the hitch of our big red half-ton heavy we move slowly toward the west gate for the last time in 2017. We pass through the village of West Glacier, which is now little more than a ghost town, and pull onto US-2 heading west. Farewell, Glacier National Park, until we come home again.