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.

Our Sweet Avalanche

Through out this entire ordeal of forest fire and evacuations one place is always on our minds. Pamela and I don't speak of it very often because the subject usually ends up with one or both of us in tears. Memories are bitter sweet because we don't know what condition it is in. Fears and concerns are real every time we look at a fire update. That place is our campground, Avalanche.

We have known Avalanche ever since we came to Glacier National Park. Our good friend, Jane, had been the Campground Host (CGH) there for several years. We always thought it would be neat to work at Avalanche to see what we thought, but we didn't want to risk losing our place at Sprague Creek. We finally got our chance this years and quickly fell in love.

Avalanche isn't really a place for first-timer CGH or for CGHs who have a problem living fairly well off-the-grid for months and being so isolated that there are many times that you just have to make do on your own. It is sixteen miles into the park from the west gate. Pamela and I spend about 70-80% of our time living off-the-grid when we're not at Glacier and we each have over 5,000 hours of experience in the park. Pamela's forte is the natural sciences and my avocation is wildlife, so we really enjoy those few days in early May when there are still patches of snow on the ground, before we open the campground and our closest neighbors are those living in the government housing outside the west entrance gate, making us the only humans within most of the 1,500 square mile park. Being really alone with our trees and rocks and animals is the highlight of every year.

Avalanche is nestled in the mountains about five miles beyond
the end of the lake.

The CGH site at Avalanche does have water and we dump into a make-shift cover over the septic system. Our water actually comes from a spring flowing from the side of Mount Cannon which we see from our campsite. It is wonderful water and the man in charge of maintaining the totally gravity fed system really hates that he is required by law to put a minimal amount of chemicals in the water. Mount Cannon is an 8,700 foot filter. There is no electricity, nor is there telephone, internet, TV or public radio. Our boss' boss' boss was gracious enough to get us a satelite phone this year. Between the trees, mountains and latitude it didn't work, but we appreciated the effort. We have a full one meter antenna on our handheld park radio. It works most of the time. That is our only link to the outside world. We are totally self-contained. We have two 160 watt photovoltic panels on the roof that, even being under the trees, daily recharged our two 224 amp hour AMG batteries. That more than fills our electrical needs. We don't like, or need, air conditioning and only occasionally use a microwave when it is available. Of course we don't waste our energy on a microwave. We do have a flat screen television and blueray DVD payer which we occasionally use to watch movies. Pamela would like a hair dryer but we make do. So as you can see, Avalanche was a great match for us.

Avalanche is an eighty-seven site campground divided into two loops - loop A having 53 sites and loop B having 34. A rather wide barrier of trees divides us from the Going-to-the-Sun Road on the north-west side. McDonald Creek flows just beyond the road which we can hear rushing toward the lake on spring nights. Beyond the creek is McPartland Mtn. It is one of a line of mountains that forms the northeastern side of this leg of the McDonald valley. On our north-east side we have the popular and magnificent Trail of Cedars and Avalanche Lake Trails which runs along the base of the majestic Mount Cannon and the beautiful Avalanche Creek. It too can be heard at night pounding and carving rocks like an ancient ritual. From the campground we can also see Bearhat Mountain which is just southeast of Mount Cannon. On our east southeast side in Mount Brown with its beautiful trail through the last of the temperate rain forest consisting predominantly of 4-500 year old cedars and hemlocks. Once these gigantic trees are gone they will never come back. With climate change there is just not enough moisture to grow a rain forest. The fact that this is an ancient rain forest is helping it to withstand the raging forest fire. The marvelous trees are what gives Avalanche its unique character which draws people back again and again.

McPartland Mountain

We had never paid any attention to the camping patterns of Avalanche before we worked there. I had assumed that recreation vehicles and trailers were the predominant mode of camping, and I was wrong. Our average throughout the season was about 70-75 tent campers and 10-15 RVs. (Oh, just FYI. If it has wheels it is considered an RV, therefore a person in a van or sleeping in their car is considered an RV.)

The most popular area in the campground is between site 61, the CGH site, and site 75. These are in a beautiful and open area under a heavy canopy of cedars. Because of the size and age of the trees very little grows under them. The canopy is so dense that we have seen times that it rained for over an hour before the forest floor actually got wet.

After we were forced to evacuate Avalanche we spent two nights in the Apgar Campground and then went to take care of a loop at the Fish Creek Campground. We had helped out at Fish Creek for a couple of weeks a few years ago, so we knew the campground well. Opening it didn't turn out to be a very good idea. With the growing smoke from the fire there were no campers. The only reason I tell the story is that Fish Creek was a reservation campground that had closed for the season. We were re-opening one of their loops for first-come camping. The woman in charge of Fish Creek was very concerned that nothing happen to her campground. She asked me to take a picture of locking the gate so that she would know things were as they should be when we closed it. That was our feeling toward Avalanche. When the evacuation order came we made sure that we were the ones that checked it out and ultimately locked the gate.

Mount Cannon

Pamela and I listen carefully to the fire reports and have spent many evenings at the foot of Lake McDonald watching Glacier burn. We don't need to say anything to each other. We know that we are both looking at that spot at the foot of Mount Cannon sixteen miles away and wondering if it is okay. We know that, because of the historic and environmental importance of the area, fire teams have installed a system called 'Rain for Rent' to wet and protect Avalanche Campground and the Trail of Cedars. That makes us feel better, but it doesn't take away our concern. Each day we study the topographic maps with overlay from the flyover the night before. We know that each of us is studying that small point near the top of the closure . . . . Avalanche.

We have been eating smoke for over a month. We have doggedly stayed and worked wherever the park needs us. Most of this is because we are dedicated members of the team, but a lot of it is because we don't want to leave before we know the fate of our sweet Avalanche.

We will return to Avalanche next season no matter what happens. If nothing else we will be able to watch new life nestled among our dear friends Cannon, Bearhat, Brown and McPartland. We hope beyond hope that the wonderful rainforest will still be there. If not, we will be there to carry on its memory.

Avalanche, we may not be able to see you before we must leave, but we live in the hopes that it will rain and snow enough before we go that we can leave you with some confidence that you are tucked into a blanket of snow, safe until the spring.   

Glacier Burning - 3 - the Screaming Silence of Waiting

No alarms needed. I awakened early. It was barely light outside. I had stayed up after midnight waiting and hoping for rain as I watched the ridge to our north east for the errie red glow of fire. There had been only one scare during the late evening. It was after 10 pm when there was a knock at the door. It was a good friend who also happens to be a Law Enforcement Ranger. My first reaction was that she was here to give us the evacuation order. No. She had a pizza box in her hand. Her story was that she had been given pizza to share with "folks working hard in the park." It was definitely an emotional boost. I had the feeling, when she said that she had other pizza in her squad car to deliver, that this was really our LE friend's doing. No matter who, it made a tremendous impact. Someone out there was sensitive to our plight.

As I was putting on my boots this morning to do rounds I saw our boss parked nearby. She lives near Flatlead Lake, south of here, and was in the park early. The normal fall staff attrition leaves her with one VUA ranger who was already getting things together for a trip to the east side of the park. She had no more news. We talked about weather and hopes, hope and weather. All we could do was wait. Each of us would, from time to time look up at the grey sky and the tall, silent lodgepole pines. The silence screamed. It was an almost hysterical scream of fear and anticipation, where the mouth is open but there is no sound. Like us the trees were waiting. But they were so still, so silent, creating a sense of tension that made the three observers nervous and concerned. What was going on up on the mountain that we didn't know? The trees knew but weren't telling.

Inside each of us we really knew for what they waited. We knew what they feared. It was the calm before the storm. But what kind of storm? Rainstorm or firestorm?

We have two loops containing 99 campsites open. Twenty-one sites had been occupied last night. I walked the deserted loops to pull tags. That's the early morning process of removing all of the registration tags that had expired. There were only two tents and one RV remaining, and all three of them were right next to us. I couldn't help think of the forest young drawing close to their mothers for comfort and protection. That is, indeed, part of our job. Campers asking us repeatedly if we were going to be sure to warn them. It must take some courage to trust us, total strangers, with their safety. As I walked I imagined, or maybe I fantasized, that it was beginning to rain. I would stop. All of my senses were on high alert, but there was nothing. There was no rain. When I would do this I would glance over my shoulder at the mountain barely visible through the trees and haze. Just beyond that ridge was the fire. Was it coming? Who would get here first, the fire or the rain? I looked again down the empty campground road. At least, if the worst comes, we don't have hundreds of people as we did before.

But I don't want to give in! My defiant screams, like those of the trees around me, are silent. To have this happen twice in ten days is almost intolerable. Nevertheless I know the truth. I am helpless in face of a burning inferno. My only hope is the rain and the skills of the brave women and men who have placed themselves between the fire and me.

Pamela checks the weather every few minutes. Like all of us, she is desperate for hope. The radio cracks. It is dispatch with the morning report. From the sounds of it the fire didn't get as much wind as we expected last night so there was not as much growth as anticipated. That was good news. We have a stand off. The fire hides behind the ridge above us. We know it's there. We wait, but perhaps not patiently, for every nerve, every emotion, screams for relief. We wait to learn our fate. We await our fate. We wait.  

Glacier Burning - 2 - The Longest Hours

To date, September 13th, it has been ten days since we evacuated Avalanche Campground in Glacier National Park, Montana, because of the Sprague Creek Fire. Since that time we have been in four different camp sites in two different campgrounds in the park. We finally seemed to have landed at Apgar C121, one of the two Apgar host sites. The other hosts are the couple who evacuated Sprague Creek Campground the same day we evacuated Avalanche. We have two of the five loops of this 200+ site camp group open, with each couple responsible for one loop. We were expecting a school group that we were going to put in the group site loop. The devastating forest fire continued to burn but was making little headway. The number of campers was increasing, rain and snow were forecast for tonight and we were actually beginning to feel half-way normal. Then it happened.

We were in Columbia Falls doing laundry when we heard the news - an evacuation warning had been issued for Apgar and West Glacier. Our hearts sank. Pamela immediately called our ranger office. One of our VUA rangers and the chief Law Enforcement ranger for the west side of the park were already in our campground handing out the notices. We finished the laundry and returned to Apgar as quickly as possible.

It is hard to explain the emotions of going through this twice in ten days. We're not afraid. We're not worried that we will die in the fire or that we will lose Sinni (our camper trailer home). We're in the enviable position of being able to hook our home to the back of our truck and drive off. The emotions relate to the fact that an evacuation warning means that something on the fire line has firefighters worried. Eradic winds, winds from the wrong direction, high winds, or a sudden change in the fire's behavior. If the evacuation order is given it means that things are going very wrong. The last time this happened we spent the evening of the evacuation watching the fire almost double and begin to peak up over the ridge near us. The last time the order was given it meant two campgrounds and a handful of cottages along the north side of the lake. If the order is given for this evacuation it would mean one campground, two entire villages, the park headquarters along with all support services and government housing. We were at the point that we were almost able to hope that, with the coming of rain and snow, this fire could be kept to less than 15,000 acres. We wanted to hope or maybe even believe that it would end without destroying any more of the rainforest. This evacuation warning instantly dashed those hopes.

The emotions with which we contend are dealing with the unknown and the painful anticipation of the inevitable. Almost everyone has been hit by something - anything from a ball to a paddle to a fist to a vehicle - and experienced that sickening and painful anticipation before impact. You remember how the time from the point you realized the impact was coming to the actual impact was an eternity, an eternity of that emotional pain because you knew that there was no hope, no rescue, no escape. From the first evacuation warning to the predicted rain was twelve hours. Can the firefighters hold out until the rain and snow began? Would the winds blow the fire over the ridge forcing evacuation before any help could arrive? There's no sign of rain or snow on the NOAA weather radar. Is it coming? Have our hopes been dashed? Will the evacuation order be given?

We have worked constantly since we returned from doing the laundry at about 1:30 pm. It is now 8:52 pm and we will be up well into the night. In those seven plus hours we have gone through the campground multiple times making sure that we have talked to all of the campers who have elected to stay. They must know that we might awaken them at any time and say they have two hours to get out. The rain and snow is supposed to start around midnight. What is happening on the fire line? Are we going to make it? Sinni's big back window faces the Belton Hills and Snyder Ridge. I keep looking up worried that I'll see the red glow from our site. If we see red, all hope is gone. But as time ticks away should hope grow stronger? And so we wait.

Some natural disasters strike without warning and are over almost before one has a chance to figure out what is happening. Earthquakes and tornadoes fall into this group. Some natural disasters come rumbling in almost on schedule, like a hurricane. Fires are not like any of those. Fire is menacing.    You can see it coming but have no idea which way it will go or how fast. Fire does not hit one thing and not another. It totally consumes everything in its path.  Unlike any other natural disaster which may last from seconds to minutes to hours to maybe days, a fire can go on for months. 

This is very much our lives in Montana right now. The smoke was so thick in the valley today that we couldn't see the mountains. The fire is destroying peoples' homes and businesses. Many are being evacuated with only the hope that everything they own in life will not be consumed. People are dying. As of September 9th sixty-six firefighters have lost their lives this year, and the end is not in sight. I have no idea how many civilians have died directly or indirectly from the fire.

Tonight will be another extremely long night. As we did ten days ago, we will remain vigilant until the morning in case we have to get our campers up and move them out. We will wait and watch for the rain and snow we were promised. We will keep watching the ridge northeast of us lest the flames come before the rain. It will be a long night of waiting, wanting to hope but fearing to hope, anxious for the nightmare to end so that we can finally rest and the healing begin.

Pamela and Russ

Sept. 13th., 2017 21:39

www.followsinni.com

Glacier burning

First big expansion - the day we were evacuated
from Avalanche at the base of that mountain.

 My daughter-in-law posted one of those Face Book questionnaires a day or so ago. One of the questions was 'when was the last time you cried?' That's easy. Last Sunday morning after we finished evacuating Avalanche and took one last look at our beloved cedars and hemlocks as we locked the gate, not knowing if we would ever see them again.

Montanans, like so many people in the Pacific Northwest and Rocky Mountains, are accustomed to 'fire season'. It's like tornado season for the mid-west or hurricane season for those along the Atlantic or Gulf coast. You can become so accustomed to the dangers associated with these seasons that you become almost jaded. This being only our fifth fire season Pamela and I aren't there yet, but earlier this season we had several long-time and life-long Montanans say "Oh, it's just fire season." They have changed their tune. It isn't just another fire season. It is the fire season from hell. So far we have broken about every record possible to break: (i) longest dry period - 52 consecutive days without rain. (ii) Least rain - only 0.23" since June 16th. (iii) hottest summer in history. (iv) most fires, biggest fires, and most acres burned. Those last figures just keeps growing. To date the northwest has lost around 9,375 square miles. That is an area greater than the States of Connecticut, Delaware and Rhode Island put together. And that doesn't count the Canadian fires which are gigantic and a story unto themselves. 

Smoke is both your enemy and your friend. It can be deadly to people with pulmonary problems and do damage to the lungs of young children. It retards fire because it reduces oxygen. Of course, it reduces oxygen for all air breathing reptiles and mammals. The smoke was so dense when I drove past the lake today I couldn't see the lake. It was less than twenty yards away. For days you haven't needed any filtered glasses to look at the sun. It is nothing more than a large orange disk in the sky. Ash looks like a really light snow or a very bad case of dandruff. The Nat'l Park Service has issued employees respirator masks and we do rounds that we once walked in vehicles. 

Our fire, called the Sprague Creek fire, started on August 10th. We had a night of lightening without rain and had 50 reported lightening strikes inside the park. It started, and continues to burn, in an area that is so rugged that you can't get people in to fight it. All you can do it drop water and chemicals and soak down surrounding areas. We lost an historic 1913 chalet - Sperry Chalet. The firefighters who made a valiant effort to save the chalet had to be dropped into the area by helicopter and climb out through a high mountain pass.

Mt. Brown is on the north side of the fire. For a while it provided a formidable barrier - steep, rocky terrain with little vegetation. That didn't stop the fire. It went up Mt Brown in about six hours.  We learned from a fire behavior specialist that fires can cross what appear to be barren land by following roots and interspersed grass. To the east is Edwards Mtn, and a collection of lakes and glaciers. That's where we lost the chalet. The southern flank was originally Sprague Creek drainage area. In one night the fire burned through that, over a ridge and into an area called the Lincoln and Walton drainage. The fire could follow the Lincoln Creek trail right down to US 2. On the west and northwest are the last of the temperate rain forest and an historic lodge called McDonald Lake Lodge. The fire is currently nibbling at these magnificent 4-500 year old trees and has been progressing toward the lodge. I did learn that the giant cedars and hemlock, because they are a rain forest, are more difficult for the fire to ignite and burn. This weekend we are to have another weather front move through. With it will come high winds and lightening. The last two times that a front went through the fire doubled in size each time. We're at around 13-14,000 acres now.

We live about sixteen miles into the wilderness nestled between four great mountains.  Our water comes from a spring on the side of Mt Canon. It is a completely gravity system and the best water you've ever tasted.  We have no electricity. We have 480 watts of the new photovoltic (solar) system and two 224 amp hour 6 volt batteries, which is much more than sufficient for our needs. Of course, despite the size and power of our batteries we don't have A/C. You generally don't need A/C in Montana. There is no telephone, television, internet or wifi.  The park got us a satellite phone this year but between the mountains, forest and latitude it never worked. We have a special radio with a full meter antenna so that we can communicate with park dispatch. That's our link to the outside world.  We never go to work without bear spray and a radio.  We spent our first 3+ years in a 35 year old 16 foot trailer we called Willy. Last July we got a new 20 foot trailer that we call Nitsitapiisinni - Blackfeet for 'our way of life'.  Our transportation is our 2013 Dodge Ram half-ton heavy.  For us it is a wonderful life, but it isn't for everyone.

A Sunny Day 

Our home from May 1st to October 1st is Glacier National Park, in the northwestern corner of Montana. This year we were taking care of the Avalanche campground. We fell in love with it immediately. Set in the last of the temperate rain forest among giant cedars and hemlock we look from our home up at magnificent mountains all around us. The campground has 87 sites. The average occupancy is 350 people with 75 sites being tent campers and 12 sites having RVs. (Of course anything with wheels is to be recorded as an RV. That means people sleeping in their cars are recorded as RV.)  It is a mile around the campground. We average walking it three to four times a day and biking four to six times a day. We get lots of exercise. We are frequently visited by black bears and both mule and white-tail deer. Nearby, but not in the campground, we have grizzly bears, elk, moose, pine martens, and a host of marvelous animals. Birdwatchers come to stay at Avalanche because of the tremendous variety of  birds - varied thrush, swallows,  two types of owls, three types of woodpeckers just to name a few. 

Then the lightening struck on August 10th. and our lives have been turned upside down. At first there were hopes that it would burn itself out, taking only a few acres. But we hadn't had a good rain since June 16th.  We had rain one day after the 10th. It rained for over an hour but the ground under the heavy forest canopy never got wet. It got hotter, windier, and drier. We knew that we were in trouble when the fire service would drive through the campground at least once a day. By the 17th we had an evacuation plan. Thursday, August 31st was one of the worst days.  Local authorities thought that it would take a long time for the fire to advance up the south side of Mount Brown. It did it in about six hours. It was downhill from then on. Every time there was wind the fire doubled until it is now just shy of 14,000 acres. There have been nine fires inside the park. Three of them are still burning and dangerous.

On Saturday, Sept 2nd we were told to close Avalanche at noon on Sunday Sept 3rd.  We finished our own personal evacuation plan. Later that day they gave those who own land inside the park 'evacuation warnings.' Sunday morning we got up early and removed all of the tags and notices. People were getting up and moving out, but there are always some who poke. When people would ask why they had to leave and what's the hurry my favorite line was "see that mountain right there?" I would point in the direction of Mt. Brown. "No," was always the reply. "That's why we need you to leave . . . . now."  At 10 am the official evacuation notice was issued.  We hustled out the last few campers, did a very basic shut-down,  had Sinni outside the gate and the gate closed when our boss' boss' boss showed up to do the closing.  We locked the gate, took one last look and headed south down Going-to-the-Sun Road toward Apgar.  As I passed our beloved cedar and hemlock forest it was all I could do to maintain my composure enough to drive, but drive I must. Time for tears ... time for heartache and grief would have to wait.  That night we stood at the south end of Lake McDonald with two Law Enforcement Ranger friends, four fellow CGHs, and hundreds of others watching Glacier burn. The fire again doubled in size that night and we watched it come over the ridge.

All of us in the northwest United States and western Canada do feel very sad about those who have and are suffering due to the hurricanes. We are not heartless.  Nevertheless people do need to realize that we too are suffering.  The most recent death count I read on Harvey was 70 (as of 9/9/2017). The number of deaths of firefighters alone (not counting civilian casualties) was 66 just in the US.  To give you an idea of the size of the US and Canadian fires, it is basically equivalent to the country of Switzerland or the entire States of Delaware, Connecticut and Massachusetts.

For those of us who live in and love these mountains and forests, the fires of 2017 is heartbreaking and isn't over yet.  Many of the 89 fires in the US are in areas that will not get snow, nevertheless the heavy snow necessary to suffocate a fire.  Two of the governors of the four states with the most fires report that Washington D.C. rejected our pleas for help.  To see our states burn is devastating. To be rejected by our national government and ignored by the rest of the country is cruel and painful beyond belief. 

Martha

The young woman lay dying in a pool of blood along side the lonely stretch of Illinois prairie highway. "Áápikiááyo! Áápikiááyo!" she screams. "I love you, Áápikiááyo!" Two-thousand miles away in the wilderness of the Bitterroot Mountains a Blackfeet brave grasps his chest, sits down on the ground and begins to sob. His name . . . . Áápikiááyo.

Martha was the youngest daughter of Robert and Ruth Standish who were second generation settlers in western Montana. They had a ranch on the high plains just east of the Lewis and Clark mountain range of the northern Rocky Mountains near the little town of Cut Bank. On a clear day they could make out the mountains in the distance. Cut Bank was right on the eastern edge of the Blackfeet Reservation. Martha had many Blackfeet friends, which made her extremely prejudice parents angry. They wanted her to spend her time with her "own kind." Nevertheless Lowa, a Blackfeet girl Martha's age, was her best friend for many years. Martha knew Áápikiááyo, Lowa's older brother, and somewhere over time they fell in love.

Martha became pregnant by Áápikiááyo. Her parents attempted to have him arrested but Martha warned him and he fled with the last words spoken to each other, "I love you. I will find you." To avoid disgrace, Martha's parents sent her back east to a "home for wayward girls" where she gave birth to a little girl whom she wasn't allowed to hold, see or name. Shortly after giving birth, Martha sneaked away from the home. She started waiting tables in road houses to make her way westward. Martha had sent a letter to Áápikiááyo's sister, Lowa, telling her that she was on her way and would be there as soon as possible. Martha never arrived.

Martha's child was given to a good couple in western Pennsylvania who did love her. They knew nothing about the child except that she was the illegitimate child of a white woman and Indian man. Not knowing the child's mother's name, the couple named the girl Martha. The couple, innocently but ignorantly thinking that they would spare little Martha the shame of her background, never told her the truth. Young Martha never felt at home among the Aryans of Pennsylvania. It was not just that she had dark hair and beautiful mahogany skin with very native american features but she never felt at peace.

Áápikiááyo became a recluse. A nomad, he moved up and down the Rocky Mountains living in a small tipi in the wilderness. He would occasionally go into town where he would look for Martha.

Several years later Áápikiááyo ran into a shaman named Áípi . The shaman understood Áápikiááyo's pain and helped him learn to live with the pain. Áápikiááyo learned the ways of the shaman from Áípi and soon became a sought-after medicine man himself. He tended to stay in the Bitterroot Wilderness and along the Salmon River where people would journey for days to seek his wisdom and remedies. Throughout his life, however, he never stopped looking for Martha and would call out her name in his sleep.

Young Martha went to college at the University of Wyoming. When asked why a Pennsylvania girl would go all the way to wild Wyoming for college she would reply that she felt called. There was no way that she was going to explain the sense of connection whenever she saw or read something about the west. Who would believe her if she tried to explain the feeling deep in her gut that told her she belonged in the west. She had never been there but she grew up with the sense that the west was her real home. There was also the ever nagging feeling that there was something more in her life. This feeling didn't dissipate when she moved to the Rockies, so the west wasn't her 'something more.' On the contrary, the feeling increased when she moved west. Whatever it was, it was still out there for her to discover. Whatever it was, it was in the west.

At the University Martha enrolled in a class in Native American culture. The first day she sat next to another young woman with dark hair and skin. The classmate looked at Martha and, without introduction, said "you're Niitsitapi, aren't you." Sometime later, when recalling her first encounter with Áápiinikimm, who went by Abby, Martha would say that, although she had no idea what Niitsitapi meant, she felt "a lifting in my soul as though some curtain had been lifted and light flooded in."

Abby and Martha became fast friends and Abby helped Martha develop her Native American identity. When the Christmas break came at the university Martha had nowhere to go. Abby took her home to the reservation where she met Abby's family. Abby's father was Áípi.

Áípi felt a shock when his daughter introduced Martha. He immediately thought of Áápikiááyo and Áápikiááyo's search for the white woman, Martha. This girl was neither white nor old enough to be the Martha for whom Áápikiááyo searched, but there was something about her that made his nerves tingle.

Martha quickly became a part of Abby's family. Áípi gave her the nickname of Pokááattsistaawa - baby rabbit - because despite the strength and courage it took for her to leave the comforts of eastern United States and travel, as a single woman, to the wilds of Wyoming, she was as timid as a baby rabbit and Áípi could sense that she was equally as frightened. One evening, while sitting around the fireplace in the log cabin Áípi had built, Áípi told the story of Áápikiááyo. Martha began to cry. She could feel Áápikiááyo's pain. She could feel Áápikiááyo's beloved Martha's pain. Áípi said nothing but could not help but wonder if Pokááattsistaawa had some connection to Áápikiááyo. She was experiencing the most vivid understanding of his pain. It was as though she were physically sharing it. But how could that be? She was Niitsitapi, not white, and much too young. Besides, she had no prior awareness of Áápikiááyo. This was the first she had heard of him. He watched in sad compassion as Martha cried. "I don't know why," Martha kept repeating through her sobs. Abby, who was comforting her friend, looked at her father. Áípi didn't need words or sounds. The look shouted 'help her, father!'.

Áípi stood up, gently put his hand on Martha's head, and said "I will try to help." With that he left the cabin and walked to a spot on the side of the mountain where he always went to meditate and think through problems.

"Where are you, Áápikiááyo?" he spoke to the sky. "Where are you, and what is your connection to this i'nákaakííkoaiksi? (little girl)" He had no more said this than he was filled with the sense of a tremendous anguished cry. He held his head and looked around expecting to see the forest around him violently shaking. Back at his cabin Martha's sobbing became so hard that she was gasping for air.

I must find him, Áípi thought to himself. He withdrew from the world around him and entered a trance state trying to keep his mind clear as he watched for signs of Áápikiááyo. Áípi had known from many years of experience what science was just beginning to seriously study, viz. we are all one with and in the universe. Quantum scientist call it entanglement. It confronts not only scientist but humanity with a new reality. We begin to see that "at a level of reality deeper than the ordinary senses can grasp, our brains and minds are in intimate communion with the universe."₍₁₎ Áípi already knew this. For centuries the white man had made fun of the shaman but now the white man's own science, time and again, confirmed what Áípi had practiced his entire life. Áípi didn't know anything about quantum physics but he did know that his spirit animal, Omahkapi'si (the wolf), would help him find Áápikiááyo. And while so many, afraid to explore anything that might be contrary to their belief system, scoffed at Áípi's way of life, their own scientists were discovering that "Minds are entangled with the universe, so in principle minds can non-locally influence anything, including a collection of other minds or physical systems."₍₁₎ Áípi would sit quietly and do what scientists had observed and were replicating and analyzing in sterile laboratories as though it were something new, strange and bizarre. Some scientist from George Mason University wrote "... however strange or bizarre it might seem, ... all of physical reality is a single quantum system that responds together to further interactions." (2) Áípi would have laughed. It isn't new. Áípi would have worded it differently but it was the truth that had been passed down to him from unknown generations before. We are all one and he could reach out to Áápikiááyo in his mind and turn to Omahkapi'si to lead the way.

After some time Áípi began to sense his friend in pain. As he concentrated he could feel both physical and emotional pain. Both were great. The emotional pain was greater than he had ever felt in his friend and the physical pain was excruciating. Áápikiááyo was badly hurt. Áípi could almost hear his friend call out the name "Martha". "Where are you, Áápikiááyo?" He began to see the vision of mountains and a monument. He concentrated intently and finally recognized the place as Chief Tendoy Monument by which he had traveled many times. Áápikiááyo was somewhere near the monument and he had to take Martha there. The snow would be deep but the road should be passable.

Áípi returned to the cabin. "We need to talk," he said to Martha.

"I know," Martha replied. "He's asking for me."

Abby looked shocked. "Who's asking for you?" she demanded.

"Áápikiááyo," Martha looked at Áípi. "He's hurt, isn't he?"

"Yes, I think so," Áípi answered.

"Will someone tell me what's going on?!" Abby was becoming frustrated.

"Áápikiááyo isn't just a story I tell," Áípi turned to his daughter, "he is a real man."

"Somehow he thinks I'm his Martha and wants to see me," Martha added. "But he's hurt."

"He's somewhere near the Chief Tendoy monument in Idaho."

"We have to go," Martha addressed Áípi. "We must find your friend."

They loaded up Áípi's old truck with everything they could think of that they might need and headed west on US-26. It would be a long circuitous road through a corner of Yellowstone National Park, Jackson and on to Idaho Falls where they would catch Idaho State Route 28 north to Tendoy. It would be a trip of at least 285 miles. Between the age and condition of his truck and the possible snow on the roads, Áípi figured that the trip would take them close to six hours not counting any stops. It was too late and too dangerous to start out at night, so they waited until early morning to leave.

As the three pulled out onto the highway and turned west Omahkapi'si was standing in the snow across the road. Áípi stopped the truck. Focusing on the great wolf Áípi thought "I am going to need you, dear friend. Please help me." Omahkapi'si lowered his head, turned and disappeared into the snow covered sage brush.

Martha looked at Áípi. "An old friend of mine," he said with a smile.

The trip was mile after mile of snow covered roads, thru mountain passes and along the Snake River. Jackson was the first town of any size they encountered. They bought gasoline, coffee and stale donuts and pushed on. The old truck, which was almost as old as Abby, chugged along without missing a beat as though on a mission. Áípi loved his old truck even though it got horrendous mileage. He hoped that he had enough room on his credit card.

They had to go into Idaho Falls and take Interstate 15 north for a few miles. This made Áípi very uncomfortable. Besides not being accustomed to the heavy traffic and high speeds he didn't like cities. Idaho Falls, a small city by eastern standards, was far too big for Áípi's liking. It made him feel closterphobic and he was happy when they passed through Mud Lake and turned north onto Idaho State route 28.

It was snowing heavily as the trio pulled into the Chief Tendoy Monument. The snow was too deep to pull into the parking area so Áípi did his best to pull over enough for other vehicles to pass. They sat and look at the extense of white and green that surrounded them. The trip that had taken then eight hours and ten minutes was the easy part.

"Where do we go from here?" asked Abby.

"I have no idea," Áípi admitted.

"What?!" his daughter exclaimed.

"I'm trusting Omahkapi'si to guide us."

"Father," Abby's voice almost sounded like a parent scolding a child, "you know that I respect your belief in your friendship with wolves but you can't seriously believe that one is going to come and show us the way."

"Yes, he can," Martha almost whispered.

Abby followed Martha's gaze. There, not far from the tree-line, was the largest wolf Abby had ever seen. It stood looking at them. Áípi got out of the truck and saluted the animal.

"Will you lead us to Áápikiááyo?" Áípi addressed Omahkapi'si with respect.

The majestic Omahkapi'si dipped his head and turned toward the forest.

"Please, brother," Áípi called after him. "We are not as well adapted as you. We must prepare." The wolf turned and waited.

Áípi and the girls dawned their parkas and backpacks. One carried food, one carried medical supplies and the third carried camping supplies. Putting on snow shoes, and giving Martha a super-quick lesson on how to use them, the three headed toward the patiently waiting Omahkapi'si.

The snow hug heavy on the limbs of the trees which were, at this elevation, mostly lodgepole and larch with the occasional spruce. Omahkapi'si was very patient with his slow human followers. He would run a short distance then sit and wait. The three of them trudged along silently concentrating on the steep climb and lost in their own personal thoughts.

Abby had always had a great respect for her Father's traditions and proud of him being a shaman, but she had never believed much of what he said, especially the part about talking to Omahkapi'si. Now she was witnessing the truth. Her father was intimately connected with Omahkapi'si. This wild animal communicated and understood him, and was now leading them through the forest.

Perhaps communication wasn't the right term. Áípi didn't need to speak. They didn't seem to need to be near. There were no normal channels for the flow of information. It made Abby think of an interdisciplinary course she had taken involving physics, psychology and information technology. The discussion had turned to the current research and debate around quantum physics and psi. There was strong evidence that something exciting was going on and it included quantum physic's entanglement and psi's telepathy. Although, to quote Einstein, it was a bit "spooky", the evidence was strong that there is a connection between all sentient beings that could account for what is known as telepathy. Here Abby was witnessing such a connection, such a communication without the use of any of the "normal" methods of communication. How did this wolf know that they were coming?

Martha too was amazed at Áípi's relationship with Omahkapi'si but her mind was mauling over why this Blackfeet shaman wanted so desperately to see her. Did he think she was his lost Martha? Did he think that she was an incarnation? Abby had decided that she was Blackfeet, but she had never been west of Pennsylvania until she left there to study at the University of Wyoming. This man was a shaman. He was a seer. Did he know something about her that she needed to know? She ignored the pain in her legs from walking in the awkward snowshoes. This enigmatic man was becoming more and more important to her.

It was beginning to grow dark when they saw a tipi. There was no smoke coming from the vent and no signs of life. Omahkapi'si stood to one side as Áípi moved as fast as his snowshoes would allow for the last fifty yards or more. Quickly removing his snowshoes and instinctively standing them in deep snow, he started digging his way into the tipi. Martha and Abby we right behind.

There was no light in the tipi, nor was there a fire. With Áípi's flashlight they could see a man. His long, heavy salt-and-pepper braids hug down over the blanket that was pulled up to his chin. Martha could just barely see his face but it seemed extremely familiar. Abby looked from the man to Martha and gasped.

"Get a fire going, Áápiinikimm" Áípi barked. "Martha, bring me the first-aide kit."

The girls sprang into action. The man was awake and talking to Áípi in a language Abby recognized as Blackfeet - one of the Algonquin languages. Soon Abby had a fire going and the cold tipi began to warm. Throughout this time Martha could not really get a good look at the injured man.

Áápikiááyo pushed Áípi aside so that he could see Martha. "Is that Martha?" he asked Áípi. Áípi nodded. If Martha had been looking at Áípi instead of concentrating on Áápikiááyo she would have seen the tears running down Áípi's face.

Kneeling down at Áápikiááyo's side she got the first really good look at him. She began to cry. She knew why she was to be here. It was like looking into a mirror.

"Child," Áápikiááyo took Martha's hand. "I am your Father. Your Mother was taken from me when she was carrying you in her womb." He paused as he fought back his tears. "She sent a letter to my sister, Lowa, saying that you had been taken from her as soon as you were born and that she was coming home. One night I heard her scream my name. She never arrived. I searched for her for years. When, in my anguish, I called out her name you responded. That's when I knew that you existed and that you carry your Mother's name. And you are beautiful, like your Mother. The infection in my leg is very bad. I may not survive. But you came. You fulfilled your Mother's promise. If I die, I will die happy because my Martha is home."

Crying tears of joy and sadness Martha lay down next to her Father and put her head on his shoulder. Now she knew that she was home. Now she knew that 'something more'. It was her Father and her heritage.

REFERENCE

(1) Radin, Dean. (2006) Entangled Minds: Extrasensory experiences in a quantum reality. New York. Paraview Pocket Books.

(2) Nadeau, R., and Kafatos, M. (2001) The Non-local Universe: New Physics and Matters of the Mind. Oxford Univ Press.  

A Rainy Evening - Life is Good

The rain on Sinni's ₍₁₎ roof is gentle and comforting. It is the only time we do not hear the rush of the nearby McDonald and Avalanche Creeks carrying the melting snow and glacier waters to Lake McDonald. A few stragglers, who didn't get off the mountain before the storm, go by, but for the most part it is just the four of us - Pamela, me and the two dogs - with Sinni in the cool, beautiful, solitude of the dense forest of cedar and hemlock. Soon our nearest neighbor will be six miles away. Even when a campground is full, rain generally brings quiet. Here at Avalanche we only have two campsites that we can actually see from Sinni.

There is a stillness in the forest as though all nature is standing so very still to receive the life-giving rain. Mni wiconi - water is life. Some animals will continue to quietly forage in the rain while others will seek shelter and bed down for the night. Our resident Grizzly bear sow, with her two big cubs, will be moving almost silently up Avalanche Creek, along the side of Mt Brown, to her night time retreat at the southeast end of Avalanche Lake. Her cubs are two-year-olds and will soon be on their own. Tonight, however, they will still know the warmth and protection of momma.

The table lamp by me gives off a soft golden glow. I converted it to run off our 12-volt electrical system. Our batteries are holding at 12.7 volts. The rule of thumb is to shut down and go to bed when they drop to 12.2. Sinni is so small and efficient that we rarely drop that low. We will have >12.2 volts when the first light of morning hits the solar panels on the roof. As a result, I am not quick to turn off the lamp that give the room a cozy, comforting glow.

Canon Mountain above us is shrouded in low hanging clouds. I can only make out a very little bit of its peak. The forest is our protector and the mountains give us strength. The rushing creeks lift our spirits while the animals - deer, bear and a wide variety of birds - remind us that we are never alone.

A handsome and confident white-tail buck watches majestically from a distance. A lovely young mulie - mule deer - doe stands at the edge of our campsite trying to figure out our fifteen year old Pomeranian. His name is Theodore Ursus. Maybe she thinks he looks like a tiny teddy bear too. A magnificent blackbear makes his daily trek down to McDonald Creek, checking out the picnic area before morning's light, and returning to the mountain. He always goes behind us but never stops to visit.

The rain has passed. All that is left is the patter of drips off the tall cedars above us. The sound of the two creeks returns accompanied by the high single whistle of the Varied Thrush. The sky is still light. In a few days it will not get dark at all through the night. Nevertheless the forest will. It is time for the night-time predators, the pine martens and barn owls, to begin hunting silently as we sleep.

You have never experienced dark until you have been in a place like Glacier or the desert where there is no human light pollution. Glacier is a dark-sky park which means that it is dark enough here that we are able to see Northern Lights and the Milky Way like few other places on the globe.

Nitsitapiisinni - our way of life. No where are we happier than when we are in the wilderness. No where else do we feel more alive. Perhaps the hundreds of days and nights we've spent in the wilderness, sometimes as much as sixty miles away from the chaos and trappings of so-called civilization, has awakened a primordial longing. Perhaps our time has enabled us hear and heed the call to return to the oneness with all of nature.

As the rain becomes a memory the forest wraps us in the comforting blanket of darkness and Unci Maka ₍₂₎ sings us a lulaby. Nitsitapiisinni.

FOOTNOTES =====

(1) Sinni is the name of our twenty foot camper trailer and short for Nitsitapiisinni - Blackfeet for "our way of life." For those who don't know us, we are full-timers and Sinni is our home.

(2) Unci Maka means Grandmother Earth.