Into the Belly

Wind gusts blasted through the toothy gaps of the Lewis Range and spilled through the Belly River Valley on a clear day in late June. A far cry from the sedative white noise of a swollen stream or ocean waves, the swaying trees overhead produced an irregular rigmarole of creaks, cracks and moans, all but ensuring a deep, restorative night’s sleep would not be forthcoming. Meanwhile, the island of relatively still air at ground level around the tentsite proved an oasis for nature’s airborne, hypodermic needle-swarms: aka mosquitos. 

But I was a happy camper nonetheless. And those who’ve backpacked in a mountainous wilderness in summer understand why. 

Glacier National Park’s nearly one thousand species of wildflowers are well-represented throughout the Belly, all the way from the Chief Mountain Trailhead to the top of Stoney Indian Pass, with blazing spots of color as numerous during the day as the stars are by night.  

Come dawn and dusk, the peak-studded backdrops are bathed in an ethereal crimson, with the cacophony of civilization overwritten by the organic tones of nature miles ago. Indeed, life courses with a seductive simplicity when the only real task of the day is to place one foot in front of the other. 

Though I hiked solo, Glacier’s general popularity coupled with the burgeoning interest in all things outdoor recreation in the 21st century ensured the presence of a number of other trekkers on the trail. 

A fact for which I was most grateful after knocking my noggin on a rock in a freakish slip in a small, damp gully on a jaunt to Margaret Lake. As chance would have it, a hiker to whom I’d lent my spork the night prior at a location miles away happened upon me minutes after the incident. He successfully navigated the remaining distance to the lake and returned with a plastic lunch bag full of divinely cold snow for my smarting forehead, and against the odds, even found my sunglasses, which I’d lost in the fall, in the dense underbrush. 

In another serendipitous stroke, a physician was among the next posse of backpackers I encountered. Despite my blooming cranial goose egg, the doctor detected no signs of a concussion. Medically cleared for more adventure.     

Human-less times also bubbled through the expedition, where interactions were limited to members of the park’s animal kingdom. I wandered through butterfly clouds, un-suctioned scads of slugs from the smooth surfaces of my camping gear, gently nudged frogs out from underfoot along the trail, and happened to roll out of the tent before sunrise one morning for a face-to-face meeting with a cow moose. 

In acknowledgement of having already waxed ad nauseam about the wonders of the woods, I’ll turn over the scene setting fully to the photographs.

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