A Return to the Crown.

It had been a year since I’d been to Glacier. Historically, it has always been my favorite place to spend time in nature. There’s something about its unique geology and stacked megafauna that creates a visceral ambiance like no other.

But for some reason, I’d spent more time in Yellowstone recently (another favorite park) and skipped Glacier. Perhaps it was because I’d spent a lot of time with Wrigs there before he passed. It also had something to do with the pandemic altering park access in ways that Yellowstone had not been.

But it was time. I could feel it in my bones.

Also, mix in some social drama here in Missoula (self-created of course), and writing pressures, and it seemed like perfect timing.

I cruised up to the park, making good time. I was lucky to get onto Going to the Sun Road without a reservation (thank you, Glacier staff) and promptly made my way to the Apgar ice cream shop.

As always, I ate my ice cream cone on the Apgar pier and stared out at the mesmerizing scenery before me. And although there were a lot of people around me, it still felt good to be back. And I enjoyed seeing the excitement and laughter of Glacier first-timers.

From there, I proceeded to the east side of Glacier where I set up camp and immersed myself into the woods for a week, filming a range of species from moose to bears.

Each day, I felt calmer, yet more aware. Glacier is grizzly country after all.

I hiked each day, searching for “The Legend”, a bull moose so big it defies description. The Legend had given me a few minutes of his time about five years back. I have not seen him since but I still try.

In the quiet moments, between wind in the pines, or the distant hum of a waterfall, or tufts of clouds floating past rock spires, I thought of a good friend I’d lost.

Her name was Pam. She’d passed away in March, and I’d raced out to Chicago to try and say goodbye. I didn’t make it in time. And I wish I would’ve stayed longer.

Pam and I were close, perhaps the closest friend I’ve ever had. She liked the national parks, and puzzles, and she and I would often do puzzles while watching Cubs games, with Wrigley rudely laying across her puzzle table and skittering puzzle pieces off the edge.

I thought of her in those quiet moments in Glacier, with the cathedral of nature towering all around me and the cow moose lumbering in the shallows and the bears ghosting in and out of vegetation half mile up the mountain slope.

And I thought about how short life is. 

I thought about a lot in those quiet moments.

And as I thought and thought, I watched the cow moose feeding on the opposite shore of the lake.

I respected what it was doing. Just existing. Not pontificating. Just *doing*.

And I realized I’d like to be more like the moose. That maybe this writer and photographer thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

That maybe it would be nice to just *do* and *be*, and not document the living heck out of every single thing.

But I guess that in and of itself was also a form of pontificating.

So I watched the moose feed and listened to the wind and the chittering of a red squirrel deeper in the forest behind me.

And I thought of Pam and Wrigley and I working on those colorful countryside puzzles. And I realized how happy I was in those moments.

And as I realized that, a much larger bull moose emerged from the inlet creek, framed by towering pine and spruce and cliffs rising thousands of feet, an epic yet fitting backdrop. It strode out into the open as if some grand prize fighter of yesteryear.

The bull moose stepped closer to me. And then each step became a paddle as the moose hit deeper water. It swam so close I could hear it grunting.

And I held my breath, got behind my camera and took a photo.

Because as it turns out, that is what I do. No thinking, no pontificating.

I guess I’m more like the moose than I thought.