“We Just Lost the Moon” (Part 1)

(Working title: I Guess Now I Am Just a Urban-Poser Want-To-Be)

Some would say it’s hard to work in a Tom Hanks quote from ‘Apollo 13’ into a post, but I would have to disagree. I might do it a couple of times just to prove I can.

Remember when the first week or two here, it seemed EVERYBODY approached me at the trailhead ALL the time. I’d be gearing up or doing a post-hike change and someone would walk up and ping me for some trail info. I just figured it was because I’m such a cool, fun loving, confident, good looking, and approachable kind of guy.

Now after being at too many trailheads to count this summer, I just realized that NOBODY has spoken to me for quite some time. The trailheads are always crowded and a parking nightmare. An now no one wants to talk to me? Zero. Zip. Nada. How did I become persona non grata. Hmmmmm.

With some deep thought and musing, I figured it out. No one had approached me SINCE I swapped out the truck for Nancy’s Santa Fe. In the old Dodge I was just an unshaven old guy. Had the tailgate down and gear slung all over the place and I’m at a trailhead. I MUST be a real hiker. I even had what looked like a possible sleeping platform in back, with a plate that reads BASEKMP.

That would make me an approachable free spirit, just like them. Someone living the dream and clashing with The Man every now and then, but living life to it’s fullest and not letting anyone tell me I can’t. THAT’s the person you want to talk to for some REAL trail info; not the crap the NPS rangers feed you.

But now I’m the same unshaven sweaty guy, showing up in a Santa Fe. A boring Korean mid-level SUV owner, who is nothing more than a poser and should be at the mall buying a Cinnabon and sucking on an Orange Julius.

Or worse yet, I’m just a sellout. The consumer who is destroying the world by not caring about tomorrow. I’m probably the guy throwing his rusted out propane tank in our drinking water because I think my cheeseburger is more important than a fragile ecosystem.

By swapping out vehicles for the summer, I have become what everyone else at the trailhead already is: part of the problem and not the solution. The true hikers, hippies, psychopaths, and liberal lunatic-fringe who embraced me before now shun my very existence. After all, I a could NOT possibly offer any hiking info, given my love of consumerism. I probably even support of the GNP ticketed entry. Which is nothing more than the boot of the NPS stormtroopers firmly on the necks of those trying to recreate in a place supposedly free to all. I never knew the car I drove could say so much about me.

As I was penning this post, I was afraid it would come out as just another boring rant. So I reached out for a little feedback, since I happen to do most of my composing in the RV park’ common kitchen (which has at least a glimmer of Wi-Fi). This is where the free thinkers hang out. You know, the young transient wanderers who are all in cabins like me for the summer and not big expensive rolling palaces and motorhomes . Today was a pretty good crowd.

After pitching this idea out there that I’m being treated differently at the trailhead based on the kind of vehicle I’m driving, there was some lively discussion. After a good chuckle, Mari-Leigh (yes, of cheeseball fame) asked me ‘Don’t you prefer it that way? When mindless strangers don’t bother you. When you’re doing what you do?’

Ah. An epiphany washed over me. As if the last tumbler in the the safe fell into place, and that giant vault door of understanding just swings wide open. For a moment I was transfixed, like Hans Gruber in Die Hard.

I realized, I really NEED the Santa Fe. I need it like the tourist of Apgar need ice-cream, and maybe even more. That car is a camouflage coat that makes me invisible to all the Subaru and 4×4 and beat up minivan owners out there. They are all are chasing someone else’s dream of being cool at the trailhead. Trying to get a contact high with some sweaty stranger that has a scent of wilderness greatness they can never attain.

They approach me to get near enough to steal just a whiff of what they so desperately need but cannot create for themselves. Those trailhead folks were not my people. Although they thought they were looking in a mirror, it was I who was unconsciously pretending to be one of them. They where chasing my empty shadow, thinking it was the real thing. Now I understand who I am.

Case in point. Let’s dial back a couple of days to my experience in the Logan Pass parking lot. That was when I was getting ready to climb Bearhat Mtn. Almost no traffic that morning, so I rolled in earlier than usual (5:30 am). Doing my normal boot prep, not really awake yet but getting there. Going thru muscle memory motions.

Some guy pulls up right in back of the parked Santa Fe on his motorcycle with his wife sitting behind him and trailer in tow. “You look like someone who would know something about this park.” Yes, sir, indeed. You have chosen wisely. I filled him up on all the places to see on and off the road, lodging options, historical points of interest. Found out he was going thru WA state, and backfilled him on the pros and cons of Hwy 20 vs Hwy 12.

After catching a little of the sunrise, Tim and Mary bid farewell, and an old Subaru with an older couple in it took the spot next to me he had been blocking. As they popped out, I gave them my standard icebreaker. As the lot had filled and people where trolling for empty spots, I said “Welcome to the shit show, huh?” Then I got Harold and Sally’s backstory, their many visits to the park over the last 20ish years, changes they had seen, thoughts on the NPS and covid restrictions, and had several good morning laughs that I didn’t know I had needed so much. Good conversation.

Finally got the boots laced up, and I see a younger couple standing off to the side watching me. I explain that I’m not leaving (people drop off their passengers to go look for the parking spots of people getting ready to leave). No, they said, all they had were some hiking questions. They had been standing back watching how I was talking to other people, and figured I was the person to talk to. And so I was. This must be the feeling a famous rapper gets when all of their rhymes flow and they get a number one song. Just without all the profanity, racial aspects, and clothing persona. Actually, nothing like that at all. But anyway, I was feeling pretty good. I WAS an approachable guy. I just had mistaken my audience.

I had been sending out the wrong signals to the people who had been approaching me earlier in the season. Finally, I now have my Holy See. Not the one-offs pretending to live out of their cars, hanging onto the fringes, and playing the wilderness martyr. Nor those who more concerned with the appearance of being a social outsider to boost their media accounts. I’m here for those people experiencing this place for the fist time, who don’t want to squander their visit in this great outdoor gift of nature. Those who are appreciative to talk to someone with passion for this place, and really take that information to heart. My audience is the great middle class. The forgotten man. Dare I say, the American Tourist.

To love or to hate, the random people I met that morning had the quality of my perfect crowd. Of course with every high high there comes a low low. My watch now said 7am. I lost an hour and a half. The trails were now teaming with yoga pants, flip flops, half-filled water bottles, and bad tattoos on skin that would not age well. It was a five-mile approach, half of it off-trail, and I needed to be back at the car by 1pm to make work on time. That was when I set my hard turn around time at 10:30am, given unknown terrain and un-scouted climbing chimneys and chutes. That was when I assumed talking to all those fine people had cost me the summit. Of course, we know I made it.

I think that is why Bearhat was such an enjoyable climb (well, at least going up). My mindset was different. I wasn’t focused on the summit. It was more holistic. More about the entire experience. Remembering the journey to the top is often better than the few minutes you spend kicking rocks off the top.

The summit will be there in another year, and another thousand after that. I realized it was on there to help me enjoy the personal interactions I created. Those fleeting moments of social exchange that can so easily be missed. That makes the difference. And becomes so much more rewarding.

Climbing a summit is a solo thing, even if you are with a partner or a group. At the end of the day, it is you mind forcing your body up the slopes and cliffs. But helping others to enjoy Glacier just a little bit more than they would have otherwise, that creating the true connections to this place. Human bonds which might last as long as these mountains.