GoatBoy walks on water. The ultimate wild goose chase!

So, it has been an interesting start to the season. Since my name doesn’t appear anywhere on the daily assignments, I infer that it is a day off. As such, I have an opportunity to try out a new form of conveyance that I picked up late last fall: an inflatable kayak!

Have I kayaked a lot? No. Am I afraid of deep water and drowning? Yes. Is this something I should really be starting this late in life? Hmmm. To be determined. But since I apparently have some random time off, I decided to throw everything in the Delicia and head down to St Mary Lake.

My actual goal was to see if I could get it properly inflated, the seat installed correctly, the paddles assembled, and get it to stay on the dolly. With a bit of luck, I could launch it (after the tour boat leaves, with 80 people constantly watching my every move, hoping I screw up).

After a lot of fiddling and double- and triple-checking, Old Blue appeared water-ready. But then again, St Mary Lake is a cruel and MOST unforgiving mistress. Over the years, I have seen white caps on it 90% of the time. It is so close to the continental divide that wind is the norm, not the exception.

Wow. The water below the Narrows looks like a mill pond. You never see this. Especially at 10:30 am. This never happens this late in the morning, and not during an unusually warm June.

I take a peek above the Narrows. Where Wild Goose Island, the most photographed spot in the entire park, calls this stretch of the lake home. Double wow. Not a breath of wind. How long can this mirror last???

I guess I’m going to find out. I was just going to take Old Blue fifty feet from shore and get my feet wet. Figure out how to handle the double-ended oar. Make sure everything is clipped in. Get that life vest nice and tight. But no. I have to go for it. A window like this comes along… how often…..?

For a man afraid of drowning, I couldn’t ask for better water. The lower ridge of Goat Mt was just screaming at me to make a wake and mess up those perfect reflection lines.

Are you kidding me? I’ve seen this view so many times I can’t count. But that was from the road. On the water, Matotopa, Little Chief, and Citadel have never been so mesmerizing. It was hard to take my eye off them and the incredible shades of blue, both above and below.

And what about Fusillade all cloaked in white? And to the far right, we see the mighty glacial horn of Mt Reynolds all the way to the Continental Divide and beyond. Every stroke of the paddle was effortless. I could hear the skin of the kayak softly glide, just kissing the water.

And there it is. The prize. Wild Goose Island. I have looked at this tiny speck of rock, dirt, and trees for over forty years. How often I joked about standing on it one day. A day that never came. Until today.

In my 20s, I thought it would be great to get out to Wild Goose and pee on it. In my 30s, maybe I’ll cut down a tree to ruin everyone’s pictures. In my 40s, I’d fly the biggest kite I could find.

But I’m afraid of deep water. Ever since that near-drowning accident when I was eight. When I had no means to get out to the island safely, all those bluffs were meaningless. Just stupid thoughts that could never materialize. But that was before today.

I paddled and drifted around the island. Mere inches above the bony spine. Amazed at how this protrusion of rock could ever support anything, let alone such a lush micro forest. The glaciers receded, after having scoured every drop of life from this land. In their wake, leaving nothing but a barren rock wasteland. And yet, somehow, life has found a way.

I circle the island slowly several times. Often close enough to touch. But I don’t. For some reason, I can’t. After forty years of thinking of stupid things to do to it, I can’t even bring myself to stand on it. It would feel like …. A desecration.

After making a few passes through that narrow opening at the tip of the island, close enough to smell the foliage and take pause in the cool shade, I was overcome with a deep respect and understanding. Followed by a sense of personal peace and calm that I have not felt for a very long time.

So I bid adieu to my lifelong acquaintance that I now consider an intimate friend. We shared the sun and the water. The sky and the air. I will never forget the grey, weathered limbs of her dead trees and branches. Nor the vibrant greens of her leaves and needles. An island that is not alone at all. But a vibrant community that is the sum of all the majesty that surrounds it.

How do you measure a gift? By the day? Hour? Minute? My time on the water has been a blur. A gift undeserved. And very unplanned. A fact I came to realize because now I really have to pee. And even GoatBoy can’t pull that off – regardless of the double kayak and glassy water.

I paddled to the nearest shore. I’m thinking my day is complete. Physically, emotionally, I’ve gotten a lot more than I expected. And somehow, without knowing, I pull the kayak ashore at a place called Silver Dollar Beach. I’ve heard of this beach thru the years. Never knew what it was or where. Or cared.

But today I do care. Because I’ve never seen a beach like this in any part of Glacier Park before. The only thing comparable is the foot of Bowman Lake. I remember skipping endless flat rocks with my daughter 15 years ago. But those were tiny.

Not only are these rocks remarkably flat, but they stack naturally with the lapping waves, nest tightly as if a close-knit family, and skip with such little effort that it brings back lazy memories of childhood. And you can see all colors of the Glacier spectrum, from the Alytn to the Appekunny to the Grinnell and even, dare I say, a little Siyeh?

What is more remarkable is that I’m looking through six inches of the clearest (and currently calmest) water on the face of the earth. You can only tell they are submerged when I catch the reflection of that wonderfully mysterious, partially clouded sun. The very Eye of Providence looking upon me.

Just beyond the beach, separate from St Mary Lake, is an amazing estuary. The fish were biting. The map showed me just how large this beautiful ecosystem is. It would be a 20-foot portage with the kayak, and I would have an entirely new world to explore in a place I’ve come to for forty years that I never knew existed until this moment.

But I’ve been on the water for over three hours and four plus miles. I can feel the wind rising from the west and rippling the lake. I’ve been given my lifetime allotment of calm water on St Mary Lake in just one giant serving with no right to ask for seconds.

I also realize that some of the best stonework on the Going to the Sun Road no motorist will ever see. Being on the water is an amazing thing. You are removed from the chaos and clamor that have come to represent our national parks. You are IN the park, not just passing through.

Time on the water in Glacier is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. I’ve love the trails. I love the peaks. But water is different. It allows you to separate yourself from every other person, thing, thought, and all the static that keeps you from being in the here and now. It allows you to be alone with Glacier, on her terms.

And because deep down inside, I’m still a die-hard OG a-hole, here is my Strava map. Yeah, I spent three hours circling the most photographed icon of Glacier Park. One man’s internal peace is another man’s external rage over spoiled vacation pictures by some guy in a blue hotdog.

But I find solace in knowing all those Wild Goose Island pictures I inadvertently photo-bombed were sent to the Cloud, never to be viewed again. And I couldn’t believe YouTube has this song in its library.

GoatBoy emotionally exhausted yet surprisingly exhilarated. Oh, and I recently found out one of my seasonal co-workers only reads my posts if he is mentioned. And he discovered how to use the search bar to look for his name. So every post this summer will end in: Patrick sucks.