Stone Head Mtn. Beargrass. Beer Mile. Many words, one meaning.

As many of you that read my posts know, I consider Glacier National Park a very special place. Almost sacred. It is full of majestic mountains, wild waters, and incredible incarnations. But there are also many cryptic myths and legends that abound in the Park, especially along it’s remote and lesser visited Eastern reaches. This is one of those stories.

In the shadow of Stone Head Mountain (known as Nitsku nuksin Istuki in native Blackfeet, bastardized as Single Shot Mountain my the Man-with-the-Double-Rat-Moustache), lies a small village. Almost a modern day Brigadoon. A hidden little hamlet that only springs to life for a brief time, then sleeps under the snows of winter.

In this seasonal village dwells a mythical guild of tradespeople: Red Bus Drivers. They are often seen toiling over antiquated machines from ages long forgotten. Forever attempting to drive those who do not want to be driven. Chained to a purpose that has no reason.

The outpost has simple name. One coined during the Lewis and Clark Corp of Discovery expedition now well over 200 years ago. Locals call it Beargrass.

Much like the true Beargrass plant (actually a member of the Lily family), it will randomly bloom every half a dozen years or so. Bursting to life, and then silent, until the next awakening is triggered.

But these seldom seen denizens have a unique ritual. One that is humble, yet deeply ingrained in every Beargrass inhabitant. At least once during the full bloom of the summer, they must travel the inner path of the village. The process must be run four times, once for each direction of the Winds of Trade.

To pay honor to past and present, the nectar of their forefathers must be carried within each clansperson during the penitent journey. Although fruit for this for scared formula is no longer abundant, it is traded for at high cost from the Far West villages beyond the great divide.

The most devoted chant as they pass the Cabins of the Wise with continuous flatulence and eructation. There shall be talismans of reward presented to the most worthy.

Beargrassites (the name that shall not be spoken) are not a warrior class. They are born of science and seance. Magically combining the laws of nature with the mysteries of the sky. The rituals performed in the shadow of the Great Stone Head stay in the shadows. Of both worlds.

Although all contenders are equal in the eyes of the Mountains of the East, there can be only one Alpha. And keeping in conveyance with the Laws of Balance, a single Omega as well (commonly a male with dark eye covers).

And thus, let the games begin.

As is custom, tribute and honor is paid to the Caretaker of the Great Foam Table. Although this master is immortal and his name long since lost to time, participants of this sacred ritual simply refer to him as U-Kno-Aht-M-Sayn.

Let the chanting begin. The trees are filled with honor and pride as these Red Bus Drivers show respect to their past, while protecting their future.

As the sun sets on another cycle of existence, the Chosen are honored. The Tribute has been well performed.

Only with their dedication can the Earth and Stars maintain balance for another thousand evolutions. The space-time continuum rests. Peace falls over the realms.

But it is best spoken in the humble words of those who carry the greatest of burdens for all.

The Beargassites (the name that shall not be spoken) honor their champions with trinkets of admiration and accolades of acknowledgements.

Although there can be just one Alpha, there are many equally worthy Betas. As a team they are the most honorable of the clan. The lifeblood of the village. It is their strength that will allow Beargrass to bloom once again in the spring.

To ensure all Beargrassites can celebrate, the sacred nectar is chilled and made available to all. Huzzah!!

Well, at least that’s how I saw it in my mind. Beer Mile just sounded a little too plain to be on my blog. GoatBoy out!