One tour out of three ain’t bad? Maybe for Meatloaf.

I’m really going out on a limb here with my mighty herd of GoatBoy followers. How many of you remember this classic song by Meatloaf, one of the best-selling debut albums of all time?

So what do you do when you tour only one day of your first three as a Red Bus driver in Glacier Park? (“One tour out of three” sounded better than ‘two tours out of five really sucks’).

Simple. Don’t worry about it, and trust the Matrix. Well, maybe not the Matrix.

But definitely trust Carrie-Anne Moss. I don’t care how old the Matrix franchise gets; she still makes my list after all these years. Of course, it helps that she is a Canadian. And I wouldn’t have to do metric conversions in my head anymore. But I digress. Where was I going with this?

Ah. Right. Third-year returning driver in a classic Glacier National Park red bus. So, I got less road time my first week than I wanted to. But my early season days in the Park are glorious.

I wake up each morning and look at Big Stone Head. I use the mountain’s face to forecast the day’s weather. Today, breathtaking.

 

Most of my tours start in the St. Mary Valley. When I fire up the bus on a chilly June morning, warm it up, and make that left turn out of the Beargrass Industrial Complex, my heart always skips a beat—another great day to be alive.

I visit some of my old friends, like towering Going to the Sun Mountain. Once you climb this peak (or rather, it allows you to climb it), there is an unspoken bond between you and these ancient rock layers.

All of the early spring waterfalls bring a smile to my face. There are countless terraces and cascades as every drop melting off this giant mantle of earth slowly but surely fights its way to the Atlantic Ocean.

Father up the road I revisit Mt Jackson, and his often ignored neighbor Fusillade. Naturally both poorly renamed from their original Blackfeet monikers, but that does not make them any less stunning (or spiritual).

Even the Citadel is living up to it’s 20th century re-branding by the early survey parties. A lot of snow is lingering as the end of June quickly approaches.

Jackson’s white cloak is impressive during the early season. Most people on my tours have a hard time believing this is mostly seasonal snow and will be long gone by late August. But of course, that is when fresh snow starts returning to the peaks.

Sun Point is one of my favorite places on the East side of the Park. Situated high on a cliff near the narrows of Lower St Mary Lake, it’s 360 degree views can only be eclipsed by the deep history as the site of the one of the greatest Chalet complexes the GNRR ever conceived and conjured in Glacier Park.

Even Little Chief is enjoying a day in the chilly spring sun. There have been several fresh dustings of snow in June, trying their best to keep summer (and the crowds that follow) at bay. Clearly an A for Effort, but only delaying the inevitable.

Matophi (right) has been long in the shadow of Going to the Sun. Still holding the struggling Sexton Glacier captive in the cirque below its massive sheer face, providing the source of the headwaters to the popular Sunrift Gorge. With that wonderful circa 1930’s depression-era stone bridge tourist are magically drawn to.

You can’t talk about the walls of the St Mary valley without Red Eagle Mountain and diminutive Matotophi to it’s right. Forever hoovering three thousand feet over the valley floor. Always watching silently from above.

We can see all the way up to Logan Pass. The mystery that shrouds the distant titans of the Crown of the Continent. The symmetric horn called Reynolds plays hide and seek. While the feathery summit of Heavy Runner displays its full plumage, a full thousand feet shorter that its neighbors.

Sun Point always give a glimpse of the prairies beyond the Park. Just a hint of the thousand miles of grassland where millions of buffalo roamed freely. I see the remaining foundation of the dozen Chalet buildings that once occupied and dominated this windswept point over 100 years ago.

I love the Hudson Divide. Named after Hudson Bay. After all, this ridge forms the edge of Glacier’s triple watershed. How many places can boast of capturing the snows of winter, only to send them to the Pacific, Atlantic, and the Arctic oceans?

And the wonderful pyramid that is Divide Peak. Looking much more frightening with late season snow, this relatively benign knob in the mountain ranges of Glacier Park has meaning for those who know where to look. As my eye follows it’s contour, I can only think of the one true GOAT of the million acres that make up this Park.

You cannot but smile when you think of the Birch Creek Colony of the Hutterites. They make the trip to Babb once a week to offer their farm fresh wares. Sure, the veggies are nice. But there is something to be said for the incredible taste of fresh zucchini bread an the marvelous strawberry-rhubarb pies.

Now all of that was on my day off. My first tour was exactly the opposite. I always say when Glacier Park gives, she give BIG. When Glacier Park takes, she will take more than you have. Case in point.

My first tour would be an all dayer. As I walk out to pre-trip the Red Bus I’ll be taking, I get a little of that fresh start-of-the-season excitement kicked out of me.

OK. There is rain forecasted for the ENTIRE day. Odds are the top will NOT be pulled down. I’m trying to guess how many towels I will need.

Not to keep my guest dry. But to make sure none (or at least most) of them avoid severe hypothermia before the end of the trip. And more importantly, the tip.

This turned into a 100+ mile day of touring over 9 hours, with 16 (eventually) very wet people shoe-horned buttcheek to buttcheek with total strangers.

And did I mention there was no heat? Other than this very primitively system for the driver, clearly retrofitted from a South American donkey cart.

But I did my best, which I think is still better than average for most. With a towel in lap, I keep the tiny windshield clear enough to see good enough. All the time fighting the vintage wipers, which are out of alignment so I have an even small V to look through.

With several years of Red Bus driving (and one shuttle) under my belt, I can say hands down this was the worst weather touring day I have ever had. The clouds were down to the valley bottoms. Zero views at any point of the nine hour ordeal.

The rain was non-stop. Every seam in the tattered top leaked. Every gap between top and body was a rushing river. The engine on this bus struggled at 45 mph up the hills, as if to only prolong the agony of my imprisoned guests.

But remember. Dave is a born storyteller. And if one was inclined to tell stories, a better captive audience could not be found.

I painted mental portraits of the gilded age and the Great Northern RR, with their grand lodges and chalet system. Of Grinnell, who would become known as one of the great American conservationist and the father of Glacier Park.

Even had a nice tie-in with Schultz, his extensive writings on the Blackfeet, and threw in some contrasts between the author’s fact and fiction.

In the end, I keep plowing thru the snow (literally). As the day progressed, I kept the imagination of my guests alive. Painting pictures verbally. Both imagined and contrived. Bolding replacing the wall of clouds and mist that swirled around us. I used the storm as my canvas, the bus as my time machine.

Towards afternoon, most were spent. When no ones wants to get out of an unheated bus with fogged up windows, you can tell the trip is pretty much thru. I ended up dropping them off a half hour early, which was clearly appreciated by most. Tips for narrative or for early release from an earthbound purgatory. But both spend the same.

You can’t control the weather. But you can make an experience real, and make it memorable in a positive way. But only if you have the soul of a true Red Bus Driver.