Recently, and more than usual, my thoughts have been returning to a long-ago summer in Montana. My daily Google searches have followed my reminiscing, and this morning I discovered that Ev Lundgren had died on February 26th of this year. He was 95.
The Lundgrens bought West Glacier Mercantile in 1946. This collection of businesses at the west entrance to Glacier National Park serves visitors in search of food and drink, fuel and provisions, lodging and coin-op laundry. The quaint complex remains in the family today.
I worked in the Lundgrens' gas station, then a Chevron, for several months in the late 1970s. The first thing I found out that summer was that no one -- not the local workers and certainly not the seasonal crews -- questioned Ev's standing as The Boss.
What's more, if an employee of West Glacier Mercantile didn't get dressed-down by Ev once a day, we knew he'd written us off. He was demanding as hell but undeniably fair.
I absolutely loved working for the guy.
As a businessman, Ev personified "sweat equity" -- he refused to let anyone outwork him. (Do the math -- he was already in his early 60s when I met him.) Away from the Merc he was an accomplished outdoorsman, especially passionate when it came to Glacier Park.
I recall Ev stopping by the Chevron one particular evening around closing time. I had the next day off and planned to do some exploring in the park, so I asked him to suggest a destination, perhaps someplace uncrowded.
He didn't so much as hesitate before answering. "Get in that fancy truck of yours and drive up the North Fork Road, past Polebridge, far as it goes. Hardly anyone takes the time to make that trip, but there's nowhere better -- nowhere."
Because I followed his advice, the next afternoon I laid eyes on Kintla Lake for the very first time. I haven't been the same since.
I'll close this post with a line from Ev's obituary:
"A celebration of life for Everett Lundgren will be held in early summer 2012 when the bluebirds return."
That sentiment, like my memories of the man, makes me smile.
(The photos of Kintla Lake accompanied the article "Glacier the Unspoiled," published in the June, 1922 issue of Outing magazine. The map of western Glacier National Park appeared in Volume 9 of the Official Automobile Blue Book, 1919 edition.)
West Virginia's state quarter entered circulation in 2005. The coin bears the image of the New River Gorge Bridge, that BASE-jumping mecca and for many years the world's longest steel-arch span. There in the background, downstream from the iconic bridge rises Gauley Mountain, one of the soft-shouldered sentinels standing watch over the Gauley, New and Kanawha Rivers.
During the Civil War, Gauley Mountain was at the center of numerous pivotal skirmishes. The Ohio Infantry's 12th Regiment famously scaled its slopes on the night of August 24th, 1861, as Union forces fought to establish a line of fortifications along the high ridges of western Virginia.
Ultimately the Union prevailed in the difficult campaign, never letting Confederate elements advance much more than a cannon shot past the western bank of the Ohio River. Now, almost 150 years later, a new struggle is joined.
This fight isn't on Gauley Mountain. It's a battle for Gauley Mountain.
Within the next few months, this symbol of Wild & Wonderful West Virginia is slated to disappear, obliterated by a coal-mining method called "mountaintop removal." Think of it as strip mining on steroids.
First, the forest would be clear-cut and the mountain's flanks scraped bare of life. Next, explosives would reduce hundreds of vertical feet of Gauley Mountain to rubble to be hauled away or pushed into the adjacent valleys. Finally, a massive dragline would work the exposed coal. The resulting overburden would be dumped into the valleys, choking rivers that sustain life and livelihoods -- permanently.
Small mountain towns would wither and, for all practical purposes, die. The wild Gauley River, a popular fly-fishing destination and one of the most technical whitewater runs in North America, would be damaged beyond repair. Far beyond the confluence of the Gauley and New Rivers -- a watershed that includes the Kanawha, the Ohio and the Mississippi -- ecology and commerce would suffer as well.
I don't give a rat's red ass how much we need the coal, and I don't care how precarious the global economy is. The price is too high.
When New Hampshire's state symbol, the Old Man of the Mountain, collapsed three years after appearing on that state's quarter, the Great Stone Face fell to the forces of Nature. This is different.
It's a KintlaLake morning ritual -- at 5am I stumble down to the kitchen, fetch two cups of black coffee and bring them back to the bedroom for my wife and me to sip while watching local TV news.
Today, the secondary story was about a fire that overnight had consumed ten acres of grassland near the wildlife refuge I'd visited Sunday morning. According to the report, a stolen SUV had been driven off the road and into a field, then set alight. (It's also conceivable, I think, that it simply had been abandoned, its red-hot catalytic converter igniting the tall, dry grass.)
The news gave me a bad feeling. It bothered me that anything might threaten our small island of wildness, the park where my family and I have hiked and where I managed to find a moment's peace by the pondside a few days ago.
I just got back from the site of the fire, and I'm glad to say that the wildlife refuge was spared. It looked to me like firefighters did a helluva job containing it, breaking the burn before it caught a stand of tall trees -- and had that happened, it might've jumped a road and spread into the park. Also, the scorched area stopped about 50 yards from a nearby house, which I learned had been evacuated briefly as a precaution.
Right now the skies are giving us a wonderful, soaking rain. Fire's out, all's well.
The New Year holiday is supposed to be an annual vantage point, a sort of ridgeline from which we survey the trail behind and gauge the territory ahead.
I'm reminded of a solitary trek I made from Kintla Lake, now 30 years ago but still bright in my memory. At one point I made a decision, arguably ill-advised, to leave the marked trail and venture north into a trackless section of the Boundary Mountains.
I recall how difficult it was to find a clear and easily navigable way upward, and I'll never forget the exhilaration I felt when finally I crested a high, open ridge from which I could take some compass bearings.
Behind me were the Kintla Creek lakes and the landscape through which I'd already passed. Canada lay ahead, with British Columbia in front of me and the southwestern corner of Alberta to my right.
Taking bearings gave me my position, but it didn't chart my course -- that was up to me. All I knew for sure was that I wouldn't be turning back. I pressed on, down-slope and northeast, making my way toward the international border.
Today, standing on a metaphorical ridge, I look back at the path that brought me here over the last 12 months. By any measure it was damned tough going, with dry washes and dead ends, uncertain footing and more than a few falls.
I've arrived at this vantage point weary yet still strong, aware of life's gifts and inescapable joys, and my family walks with me.
The trials of 2008 are behind me. I'll carry the year's lessons but drop its burdens, pressing on into new territory, both unknown and unexplored.
I have my bearings. As for 2009, all I know for sure is that I won't be turning back.
One crisp morning many years ago, I was clambering about the scree above Glacier National Park's Lunch Creek Basin. Scanning the steep slopes, I spotted my photographic quarry -- an adult mountain goat and a pair of kids, perched impossibly on the side of a cliff.
I eased my knapsack off my shoulders, pulled out my trusted Canon and fitted a telephoto. Leaving the bag on a ledge, I moved slowly and quietly toward a better vantage point.
That's when my right foot slipped on a loose rock, putting me face-down in the alpine gravel. I began sliding, feet-first and untethered, down the slope. Reflexively, I went spread-eagle, halting the slide and avoiding what could've been a deadly fall.
It took me an excruciating hour to creep to relative safety, and still another hour to make my way back to my knapsack, a hundred yards away.
I never did get the shot.
The experience left me with my life and more than a few lessons -- chief among them my resolve to never again willingly separate myself from my gear.
But what if I'd found myself in a "Now what?" situation, whether unavoidably or through my own negligence, in the same kind of place and with the same assets? Inventory check: the clothes on my back, a pocketknife, cigarettes and paper matches, chewing gum, wristwatch, wallet, car keys and camera.
Moving down-slope, below the tree line and into the basin, I would've had access to snow and moving water that I could've collected in the camera body, the lens hood or even a boot. The alpine scrub offered pitch, tinder and fuel for a fire. Leaning cut boughs over a rock outcropping would've made for a tolerable shelter. My camera's lens might've been useful as a firestarter, a signaling device or a cutting tool. Being late summer, potentially edible creek-side vegetation was plentiful.
Despite being ill-equipped, I believe I could've survived.
When the SHTF, our only resources are the ones we have at-hand. Months of work stocking a TEOTWAWKI cache in the basement isn't much good if we're stuck in traffic miles away. That bug-out bag stashed in the trunk becomes useless the moment the car is stolen. Maybe we left our personal-defense handgun at home in the safe, because we never made the time to get a concealed-carry permit.
Spilled milk, that. The mission doesn't change. Survive. Regardless of the situation, mindset is the key to survival. To reinforce that, the U.S. military has used the word SURVIVAL as a mnemonic device:
Size up the situation
Use all your senses, Undue haste makes waste
Remember where you are
Vanquish fear & panic
Improvise
Value living
Act like the natives
Live by your wits, Learn basic skills now
Interesting, isn't it, that there's no mention of gear? That's because having the ultimate stuff in a bag is a whole lot less important than having the right stuff between the ears.
Preparedness begins, then, with mindset and skills. After that, we can consider the kind of gear that increases our chances of survival -- along with the best ways to ensure that we have it when we need it.
On that Montana mountainside, I made the mistake of leaving behind some of the gear that would've been helpful in a survival situation, but I still had a knife in my pocket. To this day, I always carry a serviceable knife -- whether it's a basic pocketknife, a multi-tool, a big folder or a fixed blade, and airport security notwithstanding, it's simply not negotiable.
Sometimes, of course, becoming separated from a well-stocked fanny pack or knapsack can't be helped, so I've learned to appreciate the value of carrying a minimal kit in my pocket whenever I head into the woods.
I highly recommend the Field & Stream article on building a simple kit that fits in an Altoids tin. Assembling such a kit is guaranteed to make you feel like a kid again, especially if you involve kids in the project. For some of the more unusual items, by the way, I've found Best Glide Aviation Survival Equipment to be a reliable source.
Back in 2004, then-Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld said,
"You have to go to war with the army you have, not the army you want."
That assertion may have plunged Sec. Rumsfeld deep into hot water, but for those of us engaged in preparing ourselves and our families to survive under less-than-ideal circumstances, the principle is worth remembering.
Because when the worst happens, it's not about having what we need -- it's about using what we have. The mission doesn't change. Survive.
"Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself. This leaf has jagged edges. This rock looks loose. From this place the snow is less visible, even though closer. These are things you should notice anyway. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It's the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. Here's where things grow." (from Zen & The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig)
Thirty years ago, this Midwestern soul found its home at the edge of the Montana wilderness.
In a remote corner of Glacier National Park, at the northern terminus of the North Fork Road, I discovered Kintla Lake. During the brilliant summer of 1978, this cold, clear jewel both soothed and inspired. It became the jumping-off point for a long and solitary trek into the mountains. And it's become the touchstone for virtually every conscious thought I've had since.
It's fitting, then, that Kintla Lake marks the beginning of this blog. What follows will be the seasoned result of a journey that began three decades ago.
The Lundgrens bought West Glacier Mercantile in 1946. This collection of businesses at the west entrance to Glacier National Park serves visitors in search of food and drink, fuel and provisions, lodging and coin-op laundry. The quaint complex remains in the family today.
