Before I continue with the adventures in Glacier, let me just say that I have heard your complaints and concerns in re: the absence of the blog, and I am so happy that you are interested enough to care when I can't post. McAdams and I are flattered, and enjoy the opportunity to keep up with you, our peeps, no matter where we are. I understand my mom has finally read my blog; better late than never. Also, I'm happy you're enjoying it, Brandon; I was glad to hear you had tuned in. Makes me feel warm inside. But Jeez Louie, the pressure! You people are SO demanding! I got life to lead cha-cha! I'll get to it when I get to it!!!
OK, so: Lake McDonald. McAdams once wrote a poem, published in the Glacier Gazette, or something like that called "To A Good Life". It was real poetic and beautiful, and long, too. Suffice it to say, it was inspired by Lake McDonald. We got up, ate breakfast and walked down a small hill to the water. The beach is rocky, but the pebbles are smooth and small, so it's no hardship. We spread out our towels and I read a chapter aloud from the bear book, which is actually about a middle-aged writers' trek through the wilderness down the Appalachian Trail.
The book is funny, engaging, well-written and informative, with just enough tragic, ecological factoids to make the reader righteously indignant about the lack of interest and effort most of us put forth about our fragile environment. You should check it out. It's called A Walk In The Woods, by Bill Bryson. Then we'd eat a little snack, maybe the fresh cherries we got from the weird, mean, born-again man and his squinty-eyed son at the cherry shack with the outhouse with the crosses carved in the wall, or some pretzels, maybe a huckleberry beer. We slather each other in 30SPF sunscreen (chick-a baum, chick-a baum baum!!!) and talk about how hot we are, double entendre intended. We put our toes in the water, shiver, and make our way in, past the knees past the hips, to the belly (Doh! That's CO-OLD!!!). McAdams takes a deep breath and sets off, a strong, gliding breaststroke, and I turn flips in the shallow end. Then we do water aerobics (Look! The washing machine! Use the resistance to your advantage!) and then back to the beach. I read articles about Chef Ramsay and Don DeLillo, and McAdams tries to memorize every crag, every slope, every avalanche trail of the mountains in the distance. I do pilates on the pebbles, she snores daintily. We get hungry again, we trek up to the lodge, chat up an 18 year old waiter from Idaho, and rent a row boat. I learn that it's not so easy to row a boat. You have to aim and steer. I covered the same foot and a half of water at least twenty times by making a perfect circle, which greatly impressed all those on the shore. McAdams laughed.
Hours of good, clean fun later, after dinner, we walked slowly down the beach, taking in the sounds of the pebbles under our feet, the stream flowing into the lake, some kid playing guitar in the distance. The light fades, the clouds go pink, the mountains become black sentinals of the rippling waters, and the stars pop out, until they are shining freckles on the face of the sky. (Now that's some real fine poetry, I tell you what!)
We sleep in the little log cabin with the windows open. I hear no bears in the underbrush, and am at peace.
bonus! bonus! bonus! bonus! bonus!
HOLY S**THOUSE, BATMAN!
Next: Polebridge!
1 comment:
Bravo! Welcome back, McDeenst and Sam Adams.
As always, excellent prose and pictures. But, alright already. We get it. Beautiful mountains and beautiful lake. Where's the local flavor. You are not on the reservation anymore. You can take pictures of the local huckleberries without fear of stealing their soul. Where there are hills, there naturally must be hillbillies. And, I know that your McPops, or whatever name de plum he goes by, would really appreciate documentation of the local freakery.
I'm surprised you guys don't have groupies yet.
Your pal,
Ed
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