Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Saturday, August 2, 2014

Day 20. Glacier National Park

Miles: 36 (to glacier park)

Glacier National Park: Bonsai dwarflike fairy tale trees stagger their way to the summit. Delicate purple flowers sprinkle the grassy flow of the land. Mountain peaks jet out from white caps that melt away into weeping waterfalls, watering the lush life of summer thousands of feet below. They ran like plump veins feeding the soul of the earth. White butterfly's floated by with the sound of too many tourists and screaming kids echoing in the background. Ice cold clean water leaked from rocks and moss. Streams flowed wildly, coaxing colored rocks into smooth bodies of stone. Hypothermic snow and ice waters took the edge off sunny heat; it soothed the land where mountain horned goats ran wild. Their furry bodies are reminiscent of wild and weathered dogs. With thick matted fur, they survive fridged temperatures burrowed in winter mountains. They are fearless of humans, as if we had gone to the petting zoo. Summer summit snow embraced freed sandaled feet, and numbed these frost bitten toes. Birkenstocks: not for snow hiking, and even this white powder didn't defer blood sucking Mosquitos. 

I was not ready to emerge into swarms of people. They were taking too many over-exposed pictures, all fake smiling and clothed in neon colored shirts, acting like they were professional hikers of the woods. The kids shattering screams followed us like magnets, and the thought of ever owning a similar creature was now completely out of the question. Those rascals that won't shut up, giving out pain staking headaches throughout rooms. Have we been removed from society for too long? Surrounded by this massive transit of tree seeking people petting mountain goats, it was all too overwhelming. Too many cars had painlessly driven to this scenic view, polluting scenery with ugly metal, to then tramp on tender soil simply for a thirty minute view. If you have ever read, Desert Solitude, by Edward Abby, you would know my words exactly. To survive the tortute of this pathetic situation, we used a slew of aggressive words with a lighthearted flavor to keep sanity. Landscapes like this are meant to be earned, not just admired as an item of the day. 

Exhaustion has set in worse than narcolepsy. What happened to us? Passed out like drugged surgery patients on the hour bus ride up to Logan Pass, eyelids felt like fishing line weights sinking eyes into deep dreams. No matter how scenic the views, we could have been winning a million dollars, but the soothing drive knocked us down like bowling pins. No longer wanting to be on vacation with families, with too much blond hair and blue eyes, we question how we will return to one hundred mile days, even with 12 hours of starry night sleep. Or better, question how we will ever be able to return to city life. 

Purple fields:

Logan Pass: furry friendly mountain goats

Veins of water:

Summer summits and tan lines:

View of Logan Pass from our campsite:

Field Notes: Hwy 2 will take you all the way to Glacier Park enterance. It has a very wide shoulder, but is the only road into the park from the west.