This is the fourth in a series of stories on Mansfield Senior graduate Maggie Allred’s adventure in Glacier National Park. Part I was published on May 29. Part II was published on June 26. Part III was published on Aug. 14.
The first day of July brought me a bruise that covered the entire side of my right thigh, thanks to a less than perfect landing into the river below the Belton (“Wrath of God”) Bridge.
I am not incredibly fond of swimming, let alone diving, so the purple skin carried a positive connotation.
Employees at Glacier have a tradition of jumping off the Belton into the water below; most people do, some don’t. I was fully convinced I’d never do it, but thank God for an environment that allowed for a sort of expanded consciousness as well as healthy amounts of peer pressure.
The body of water was becoming brighter and beginning to slowly sway as I panted and choked my way to the nearest rock and hoisted myself out of the river. For a while, the high brought on by the leap and adrenaline blocked the pain felt from the horrendous belly flop.
I had begun a friendship with my co-worker Caedyn, who joined the group on the bridge that day and helped convince me to take the jump. We frequently talked about music, and what sparked our friendship was the Death Cab for Cutie concert I would attend in September.
“I got two tickets to Death Cab in Missoula, but I don’t know anyone here who likes them yet,” I explained to Nick on a slow day at work, leaning our backs against the window connecting the front and back of the restaurant.
“Death Cab? I’ve seen them like three times before.”
I turned around to see the cook behind me with a smile that appeared as a kind of smirk, initiating conversation.
“Well, what’s the chance you’d see ‘em again? It wouldn’t be too boring, would it?”
“Not at all.”
My reasons for inviting him to the show had nothing to do with the annoyingly robust charm he carried, as well as a self-assuredness I desperately desired to learn…
After discussions with him on the bridge about the state of my brain and planning to get tattoos together, I decided to walk home to complete some art. So I canceled plans with neighbors to take advantage of the excessively creative mindset I’d stumbled into.
The initial week of the month was beginning to set the tone for the remainder; spontaneous and fulfilling.
Hungry Horse, the nearest town to West Glacier, is dedicated to holding the largest July 4th celebration possible.
Supposedly, the city’s entire liquor tax goes exclusively to fireworks, and the tradition seems to be timeless. Throughout the summer, shacks selling fireworks line Highway 2.
I was graced with the morning shift that day, alongside Nick and our other co-worker, the funniest woman I know, Ayla. The three of us began bonding through work, but all agree that July 4th solidified our relationship.
Working at an ice cream shoppe in a national park during a holiday is what I imagine purgatory to be.
The line wouldn’t end, looping around the premises. Nick made 81 milkshakes in the first hour. Ayla and I danced through the shift, literally, and scarfed down burgers we smuggled from the kitchen while sitting on the floor behind the espresso bar any chance we could get.
The first day I met Ayla, her neck featured a large, pale blue stone necklace. Before we knew each other’s names, she said, “I could just see you as a character in a book.”
Outspoken and oozing compassion, she exudes positive affirmation whether she loves people or despises them. When someone was overwhelmed at work, she was the first to take over.
Our trio would grow infamous; frazzled workers brewing with Bailey’s, but certainly the most fun to be around. We abandoned our post as soon as the night crew stepped in, sneaking through the maze of tables all the way to the back door, arriving at the picnic tables by the dumpsters for what would become a routine for every shift we shared, deemed “Trash Time.”
“Trash Time” started with the three of us sharing a single drink before we’d head home. It soon grew to whoever wandered to the table, often “co-workers-in-law,” roommates, or visitors. (On rare occasions, visitors included black bears, canceling the event.)
“Are we ready to head to Hungry Horse, folks?” Nick asked, “I’ll drive.”
I followed Nick’s Jeep down Highway 2, and the road transformed into chaos; chairs lined up for miles, endless swarms of people, and fireworks going off in the middle of the road, causing us to swerve and dodge the explosives.
Every color illuminated the sky, it only seemed to stop when closing your eyes. This was not your typical fireworks display.
We set up camp near the Hungry Horse Motel, another employee housing unit, along with Mason and Lance. We remained there for an hour or two. Then I zig-zagged Gertrude, my car, through colorful explosives and drunken pedestrians all the way home.
After lots of wrestling with the idea, my roommate Jaden decided to leave the cabin. That was disappointing, as I lost one of my comfort people.
We celebrated her time in Montana with one last campfire, and encouraged her to return to Nebraska and do the things she desired.
This led me to spend more and more time with Nick and Ayla and whoever else was around them, expanding my interactions even more.
Nick was our glue, making sure we got out of the house, exposing us to activities we didn’t think to ever participate in until he dragged us out. Nick and I did our grocery shopping together, haircuts, everything.
Each Thursday, Columbia Falls hosted a farmers market and the Blue Moon bar featured a rodeo the same night. We attempted to make this tradition, buying intricately crafted earrings from local vendors and overpriced snow cones.
Soon, our friend Brooks joined us, a boy from Colorado who never stopped moving. Later, Shaya, a guy from New Hampshire with Russian ancestry, full of unnecessarily hilarious commentary in two languages, completed our band that would last through the season. Frequently we found ourselves in the condos, which housed Nick and Brooks.
Nick blasted whatever old country playlist he had on rotation, planting ear worms from Marty Robbins and Hank Williams in the brains of those who neglected that genre of music.
Shaya prepared our midnight family dinners of grilled cheese and tomato soup, accompanied with unique beers Nick had acquired, like huckleberry IPA’s.
The rest of us sat around the table, playing cards or planning our next excursion when September came to a close.
Brookelynn, my friend from Mansfield, took a flight into Kalispell and stayed with Krissy, Mary, and I for a week.
For Brookelynn, I was playing tour-guide of my new home, and the first excursion was Going-to-the-Sun. This always seemed to be the first place a person would take someone they wanted to get to know, typically for first hang-outs.
Caedyn and I made it all the way to St. Mary’s to break the ice one of the first times we hung out, and my co-worker-in-law, Eli, drove up the road to take me on a hike to an ice cave. It didn’t last long. I had an asthma attack and eventually turned around, but we’ve talked every single day since.
The vastness of it bonds people, forming intense relationships with strangers in such a short period.
It’s a whole different experience going with someone who’s never gone, let alone never seen the mountains before. Seeing her reaction was priceless, and we rode along in silence for a while.
“You know, you look a lot healthier. Happier. Are you feeling that way?” Brookelynn asked.
Being a person who sinks in their own sadness (convinced it creates my best art), her comment caused me to pause. I was at peace, creating more than ever, whether it was good or not, and forming family-like relationships all around me.
The distance from friends in Mansfield turned out to be necessary, and there was a content feeling with everything I thought I knew completely shifting. I had settled.
“I think so, yeah, actually,” I responded, not shifting my eyes from the road ahead of me.
We continued along in comfortable silence.
When she took her plane back home, almost immediately, the wheels of my car were being pushed towards Missoula to spend a few days alone. I sought peak isolation, but because it was a decision made in five minutes, planning was severely lacking.
The motel was right by the truck stop in the middle of nowhere, and I sauntered up with nothing but my wallet, the dress I was wearing, two shirts; a denim button down and a Martin guitar t-shirt, and a 12-pack. Standing outside the building, I gazed at it, laughed to myself, and wandered in.
Brookelynn and I talked much about the past and future, what led us to where we are and where we are obligated to go now. We discussed how intricate plans we had in high school fell apart, and the things we’re set on now could, as well.
Heavy conversations brought by such close friends can be overwhelming, and in a frantic state I decided I needed to re-evaluate and plan my next move.
It was about halfway through the season, and because I’d begun to become so comfortable, panic set in. Where would I go when I leave in September? Would I even stay until then? Am I too attached to people I might never see again?
My room was in the corner on the third floor, adorned with musty sage walls, outdated furniture and a slightly colder than room temperature mini fridge.
I played Yo La Tengo’s “Painful” album on repeat, pacing the room and inevitably having to use the t-shirt as a pillowcase. Paranoid, I placed a chair in front of the door for extra security, although it would’ve moved anyway because it had wheels.
There was very little sleep, but instead the consumption of cold chicken and rice as well as lots of scribbling on the notepad that laid upon the nightstand in the yellow light.
Upon waking up the following morning, I put on the floral green, pilgrim-esque dress and drove downtown.
Barely functional with my eyes half shut, I walked miles around and around, stopping in boutiques and record stores until the blisters on my heels bled on the back of my brown loafers. Even then, I kept going, and I would until I didn’t feel crazy anymore.
Stay tuned for part 5