This is the third 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.
With no prior warning, Krissy and I were at work when we found out we had a new roommate. This also happened to be the day my family would be visiting, as they were seeing relatives in Missoula.
The café seemed busier than ever. I was brewing espresso with one hand and scooping ice cream with the other, all while trying to act like the guy in line wasn’t one I had gained sudden interest in, while also making eye contact with my mother in the same line.
Sweating and nearly in tears, customers apologized to me as my expression of stress could not be disguised. With each order I messed up, another came through while waving to my grandmother on the opposite end of the restaurant, where far too many people were sitting down to eat.
I don’t know how to juggle.
The hellish shift finally ended, and I exited the building to greet my visitors, giving a terrible performance. We sat at one of the red picnic tables outside the café. The current moment was all that my brain could focus on, so explaining how I was doing just exploded as vile, frustrated, word vomit.
“Well this is the worst time for you guys to be here, I just found out I have a new roommate and had no idea, the house is a mess and I’m losing my mind,” I exploded, rapidly talking with my hands and trying not to break down.
Distress graced the faces of those before me, as they were expecting a flourishing new human being to be in front of them, but instead received frantic disappointment.
“Let’s go meet Jaden and you can get changed, then we’ll go to lunch with everyone,” my mom explained.
She and I took a stroll on the black pavement under the trees behind the café. It practically led right to my front porch.
Krissy and Jaden, a stunning, tall, warm-natured creature were already talking when we entered.
“I hate to say hello and rush out, my family is here and everything is so unexpected,” I expressed after our short introductions.
I could tell things were going to work out well between us, as she seemed so understanding and similar in demeanor from the first meeting. All I knew about her before I left was she was a Nebraska native, like Krissy, shared a room with me, and had charcoal toothpaste that was observed upon entering the bathroom.
Even after returning from the family lunch, my time at home was sparse. In two days I was to travel three hours to Missoula to spend my weekend with aunts and uncles and cousins and everyone in between.
Listening to Elliott Smith and Leonard Cohen, I drove along the East side of Flathead Lake with the windows down, amongst the fruitful and never-ending cherry and huckleberry stands. The largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi, Flathead is a must-see for the typical tourist, but a comfortable safe haven for residents. The wind whistled in my ears as the wheels took me to my personal heaven. I grew envious of the motorcyclists who whizzed by, longing to be closer to the earth than I was in my car.
My first stop in the city was the AirBnB. My family was staying near Lolo, a smaller town surrounding Missoula. Mount Jumbo, adorned with a large concrete ‘L’ for Lolo, was visible from the home.
I spent my evening transforming the backseat of my car, Gertrude, into a fort. Brown blankets and tan pillows lined the sides of the interior, with string lights wrapped around the front-seat headrests. The faint smell of archaic black coffee resided, although I’d attempted to hide it with lavender.
With reluctance, I had to venture back home the following morning after an extensive grocery trip, with purchases including far too many Stroopwafels, a Dutch waffle-like cookie I would often pair with a cup of mint tea throughout the summer.
Instead of the route I traveled the way there, I took the longer route and went through my favorite mountain range, the Missions. The scene looks like what an artist would draw up if they were to paint mountains with no reference, the heights of the peaks spaced perfectly over desolate land with muted colors.
I managed to extend the nearly three-hour drive to about four — for the sole purpose of stopping on the side of the road to soak in the scenery,
The excessive spring rain calmed, and it was the time period before the forest fires grew far more extensive. The sky, the air, the mountains; everything was crisp and clear. Dust flew as my Teva’s kicked the ground that I walked along, past my car to admire the rivers flowing in time with the wind hitting the tall grass.
Mercury was in retrograde, which means an optical illusion occurs that makes the planet seem to be moving backwards in the sky. This lasts about three weeks, and those who study astrology believe this event causes frequent disruptions, specifically in terms of communication.
If I were to blame the unfortunate string of events that followed my short and blissful trip on something, that would be my answer. Each retrograde, without fail, thrust at least three unlucky events upon me. This retrograde was no exception.
The clan of cabin 122 grew and completed with the addition of Mary, from Minnesota. She was the only one of us with any history of park work.
Walking out of the bathroom brushing her teeth, one of Mary’s first impressions of me was seeing me coming out of a random seizure.
With Jaden fast asleep in the bunk above mine, Krissy and I were sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through videos on our phones while eating saltines with chocolate frosting, a snack combo she’d shown me that night. We devoured the crackers as we discussed work and what we would do tomorrow as the sun set outside of the windows behind us.
Suddenly, the most intense nausea I’d ever felt came over me, and before I could even process it, everything was gone, essentially falling asleep in an instant. Quiet and dark.
When my eyes opened, I noticed my body had folded in the chair, my forehead touching my knees. I was transfixed, still viciously shaking, draped over my legs. Trying to move my hands and lift my body up ultimately failed at first, my physical being felt separate from my mental. I was completely disoriented.
“Maggie? Maggie? Are you OK? What just happened?”
It echoed, but I didn’t know the voice at first. I had moved up enough to see a blurry Krissy; I couldn’t speak until I knew who she was. Although just a few seconds of being completely unaware of my surroundings, it felt like an eternity.
The first words uttered were “I’m sorry,” coming from a place of confusion and slight embarrassment.
“Did you have a seizure? I think you had a seizure. Does this happen? Are you OK? You were fine, and then started shaking. You hit your head on the table. Do you know where you are?” Krissy asked, frantic.
I answered questions about where and who I was correctly and we tried to evaluate the situation, searching Google and coming to the conclusion of an ER visit the following morning; it’d be a trip to get there and I was lethargic.
The doctor had ideas of what had happened, one that it was stress-induced, but there was no clear answer. I had my own suspicions. No driving for two weeks, and no working for a few days were my orders, only one of those things I followed.
To this day, I have never slept as much as I did the four days following the seizure. When I awoke from my practical coma, driving was my main goal and no one could stop me.
Except Gertrude herself.
We didn’t make it that far, a quick coffee trip and some groceries followed by a visit to the café, in which I explained where I had been to my co-workers.
Nick, the definition of a gentle giant, head always adorned with a deep brown cowboy hat, laughed as I explained the spontaneity of the situation.
“We’re all glad things are OK now, Mags. We miss you!”
Nick was one of the first people that truly made me feel welcome. We discovered quickly how much we had in common, like the same taste in women and nearly joint birthdays. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, where I was, he was. We became attached at the hip, and were quickly associated together. It was concerning when one of us was seen without the other.
Karma got to me quick. When I tried to go home, Gertrude wouldn’t start. Not only was I not allowed to drive, but now I simply couldn’t.
And just like her, I broke down in the parking lot.
After little investigation, the car needed a tow truck and a doctor. Quickly needing to find a trustworthy mechanic in Kalispell to have her taken to, I rolled the dice.
I took a slow stroll home after she was taken away, set on staying in a decent headspace. My time was spent going to Kalispell with Nick or creating art on my front porch. The two weeks went faster than I anticipated, although graced with a pinch of heartbreak gifted from across the country, the cherry on top of the chaos.
There is no day more exciting in Glacier National Park than the opening of Going-To-The-Sun Road. The nearly 50-mile journey takes you from the West side of the park all the way to the East, reaching 6,646 feet of elevation when you land at Logan’s Pass. The roommates and I were taking our trash out when our neighbor told us the news of the opening.
We dashed across the grassy patch in the center of our tiny neighborhood and hopped in my newly returned car, initially with no care of being late to work or what we were doing at the moment.
It was a teaser; we made it more than halfway up with Faye Webster’s pedal steel guitar adding to the ambiance as we creeped up through the mountains. Our chests were heavy, full of unrecognizable emotion at the sights. Snow accompanying the curves and tops of the blue-ish peaks, the air cleaner than any my lungs took in prior.
With the car parked, standing atop a small patch of ground, I looked out for miles, seeing the road we traveled on just minutes before now so miniscule. When examining the earth from that view, one realizes how small everything really is in comparison.
As my eyes gazed, all the senses that could possibly distract me shut down, refusing to be taken out of my trance for as long as possible.
It was inching towards July, which would be my clean slate, full of my favorite moments of the season. A solid group of lifelong friends would begin to form, thanks to a tradition of the Thursday night rodeo and farmers market.
Eventually, we reluctantly hopped back in the car with obligations to attend our jobs, and descended down the mountain. I’d make it all the way to the East side just a few days later, accompanied by someone who’d make a larger impact on my life than expected in just a few short months.
There are small moments, like breathing in the clean mountain air for the first of many times, that can really flip a switch in perspective.
Stay tuned for part 4.
