Day 19 — to Glacier National Park

Dear Natalie,

A beautiful clear, crisp morning. I repeated yesterday’s ritual: Coffee, view, breathe. Ahhh.

We walked from the hotel into Waterton village via a narrow path that winds its way down the bluff, and made a bee-line for Waffleton, where Dad and I each ordered the Canadian — a fluffy buttermilk waffle with bacon baked inside, and smothered in Canadian maple syrup — and Charlie and Clare each had a S’more waffle — which is exactly what it sounds like, plus some kind of caramelly, graham-crackery sauce. Charlie, his hands shaking from his post-breakfast buzz, declared that he could run up the bluff to the hotel and back down to the village. Twice. I think that was the awesome sauce talking. 

Hiking into town from the hotel 

After talking to a couple of shopkeepers, we got the deets on this cute, unpretentious town — pop. 105 — which has a small grid of wide streets wedged between Upper Waterton Lake and the steep, rocky mountainsides, and an assortment of guest houses, `motels, cafes and gift shops. On the outskirts of the “downtown,” a number of small, tidy summer homes sport unruly gardens and yards crammed with bikes, kayaks and paddle boards.  Since Waterton village is smack in the mIddle of the national park, the government owns the property and the shopkeepers sign on to 42-year lease terms. In the winter, the population dwindles to 16 — all park maintenance employees. 

Oh, that reminds me. After dinner last night, Dad and I sat in on a historical talk presented in the soaring lobby of the Prince of Wales Hotel by one of the young, adorable, kilt-wearing bellmen. It’s his first season of employment there, but his mother and his aunt worked there as well, and his grandmother was a manager in the 1980s. So, truly this place is in his blood. He talked about the construction of the building, the animals that populate the forest and the ghosts that populate the hotel. (There are two; we didn’t see them.) Since the hotel is only open for a few months each summer, I asked him who gets to stay through the winter, and if it’s like “The Shining.” He laughed and said that a caretaker hangs around, but that he doesn’t stay at the hotel. The tourist season lasts until late September, and after that, the giant lake-facing windows get boarded up to protect them from the high winds and enormous snow drifts that batter the building all winter long. He added that he often gets asked if the hotel is the actual setting for “The Shining.” (It’s not; Stanley Kubrick used exterior shots of Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood, in Oregon.)

We spent the rest of the morning poking around town and skipping stones from the pebbly beach that skirts the lake. We walked back up the bluff to the hotel, collected our stuff, then drove back into the village for lunch at Wieners of Waterton. After filling up on locally made smokies dressed with stoneground mustard, dill pickles, gingered carrots and sauerkraut, along with sweet potato fries with curried catsup and chipotle mayo, Dad and I decided that we are done eating for the rest of ever. We are so tired of stuffing our faces over the last three weeks and are looking forward to getting back into a routine of more responsible eating.

Hiking back up to the hotel

We got on the road after lunch, crossed back into the U.S. and then swooped to the east and south, flanking the Rocky Mountains. Along the way, we passed two moose grazing in a swamp just off the road and got stopped by a kind of a western traffic jam: a couple of cowboys and their hardworking dogs driving a herd of cows across the highway. We then turned west on U.S. Hwy 2, crossed the Continental Divide and landed in West Glacier, near the west entrance to Glacier National Park.

We’re staying at Glacier Under Canvas, an encampment of 20 custom-designed canvas platform tents that bills itself as the ultimate glamping (glamorous camping) resort. Our tent has a king-size bed, a wood-burning stove, a toilet and a shower; the kids are staying on cots in a teepee next door. 

I have been aware of the Under Canvas brand for a while, and have been curious. A husband-and-wife team, Sarah and Jacob Dusek (age 40 and 36, respectively, btw) opened their first camp in 2012 and they now have locations near Yellowstone, Arches and Zion and Mount Rushmore, with two more opening soon near the Grand Canyon and the Great Smoky Mountains. Their business has grown to included 60 full-time employees and 150 seasonal employees, and they’ve partnered with a hospitality management company to oversee each resort. According to Sarah Dusek, their specially-designed tents use a proprietary water system that, in a camp of 150 people, creates as much waste water a one residential house. Their goal, she says in a 2017 Forbes Magazine interview, is to help preserve the environment and create access to beautiful landscapes.

Their gauzy promotional photos feature young, gorgeous couples outfitted head-to-toe in Anthropologie, wrapped in Pendleton plaid blankets and basking in the morning glow from the decks of their Under Canvas tents. But, as we approached via Highway 2, I was a little apprehensive. Near West Glacier, this busy highway streams past beautiful forests and jaw-dropping mountains as it parallels the Middle Fork of the Flathead River, but it also zips past tacky souvenir shops, zip-line courses, helicopter tour companies and go-kart tracks. I worried that Under Canvas would be more kitschy and rednecky, like a KOA, than chic and rustic. I started to regret not making reservations inside the park, where the experience is guaranteed to be much more authentic.

Under Canvas is situated right on the highway, seven miles from the national park entrance, which is kind of a bummer.  In February, when I mapped out our 6,000-mile trip, seven miles seemed like nothing. But today, when it’s seven miles of busy highway and schlocky roadside stands, it seems like the national park is 100 miles away. 

When we arrived, the young hostess introduced herself as Lauren from New Jersey, and as she showed us to our tent, she asked us if we’ve ever been glamping before. “Oh, honey,” I thought, thinking about all the wild places we’ve stayed, from Concordia Eco Resort in the Virgin Islands to the yurt outside of Zion N.P. to the Rolling Huts in Washington, to any given campground with our beautiful Teardrop. Some girl from Jersey asks me if I’ve ever been glamping? Come on.

I overheard another young host tell another family that he’s from Brooklyn, which leaves me scratching my head. Why so many city kids? Are they trying to appeal to intrepid urbanites longing to connect with nature?

So, Lauren shows us around our tent, and the first thing she points out are the complimentary earplugs set on each bedside table. We need earplugs. To drown out the din from the adjacent highway — with cars screaming by at 70 mph — as well as the roar of the Amtrak Empire Builder and about 35 other locomotives that pass within a half-mile of the camp at all hours. 

The website promises a “rustic, adventurous outdoor setting.” Maybe Lauren from Jersey and Brooklyn Bob are here because it feels exactly like camping outside — next to the Jersey Turnpike.

But I have to admit, this place is kind of lovely. The tents are comfortably furnished and charming. We signed a contract that says we won’t even think about having food anywhere on the property, because this is bear country. But beer is allowed. So Dad and I cracked a couple of cans of Rainier and sat on the deck of our tent and enjoyed the late afternoon.

Dad has been texting you — you say you’re going to get a tattoo. Ha. Good luck with that. Other than that, I hope all is well.

I love you and miss you,

Love Mom

xoxoxoxo