“My toenail’s probably going to fall off,” my mother predicted as she shortened the nail with a pair of clippers. The damage had been done in the course of a four-mile hike in Montana’s Glacier National Park - one with minimal elevation gain. The toe-stubbing downhill stretch had not seemed long enough to cause such an injury, but I suppose some toes stub more easily than others. I hated to think what today’s twelve-mile hike was going to do to her.
The hike I had chosen for my visiting family was the Highline/Loop Trail - a popular route that clung two-thirds of the way up a 6,000-foot slope and kept a level altitude before suddenly taking a four-mile plunge towards the valley floor. As one hiked from south to north, the unbroken views of glacier-scoured valleys and snow-speckled summits would constantly tap at one’s left shoulder, requesting a moment for well-deserved appreciation.
It was easy to become absorbed in the study of these primeval expanses, and I expected we were in far more danger of negligently falling off the steep edge of the path than of getting mauled by a grizzly bear, especially considering of the popularity of the trail. We were just three out of a long chain of pilgrims crossing the high country, except that most other travelers were far noisier. They chattered and shook bells as they walked so that they wouldn’t come across a bear unawares and startle it. With all this activity, I figured that any creature would need to be both deaf and blind to be surprised by our passage.
Far too often we had to surrender the trail to let other hikers move ahead or pass us by. One huge group consisted of a wedding party happily journeying to an unusual chapel: the Swiftcurrent Lookout Tower, which was nine miles distant, perched high above even the Highline Trail. If they brought bridal gowns or tuxedos, they were all packed away for the journey. The party was sensibly attired… I just hoped they were sensibly prepared for the 2,000-foot climb that awaited them. Still, what an undeniably beautiful place to say one’s vows.
Our own journey was less focused and more relaxed, full of photographic digressions - attempts to digitally capture a world of yellow avalanche lilies and deep, blue skies. We passed ten feet beneath a drowsy mountain goat and watched as it slowly roused itself from beneath a spruce tree and shambled down to the trail right in front of us. It was the biggest male I could remember ever seeing, with thin, curving, sharp horns and a trim little beard growing beneath his chin. Muscles rippled beneath a thin layer of snowy, white fur, although his hips seemed to sway rather effeminately as he presented his rear to us and sashayed down the path.
My mother, who had asked a million anxious questions about what to do during a grizzly bear encounter, impulsively followed just a few steps behind the animal, taking video footage with her camera. I feared that the goat would finally tire of her presence, planting his front legs and using his hindquarters to kick her off the side of the mountain. But the creature paid her no mind. He ambled along at his own speed until he spied another comfortable bed of grasses above the trail and left to have a second nap.
Seven miles in, I thought my mother and brother might desire an extended rest as well. Our route had intersected the Grinnell Glacier Overlook trail, and I suggested they continue ahead to a backcountry chalet while I took this detour on my own. I had gambled that sore feet would convince them to relax at the chalet until I could catch up. Unfortunately, they both wanted to be included on this side excursion. Although I doubted how well they would do with the steep inclines, breathing thin air, I had to be impressed by their stubbornness.
Halfway through our labored ascent to the Overlook, I looked at my watch and knew I had made a big mistake. All our detours, including this one, had eaten away at the afternoon hours. Now we would be hard-pressed to escape the high country and catch the last park shuttle to the St. Mary Visitor Center, where our vehicle had been parked. Very likely we would find ourselves having to thumb a ride home tonight.
The two hours that followed the Overlook excursion were grueling for all three of us. To reach the road, we had to drop over 2,400 feet, and our soles were already hurting. Blisters, bunions and bruises afflicted the others, while my knees and shins were protesting the impact of the relentless gradient. Still, we stretched our legs as far as we could and maintained a grueling pace. We even passed some disappointed, overweight wedding guests who had failed to reach the ceremony atop Swiftcurrent Mountain in time and were hoping to recuperate at the reception.
Our sorefoot trio limped to the finish line ten minutes too late. The last shuttle had departed. Still, I had plenty of experience hitchhiking, so I gave instructions for my brother to hide out while I thumbed for a ride, reasoning that one man and his mother seeking transportation might seem less intimidating than three people. If a car did not have room for the three of us, I would send my family on ahead and catch my own ride back to the hotel. But before I could put out my thumb even once, my brother called from across the parking area. He had secured a lift by chatting up some young Londoners, and soon we were buckling ourselves in for a swift ride back to the visitor center, twenty-five miles distant.
Padded seats felt luxurious to our weary and aching muscles. “I think the Grinnell Glacier Overlook did me in,” my mother said. “But I’m glad I did it! It was absolutely beautiful.”
“Worth a toenail,” quipped my brother.
“That’ll be the chapter title,” I declared. “Worth A Toenail.”
And so it was.

Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, CA. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.