"Everyone else is in church," Erick joked. "And we're in our church." He was right. Of any place in the world, this is the one spot where I have felt closest to the presence of a god, something bigger than these peaks that have held me in their grip since my arrival in Montana 12 years ago.
The crumbling 52-mile road is entering the second year of a 10-year rehabilitation project. The construction necessitates closing the higher alpine sections to automobiles in the sleepier months of spring and fall when the biggest onslaught of the park's 2 million annual visitors aren't around. Statistically, 80 percent of those tourists drive the road in 500,000 cars.
A few more miles of pedaling, and we were staring at a shoulder-high wall of snow. The pavement had disappeared. A snow-moving machine sat idle, a massive yellow beast with huge turning blades poised to crank up on Monday morning to clear a road where drifts can be 100 feet deep. We turned around and glided through stands of old growth cedar as the wings of butterflies flashed in the sun.
Suddenly, we heard a grating rumble on the steep slopes in the distance and saw an avalanche spilling down from high on Mount Vaught. Every few minutes a new roar sounded as snow and rock crashed down from the peak. We were at least a mile from the destruction, the type of brute, punishing force that has battered the road over time.
The restoration involves fixing deteriorating retaining walls and guardrails, features that give the road much of its historic character and aesthetic appeal, as well as fixing inadequate drainage systems, crumbling pavement, tunnels, and bridges.
This road was the key to unlocking the beauty of Glacier to the masses. The men who dreamed big enough to believe in a road like this were pushed by a passion to preserve this place, while sharing this stunning scene with as many people as possible.
