By Molly Raichle
Smiling, I greet the approaching couple. Sweat dripping from their foreheads, sipping from their water bladders, we exchange pleasantries. I mindlessly scan the barcodes of their stickers as they reach across the register to throw a few pins onto their purchase. I hear a familiar twang in their voice. As I wait for them to make their final souvenir decisions, I ask them where they are from. “Wisconsin!” Enthusiastically, I respond, “What are the odds, me too!”
Now, bonded by the familiarity of being from the Midwest, the couple asks, “Do you drive that road every day?”
“Most days, yes. Would you like to add a donation to support the park today?”
“Sure, add $5! And we don’t need a receipt, so long as you don’t tackle us on the way out.”
We laugh as the couple slowly peels away from the register.
Over the last two summers, I’ve shared countless interactions like this with people who come to visit Glacier National Park and have learned much from them.
Home is never as far away as you think. Millions of miles seem to separate West Glacier from Madison, my hometown. Driving cross-country, farmlands give way to rolling plains and at a certain point the horizon rises, and the sky widens. After arriving in Montana, I quickly learned that many Wisconsinites make the same trek each summer. I notice their license plates at stop lights and smile when they recite “Wis-cahn-sin,” at the register. The presence of Wisconsin in Montana makes the state feel all-together homier, but it’s the Conservancy community that has become home. As the summer season fades into fall and the visitors retreat to their native states, there are so many moments to reflect upon… watching loons at Lion Lake, polar plunging into the neon blue water at Cracker Lake, admiring the sunset from Mt. Oberlin, star gazing at Lake McDonald, dreaming of aliens at Swiftcurrent Lookout… and the list goes on and on. The people I share these memories with—live with, work with, and adventure with—are the ones that make Montana home.
Mt. Oberlin at Sunset, 2023
You are stronger than you know. I was hardly a hiker when I started working for GNPC, but as a former summer camp counselor, I knew I loved being active outside. After I dropped my dad off at the airport and it sunk in that I was alone in a new state I drove straight to Avalanche Lake—my first hike in the park. Since then, I’ve traversed mountain passes and ridges, swam in secluded alpine lakes, played in pika-inhabited rock fields, climbed to various fire lookouts, summited a few peaks, and even biked Going-to-the-Sun Road. Come July and August, my skin is more freckled and tanned, my feet are calloused, and my muscles are sore from use and overuse. Working at the register after a weekend in the mountains, even the customers believe I am strong enough to tackle them.
Dawson Pass, 2024
Sometimes I think about that quiet girl who drew mountain vistas before ever setting foot on an actual mountain. If someone told her that one day she would work at the top of a mountain pass, drive one of the most beautiful roads in America every day, hike as much as her heart desires and as far as her feet would carry her, and meet the most genuine and inspiring people, she would be in awe.
I am still in awe and will forever be grateful for this park, these people, and the organization that makes it all happen. One day, I imagine returning to Logan Pass—as a visitor this time—not recognizing the face behind the counter but so deeply empathizing with the magical journey they are living. When they ask, “Would you like to add a donation to support the park today?” The answer is unequivocally yes.
