She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain…….Maggie, that is!

Aug 7 – 8, 2006

They said it was going to be hot today – high 90’s, but that’s around Shelby not up in the mountains. We drove the Honda into Shelby first thing because we’d picked up a chip in the windshield. Pat at Shelby Glass said he’s really busy, but he’d do a chip repair right away for us.

We went for a walk around town while he was working on it stopping at the info centre again to ask if there was an SPCA that we could report a neglected animal. Mabel, the elderly lady at the info booth advised us to go up the hill a short block and we’d find the city hall ‘kitty-corner’ to the blue and white building. “You talk to the mayor” she said, “He’ll make sure it’s taken care of”.

In the Lake Sheloole Campground, which is run by the city of Shelby,
a dog (pit bull cross, I’d guess) was tied to a tree for at least nine hours yesterday. There was a pup tent and a car in the campsite beside it. The dog was quiet and it had water and food but we thought it was really cruel. No wonder dogs like this become vicious when they get no emotional feedback. Our neighbours, Wayne and Bev said that the young man was away for twelve to thirteen hours – obviously working somewhere by the state of his clothes when he’d return and they said the dog didn’t sleep in the tent with him but in the car alone. We watched last night as a friend drove him to his tent and he sat in the truck for half an hour while the poor dog whimpered and howled to get his attention.

Well, we didn’t ask for the mayor but we reported the transgression to the receptionist who said she’d advise the ‘animal control officer’. She was obviously an animal lover too as you could see she was affected. We felt better after we’d dealt with it and trotted back down the hill to ‘The Griddle’, a local café recommended by Mabel as having the best breakfast in town. We ordered a really unhealthy sausage, egg and hashbrown special from a tiny frizzy-haired old woman who was as tough as nails and watched the locals come and go. A long table full of ‘border-patrol’ officers ran through the centre of the room and as one would leave another would sit down. Guess the Canadian border isn’t keeping them hopping! The bill came to $9 – good deal!

The chip was fixed when we got back to Shelby Glass; we paid the $40 and drove the couple of miles back to Maggie and Caesar. We found out from Wayne and Bev that the ‘animal-control’ officer showed up about an hour before we returned; he obviously responded to the message immediately. The dog wasn’t outside when he got there but he posted a notice on the dog’s water dish – not sure what it said. We did some cleanup and maintenance and hit the road shortly after 11am.

It wasn’t long before we left the plains behind and started through the foothills. Just around Browning, we caught sight of the Rockies – I’m always awe-struck - a wall of mountains appearing suddenly after miles of flat land. The mist, which must be smog, I guess, was thick and veiled the distant peaks. We found out later that it wasn’t smog but a forest fire that had been burning for nine days at the east side of Glacier Park.


The last time we were in Glacier National Park, about four years ago, we had our old Class C motorhome (Maggie 1) and no tow vehicle. So we weren’t able to complete the Road to the Sun, the road that runs across the park, as it doesn’t allow vehicles longer than 21 feet and we didn’t have time to book a tour through. We had to get back to work in those days. – Hahahahaha!

For convenience, we pulled into one of the park’s large campgrounds for two nights on the west side of the park, under the tall pines, figuring it would be lovely and cool. Hah! Not so. The afternoons were blazing hot and stiflingly still. As usual, we paid our ‘senior’ fees of $7.50 a night into the self-registration box and made ourselves at home in a pull through space. Well, we found out through this experience in Glacier Park, that if Fernie or I ever became incarcerated, we would have a nervous breakdown or at least hourly temper tantrums because that’s how we felt - as if Big Brother was watching over us every minute.

Within a half an hour, an aging ranger came to our door.
“You didn’t put your Golden Access # on your registration” he whined.
“What’s that?” questioned Fernie, innocently.
“Well, you gotta have one to get yer half price camping.” He continued, officiously.
“So how do we get one” pursued Fernie.
“You gotta be a citizen of the United States of America,” he said, his chest puffed out like a pigeon with pride.
“Doesn’t say that on the sign” said Fernie.
“Sure does” the old geezer answered
“Where does it say I’ve got to be a US citizen?” Fernie wasn’t going to give up easily.
“It asks for your Golden Access number” the old fxxx was starting to get mighty cranky by now.
“How am I supposed to know what a golden access number is?” said Fernie
Old guy just sputtered and Fernie said “Oh alright, just put the $15 down for one night then.

There were more rangers than campers it seemed. They cruised around in their mini trucks; they walked around looking at everyone’s sites and registration posts; they appeared out of nowhere asking “What is it you need ma’am?”. Then we read the rules! Two pages of how we were to behave while camping in Glacier National Park.
“Generators can only be run three times a day – 7 to 9am, 12 to 2pm, and 5 to 7pm.” And there wasn’t a chance that we’d get away with a minute later than that. Fernie put out our little Honda generator and again, out of nowhere appeared another old geezer ranger “Now, you know the hours that you can use that?” he said rhetorically
He proceeded to slowly recite the full rule and the precise hours.
“See - - - breakfast, lunch and dinner” he said.
I held back from saying that we don’t eat our meals by a timetable. A young family across from us in a Minnie Winnie Class C, put their generator on at 7:30pm (it wasn’t loud). They had just got back from the lake and were going to prepare dinner.
“Let’s watch and see how long they get away with that” I said to Fernie.
Thirty seconds later, at the most a brown shirted ol geezer ranger marched up the road and into their campsite.

When we were leaving a couple of days later, Fernie pulled Maggie out of the dump station and I, in the Honda was going to find a place for us to hook up the tow vehicle.
“Ma’am” I heard and ignored
“Ma’am” louder now and I saw a little wrinkled figure running after my car. I stopped this time.
I just looked quizzically at him.
“You can’t hook up yer vehicle in here” he said bossily
“I wasn’t planning on it” said I.
He continued on, talking over me “You gotta go to the big parking lot up front”.
I started driving off.
“Ma’am” demandingly, at the top of his lungs now. “Don’t go that way”.
I impatiently waved out the window at him.
He ran through the trees and flagged me down as I came down the next row. “I told you, don’t go that way. Don’t follow your husband – just go up to the parking lot and wait and I’ll tell your husband where to meet you”
I couldn’t be bothered arguing and went to check out the parking lot and turned around to make sure Fernie was coming the right way.
“Ma’am” right across the campsite - he was yelling, waving madly and beet red with impatience. I ignored him and waited where I wanted to for Fernie. As Maggie approached, I led the way through the trees to the ‘big’ parking lot and what did I spy coming through the forest but the ol’ geezer waving me in on the right. I arbitrarily pulled in on the left. He was sputtering with infuriation by now and tried to guide Fernie in but Fernie would only go where I told him, so I waved him in and snarkily told the old guy. “We’re ok; we know what we’re doing; don’t bother yourself ”.

The contrary inconsistency about all this is that with a huge forest fire burning on the east side of the park, they allowed huge campfires. Then about 11 at night, they didn’t manage to quieten a group of campers, obviously drunk and out of control. “That’s the last time we’re coming to this place” were Fernie’s last words.

In between these episodes, we did drive the ‘Going-to-the-Sun Road’ (both ways) and it was spectacular. It gradually climbed up the precipitous mountainside up to the peaks - it’s fifty miles across. After so many weeks in the plains, we appreciated the mountains more than ever – the trees, the wildflowers, the glaciers, the waterfalls beside the road, the velvety low-lying shrubs above the tree line, the gophers, the ground squirrels, the mountain goats and the cool mountain air (at least in the morning).

We were hampered by Caesar though. We couldn’t do any of the hikes that we would have so loved to do. Caesar has not progressed well since he hurt himself chasing waves on that rocky beach in New Brunswick. He walks awkwardly and bow-legged now – his back end seems permanently stiffened. When he awakes from a long sleep, he finds it hard to get up. He is unable to climb, jump or chase his toys and balls. It is so sad because the urge is still there but when he tries it, he hurts himself.