You can go nowhere in the park without being in the shadow of some benign giant.
The center of the Park is the corral in front of the big hotel at Many Glaciers, where Lake McDermott mirrors a dozen mountains. From this point trails radiate in all directions, varying in length from three hours to three days.
Nature is nowhere more fresh and delightful than when seen from the trails of Glacier Park,—and as for human nature! I don’t know which is more engrossing,—the tourist or the guides. Personally I lean toward the guides, for the subtler flavor of personality is theirs. They can be unconsciously funny without being ridiculous, which the tourist cannot be. And they have an element of romance, real or carelessly cultivated, which no tourist has to any other tourist. What each thinks of the other you hear expressed now and then.
“You mightn’t think it, but some of those chaps are pretty bright,” said a lecturer of a Middle Western circuit to me, as he tried to mount his horse from the right.
“They sent us over that trail with a dozen empties and twenty head of tourists,” I heard one guide tell another, with an unconsciousness that cut deep.
Every morning at eight the riderless horses come galloping down the road to Many Glaciers, urged on by a guide whose feelings, judging by his riding, seem to be at a boiling point. In a half hour the tourists straggle out, some in formal riding clothes, some in very informal ones, and some dressed as they think the West expects every man to dress. The assembled guides with wary glances “take stock” of their day’s “outfit,”—always a gamble. With uncanny instinct they sort the experienced riders from the “doods” and lead each to his appropriate mount. These indifferent looking, lean, swarthy men sit huddled on the corral rail, and exchange quiet monosyllables which would mean nothing to the “dood” if he could overhear. With their tabloid lingo they could talk about you to your face,—though most of them are too well-mannered,—and from their gravely courteous words you would never suspect it. Guides are past masters of overtones. Their wit is seldom gay and robust,—always gently ironic.
I saw a very stout lady go through the Great Adventure of mounting, plunging forward violently and throwing her right leg forward over the pommel. It was a masterly effort which her guide watched with impassive face, encouraging her at the finish with a gently whispered, “Fine, lady! And next time I bet you could do it even better by throwing your leg backwards.”
He was the same one who soothed a nervous and inexperienced rider who dreaded the terrors of Swiftcurrent Pass.
“Now, lady, just hang your reins over the horn, and leave it to the horse.”
“Heavens,” she replied, “will he go down that terrible trail all alone?”