3 Things You Must See at Glacier National Park

Click here to see the video of Glacier National Park with Diamond Wilson and Jay Wilson

1. The Wildflowers 

The mountainsides and valleys are fragrant with wild roses, bear grass, and wild lupines.  Breathe deeply of the crisp mountain air, and catch a whif of the roses while you're at it.

2. Iridescent Glacier-Green Waters 

Finely ground silt in glaciers flows into rivers and lakes as the ice melts and blends into the water supply. The water is often so clear it is difficult to guess the depth of the water. Oh yeah, it's pretty chilly too!

3.  Ancient Glaciers - Giant Ice Formations that Flow 

 Great snow drifts under pressure eventually turn to ice and re-crystallize forming powerful glaciers. These glaciers move consistently, undaunted by thousands of feet of rock that lie in their way.  They cut almost impossible valleys and canyons, leaving large lakes with mountains that seem to grow right out of the water. Rock layers are exposed as the glacier erodes the formations, slicing the earth and baring the layers that formed it.

Heroes

The ends of his knees are red where his skin presses into the fibers of this worn rug.  With every breath he exhales, the glass pane in the door fogs up, a blanket between him and reality.  His cheeks are pink and his nose is cold, and yet he sits there looking, hoping, waiting.  His pudgy fingers draw smiles in the condensation, and yet he can't seem to bring one to his own face.  You see, his hero leaves footprints in the snow, but all of them lead away. 

Every step makes a muffled crunch, because something in this universe has to reflect the sound little hearts make when they break.  Like knuckles that will crack no more, at what point does a heart give up hope?  Even the most delicate, like snowflakes, will turn to ice when stepped on hard enough. 

His hair is damp and it sticks to his forehead.  While his face is young, his eyes have grown old and this winter's day will leave a chill in him forever.  He pushes himself up, off the ground.  As he walks away, the glass pane recovers.  There is nothing left but some smudged fingerprints that, like a secret code, are only visible when the light strikes just right. 

He takes a lighter from the kitchen cupboard, the long one they use for the grill, and heads off to his room.  He never thinks of hurting himself.  Nothing could pain him more than those footprints that are half-filled again with new snow.  He takes a string that has been loose on his bed and he begins.  He looks like a cherub there as he concentrates, biting his lip ever so slightly.  His foot falls asleep and the tingles crawl up his leg, but the execution has been started. The execution must go on.

He takes the lighter in his hand and flicks it, just like his father taught him.  The flame dances and bows as it takes the stage.  The fire licks his offering like an ice cream cone, and the string he wound so carefully is the best of messenger boys.  The secrets of fire trail along the path and when it hits the bedpost, the fire sings a high whistle.  The show has started and little drops start to land against the carpet.  They are blue and red and green as faces melt off and weapons wilt. 

The boy curls up on his bed with his stuffed animals and they, the audience, clap for the show.  Some spectacles last too long, and with that and the smoke, this little boy dozes off.  The alarms can't wake him any more than his mother's screams.  When the firemen find him, he lies next to a grave of blue and red and green.  In the pile of melted plastic, a sad blob remains.  The Hulk grimaces as if he still suffers at the stake.  He is the last survivor of those who melted away, caught in the fire of a little boy's heartache when he realized that all heroes will at some point walk away.

The Dark

My eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. The shadows that moved in the darkness as a child are quiet now, and I feel so alone.  The earth is quiet and I can hear my breath, the only life in this still room.  The walls lean toward me and I scramble out of bed to escape them.

I run through the house, but my feet make no noise, as if the floor can swallow up my urgency.  I fight with the locks and leave the door swinging.  The house is a simple silhouette, reality flattened into the dimensions of the night.  

I run toward the street and I honestly don't know if my eyes are open or closed.  Branches that I can't see clutch at my face.  I trip over a curb and my knees hit cement.  I look to the sky for answers, and I get none.  The moon has closed his eyes at the moment I need him most.  The stars have become candles with no wax and I stare at the heavens that offer no hope. 

Tears run hot against my cheeks, proof that not all in this world is cold.  My throat aches as if it is too small to keep my sadness locked up.  I sob silently in the darkness.  Dust from the street burns my eyes.  I can literally feel my heart breaking.  I take a moment to hate this silent earthquake that destroys me from the inside out.

My hands clench into fists. Anger starts to glow warm in my hands, the only coals in the night.    I exhale and sparks float on my breath, dancing in the cold air.  When I look up to the sky again, my gaze shines like a beam to shatter the darkness.  I close my eyes and hug my arms around myself.  I can't be afraid of the dark when the light has always been inside me. 

The Daily Grind

All the panes are gray in this smoggy city where dirty rain knocks glasses with tears on weary faces.  The muck and grime of a long day's work slurps up our footprints, and when we look behind us, we see no progress. The shoulders that carry our debts and our burdens are tired, and the days are long where the sun hides behind cement walls. 

So, we drown our sorrows in fantasy, and we wash our souls with handfuls of quarters.  We spritz nature onto our wrists and watch life on a colored box.  We play games with air waves and pay space to send us watered-down reality. 

We hover together in crowded pubs and argue about the referee's whistle, all the while unaware that someone else is making our calls.  We run away for the weekend and think that a salty breeze, clean sheets, and continental breakfast make us free.  But our hearts are chained to that chair with wheels that sits ten stories above what we will ever achieve.  

Our breath is putrid with the lies we tell our children.  I can't listen. Not now. Tomorrow. I promise.  Those unheard words that long to fly from soft mouths today will cement lips tomorrow.  Instead of the golden stories of our little ones, we will meet a ghostly silence. Nothing burns quite so bright as innocence before it fades in the eyes of a breathing corpse.

So, let's paint our faces.  The war mask of the twenty-first century comes in bottles of youth.  Let's color on our health and plump our prowess with silicone.  Let's filter our image so we can't see what dying animals we are, chained to the grindstone of our choices.

The Abandoned Park

My mouth is a dry well. No matter how much it rains, the bucket always comes up empty. My stomach is swollen with sighs that cannot escape. I swallowed one too many empty promises. Bony arms protrude from this squat center, like needles shoved into a balloon. At some point, everything will have to deflate. So, let's ride this dream on empty pockets. 

I hold your hand and we climb a rickety ladder. The wood creaks beneath our feet and splinters warn us of decay, dead skin cells of a giant body that heaves and wheezes to the time of the wind. Echoes of laughter swirl up like dry leaves and mix with the smell of rancid oil. I wonder if the grease we eat hasn't already slicked these metal bars. 

I hear the lonely whine of a carousel long still, a bird with a crushed windpipe. A breeze strokes my arm and whispers words I already know. We pull the bar down and I can feel where the plastic has cracked. Little bits of stuffing fall out and dance like fairies, spinning slowly into the darkness beneath our feet.

I close my eyes and tuck my face into the crease between your arm and your chest. I feel safer here, pressed close to you as I meet my destiny. Before we start to fall, I scream. A vision of our broken bodies blinds me even though my eyes are closed. You breath "I love you" into my hair and I know we will die like this, two shadows tangled up, a stamp on the ground. My heart beats faster as we pick up speed and then it flies to my throat and stops as we drop for a moment, completely free.

Caution: Contents Under Pressure

I cover my ears with my hands and I yell, loud enough so that I can't hear them any more. My teacher took away my headphones earlier today because I wasn't "paying attention." I guarantee you she doesn't know the meaning of that phrase. Not the way I do. 

I know that there are 154 styrofoam tiles that cover the ceiling in our classroom. I know that every day at 10:53, the teacher will sit at her desk and have to raise the chair. I know that my classmates whisper things about me when they think the volume is turned up on my iPod. I know why my chair is the only one in it's row.

I know that hitting things actually makes you feel better.  There are times when I'm in class and I imagine my knuckles crashing into cold metal. It's definite. The results are predictable. The sound is directly proportionate to the force with which I strike. I also know that things are more important than people. Because when I hit things, I get in trouble, but when people hurt me with their words, nothing happens. I guess we have something in common, my teacher and I. We both wish the other one would pay better attention. 

I have more bad days than good ones. I'm not religious, but I believe in Heaven and Hell. Heaven is a quiet room with a closed door and lots of lamps. Hell exists in an alternate dimension and it's located somewhere between my left ear and my right one. 

I know most people are scared of me. I don't blink often enough or look away. No matter how hard I try, I'm always swimming upstream in a crowd. Maybe it's because I want as far away from them as possible. Their voices are too loud. They don't have a plan. They are a funnel of explosives and I am a spark. We all share the blame. When people are born, they should come with a warning label. Caution: Contents Under Pressure. Since they don't, society just brands a few of us as crazy. The problem is, the majority doesn't understand just how flammable they are until it's too late. 

Peer pressure

I stand in front of the mirror, and I can't decide. I don't know who I hate more: them, or myself. My hair is wavy and I pull it straight, wishing myself into a shape that isn't my own. Maybe if I pull hard enough I will become like them. I imagine these roots of my hair reaching all the way into my brain. If I pull hard enough, can I straighten out who I am so that I come out normal? I close my eyes and wish myself into a shape that isn't my own. 

When I open my eyes, the girl in the mirror hasn't changed except for the tears in her eyes that didn't used to be there. I hug myself in the only embrace that seems to understand me and I let the tears splash against my arm. Salty waves crashing on the sand of my sun-kissed skin. I raise my head again to the girl in the mirror. My eyes are beautiful. They are more green when I cry, but when I look at myself, all I can see is sad.

I sink to the floor because I can't stand. The ache fills my rib cage and takes up all the space where my breath is supposed to be. My voice has become an echo that only I can hear. I'm starting to think that princesses were never locked up in castles with dragons. No dungeon could scar me more than these whispers and secrets that snake around my heart and steal myself from me.  

I clench my small fist and just stare at it. My nails bite into my palm, but I don't care. I decide to build my own walls. Like the Egyptians of old, I'll build a coffin that looks like me on the outside while I'm busy dying on the inside. I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. I've changed already. I grab the flatiron. I hate them all, but I hate myself the most. 

Backstage

Come, lay down behind the curtain of my eyelids and dream with me. No, not that side of the stage. I want you to live this nightmare from the inside. You have a part in it, you see. And sitting in the audience doesn't really do living justice.

Welcome to the cavern of truth. Oh, by the way, be careful of the floor. The foundation is a little shaky, you see. It sits on the backs of withered slaves and tired grandmas and you don't want to slip through the cracks. Also, I wouldn't go around cleaning up any old cobwebs. Some of these spiders are centuries old, and unless you're the Terminator, I'd say you don't have much of a chance.

Let me show you the dining hall. I present the proverbial fat cows, but don't smile so big. Not yet. Come closer and look. Their bellies are swollen with worms. Amazing what happens when you swallow lies mixed in with a single grain of truth. Well don't look so repulsed! It certainly isn't the cows' fault and you would haven't known any better off if you were still sitting in the crowd. 

Oh you're shivering. Cold? Follow me. I'll show you the den and you can stand close to the fire. There we go. That's better, right? I just hope you don't mind that smell. When we ran out of wood, we started burning bodies. It's amazing how much the bones look like logs if you don't look too close. Don't try to wipe the soot off your skin now. It's way too late. You enjoyed the fire; that's an experience you can't erase. Well, don't get mad at me for not telling you earlier! You didn't ask. 

Come on. I'll show you the garden. Aren't the flowers beautiful? Oh, wait! I wouldn't smell them if I were you. Nothing would grow here so we had to paint them. Of course it's all organic. Every morning we coat them with the fresh blood of the unwanted. Well, don't look at me like that! Everyone here has a purpose and we are all proud to do our part. Look, if you don't like the flowers, then stop staring at them. 

Come over here and rest by the fountain. Beautiful, isn't it? Shhhh. Listen closely. This water is made of only the finest souls. Young dreams are the purest so we harvest them early. No, no, no you have it all wrong. Don't think of it as stealing. It's more like a wishing well, really. I think you're perspective is just uneducated, but you're welcome to your opinion.

Come back in and I'll show you the baths. See how the walls glisten with steam? We used only the finest ivory to make these murals. Where did we get the ivory? Well, you're starting to ask a lot of questions, aren't you? Go ahead and touch them if you want. They won't bite. Any more. 

A mirror you say? Well, we try not to show our guests that part of the house. Oh, you insist? Very well. But I don't think you're going to like what you see. Remember how I told you that you had a part in this nightmare? Well the truth hurts. Go ahead and look. Few have true vision and, as the saying goes, we needed a fresh pair of eyes. Now, now, don't cry. You'll streak. Each of us had to build this with our sweat and blood, no pun intended. 

Well I'm on my way out, it was nice chatting. What's that? Sure, I have time for one last question. What did I sacrifice for its construction? That should have been your first question. See this hole here in my chest, behind my rib cage? Believe it or not, I used to have a heart.

The Hunt

I must have been drunk. I must have been so far gone on the lows of my sorrows that I didn't see it there, in front of me. My belly ached only for the full feeling of the chase and in hunting that beast I forgot to exist. It consumed me. It did. I foamed at the mouth with a crazy lust and I slept with the barrel loaded, the gun cocked and ready. 

I can't tell you how many times I just closed my eyes and shot into the night, screaming and falling to the ground in a heap when I hit nothing. It crazed me. I left sleep behind in my tent and I left my soul drowning in a river somewhere with a preacher who told me he could wash away my sins. But I got out out of the water before it could save me. 

I grabbed my shotgun and ran into the forest, leaving a trail of wet footprints that blistered the earth as if I were a demon and not a man. I'll always be able to find that river because my own regret is a smell I can trace as good as any bloodhound. 

And I guess that morals must be the pilot light for our eyes because the light went out in mine the day I stopped seeing the world for what it was. Two flat, black discs hovered in my sockets and I saw visions of the beast taunting me, always a stride away from the range of my gun. Once, I shot him point blank in the face but sick laughter echoed back with the crackle of the air and I knew I only shot an illusion. 

My hair grew long and my face became sallow and when I saw my reflection painted in dew drops I titled it, "Jesus, Incomplete" because that's exactly what I looked like. My teeth turned into sulfurous spikes, jagged and broken from incessant grinding. I had only one shot left and I decided to use it on myself, to end the hunt. 

By the time I saw it, I couldn't stop the bullet. This time the beast was so close I could feel his breath on my skin. And as the shot raked through my body, just before my eyes closed in death, I saw his name hanging from his collar. All this time, I was chasing Happiness. And finally when it was too late, I slowed down enough for him to catch me.