In Search of the Last Remaining Patches of Paradise

I came to visit Glacier National Park before the last of its glaciers vanishes, which some scientists seriously predict will happen by or before 2020. (Twenty-five rapidly-shrinking glaciers remain today; there were 150 in 1850.)

 It is a trip well worth the taking, meandering, as we did, through wide open spaces of Wyoming and Montana without touching an inch of Interstate highway. We have been as far out of reach as possible of e-mail, wi-fi, cell, mobile, cable -- even carrier pigeon. Did the Supreme Court never yet decide who won the 2008 presidential election? Or did Bob, proprietor of the only gas station in Hungry Horse, simply forget to take down his "Ron Paul for President" sign? It's still right there beside his "God's Ten Commandments" sign. I forgive him for both because he sells the world's best huckleberry pie, made on premises by Ruth, his wife. Besides, all politics is local, and Bob remains good friends with Digger, whose sign reads, "Don't let the far right wing take over everything!" Digger's fur, Indian art and gift shop shows no sign of firebombing, but it is for sale, since Digger means to move up to Alberta to live with his daughter and her family.

Drive two miles from Bob's gas pumps and Ruth's pies and you're in another world -- the real world, I'd like to hope, but fear otherwise -- where bear, and elk, and moose, and other wild creatures from Robert Service rhymes can still be seen. Such creatures can be seen, too, in Glacier National Park, against a backdrop of incredibly beautiful lakes and waterfalls and mountains, but only rarely, because like its more accessible cousins, this national park is being loved to death. Some critters seem not to mind the slow death they are undergoing. On the way to Logan Pass the other day, a young white tail deer moseyed, oblivious to the gawking motorists and motorcyclists who stopped to photograph, ogle and otherwise subject it to indignities Mother Nature never intended for it. The baker's dozen mountain goats grazing and frolicking at Goat Lick Canyon seemed similarly unmindful of the herd of humans oohing, aahing and shooting cell-phone photos from the bridge over the gorge.

 Even by our chosen route of the backest of roads, signs of the sins of man are too visible for comfort. The melting glaciers, of course. The patches of split-log vacation mansions where, ten years ago, only fir, oak and range grass occupied the piedmont slopes. Garish bait-and-convenience store ghettos on the shores of sylvan lakes. Acres of junk autos sprawled on the outskirts of pretty little cities trying to become Newark. Earth movers, drill rigs and monster trucks pooping pollution on Paradise.

 Enough already. Magnificent vistas remain. Pockets of tranquil silence. Trails less tramped, roads less traveled, glens less trashed. I've lived to share them, left no trace but footprints. It's back to the back roads for us, meandering more or less homeward, experiencing less of the reality of the wilderness and more of the wildness of the real world, such as it is. Sooner or later we'll be on Interstates, inhaling carbon dioxide and eating Dorritos. I believe there's some sort of election coming up, is there not?

Reserving Special Places in Hell

As my geezerhood advances, and my vision darkens, and my hearing declines, and my arthritis worsens, and my muscles weaken, and my aches and pains proliferate, and my patience seeps away, and my needs increase and my self-sufficiency to meet them evaporates, and my memory doesn't remember and my plumbing leaks, and things that were easy aren't, and much of what I learned is no longer relevant, and the new things whose use I have finally mastered are already obsolete . . . . .

When tying my shoes is an adventure and reaching the top shelf of the closet an acrobatic feat . . . . . when my gait is slow but makes my heartbeat fast . . . . . .when the wireless phone only rings if I've misplaced it, the car keys somehow wander off and come to rest in the refrigerator and the doorbell rings the moment I've stopped into the shower . . . . . .

Then it is that I take special satisfaction in contemplating particular tortures in Hell for those who add still more difficulties to my daily struggles with living.

 Foremost among those for whom I contemplate such terrible infinities are the makers of packaging. We punish mass murderers, so why don 't we punish those fiendish monsters who cap bottles of essential medicines with caps that can only be opened by small, carefully placed explosive charges? We have laws against child abuse, but why do we have none prohibiting the capping of jars of vital human viands with lids that can be opened only by very strong and very intelligent orangutans? We require that road safety signs be readable, so why do we not require that those little tabs one is expected to grasp to peel back the film on the mustard cap be at least large enough to grasp with, say, needle-nose pliers? Why, when the little note says "Tear Here," are they allowed to render the fabric so resistant to tearing that even an unshorn Samson would tear his hair out in frustration? What about those containers -- made of seamless case-hardened steel -- that seem to say "Open Other Side" on all sides?

 If you're over 60 or so, you'll know the things I'm talking about, things that break your fingernails, make you short of breath, slip out of your grip, can't be reached if you're not a contortionist, won't fit where they're supposed to fit, require that you "lift, press and tilt while turning" but still won't open, say "no tools required" but in fact require simultaneous use of a screwdriver (neither Phillips, nor slot, however, but some other exotic type), wrench (metric, of course), hammer (but not balpeen), coping saw and diamond-head glass cutter. And so forth ad nauseum.

 If I were St. Peter, I would require every applicant for eternity in Paradise to submit documentation of his or her earthly occupation. For those who had any association whatsoever with the packaging industry, I would turn to Torquemada and say, "This one merits special attention. Put the CIA on the case."