  Bedrock: The First StoryOn the trail that connects the Logan Pass visitor center to Hidden Lake overlook there is a shallow pond. Near Hidden Pass, it collects its meltwater from the Continental Divide and sends it down the shallow gorge that drains the Hanging Gardens; as a waterfall it plunges into the upper St. Mary Valley where it becomes Reynolds Creek; joined by other tributaries, it continues its long journey to Hudson Bay. The surface of this pond is seldom still, for the wind treats it like a sea. Because the water is shallow, the wave action wrinkles the bottom mud into ripple patterns, mimicking the churning waves. I like to come here early in the morning. Sometimes, arriving before the wind awakes, I catch reflections of the surrounding mountains. Beyond the low bench of Logan Pass the Garden Wall begins, running northward with the Divide. In the eastern valley the pitched peak of Going-to-the-Sun hunkers in the morning light like a tensed warrior. To the south, the incisor Bearhat, beautiful cloud cutter of Hidden Lake Valley, juts above the nearby saddle of the pass. But over this place, standing as fresh monuments to an age of ice, tower the cliffs of Clements and the pyramid Reynolds. I am sitting on a wedge of red rock. Its surface exhibits a wrinkled pattern identical to the ripples in the soft mud of the shallow pond. The distance is not great; with a stick I could reach out and touch the mud. Yet this represents a gulf no bird can fly, for between the ripples of this rock and the ripples of this mud lie billions of vanished mornings, a constellation of years. These red, green, tan, white, black and purple bands of rock that layer Glacier’s mountains comprise the oldest unaltered sedimentary rocks on Earth. They were laid down in Precambrian time, more than a billion years ago, when life was just beginning, as the deposits of an inland sea. For millions of years, sand, mud and carbonates washed into the ancient sea, compressing the lower layers into mudstones and limestones, building up a sediment thickness that may have been as much as 10,000 meters (see metric conversion table on page 136). When we look at the sharp contours of Glacier’s mountains, we see the evidence of uplift, overthrust and glaciation. But on the geologic clock these are recent events, a mere eyeblink of time ago. For the vast majority of years, the rocks lay undisturbed and level beneath the sea and land. To understand better the tremendous time scale these rocks represent, we need a way to visualize the vast collection of years. If we were to make a movie of these geologic events, we would first need to determine how many years each minute should represent. Since the Pleistocene lasted about 3,000,000 years (its four ice ages sculpting the present muscle of this land), let us make Not until the fifty-seventh hour of our film will the Mesozoic lowlands begin to bulge with the coming Rocky Mountain chain. During the long preceding hours we would have seen little else but sea—withdrawing, advancing, deep and shallow; yellow, green, and brown with great colonies of algae. Unseen below the water, lava has spilled out occasionally on the sea bottom; once, it intruded between the rock layers below, forming the conspicuous, 60-meter-thick band of black diorite that we see today on many mountain faces in Glacier. During this time of initial uplift an amazing process is going on deep underground. A major fault has developed, fracturing the buckled layers of rock. A vast mountain plate begins to slide eastward, over-riding and submerging the rock layers to the east and opening the wide trench that is today the North Fork Valley. Known as the Lewis Overthrust, this gigantic earth-force has created an unusual situation: ancient rock strata lying atop recent rock strata. Now less than 3 minutes of film remain. The arrival of the ice is imminent. We look at the landscape of featureless mountains and wonder at the dramatic difference that this last 3 million years will make. We do not see the familiar forests and lakes, the savage peaks, and the broad, deep valleys of this present land. These mountains are gentle, arid, and shallow-valleyed. The vague outlines are there; we recognize the general alignments of the drainage systems, the bloated domes from which sharp peaks will be cut. The mountains are connected to one another by blunt ridges and smooth saddles, and the shadows they cast are dull, dunelike. Suddenly the ice is there, filling the landscape, with only the mountaintops protruding. Four times in these last 3 minutes of film the ice sheets advance and retreat, each time leaving an altered landscape. Strange lakes and forests fill the gaps between the glacial invasions. Then we see the mountains we now know come into being rapidly, as if the land were being hacked into shape by giant cleavers. After this flicker of Pleistocene time, the film ends, the forests return, and familiar lakes shine beneath the sun again—these lakes and forests we had thought to be timeless.
Hidden Lake, deep, far below, so blue, Glaciation is a cruel master of mountains, biting deeply into their bulk and leaving sheer, spectacular contours when the glaciers disappear. The landforms here attest to their power, everywhere exhibiting the effects of glaciation. In eating back the mountain headwall, alpine glaciers formed rounded depressions, called cirques. Unlike the narrow clefts left by running water, these broad, deep basins look as though they were made by ice-cream scoops gouging into the rock. Hidden, Ptarmigan, Iceberg, and Avalanche Lakes sit in well-developed cirque basins, and many mountains are dimpled by the beginnings of other cirques—the conspicuous amphitheater on the south shoulder of Heaven’s Peak, for example. Occupying all major drainage systems, glaciers modified the contour of the valleys, changing them from their narrow, stream-cut V-shapes into broad U-shapes. Into these wide main valleys, waterfalls plunge from higher, smaller valleys. Like rivers, flowing glaciers have tributaries. Lacking the ice mass and cutting power of the main glaciers, these tributary ice fingers could not bite as deeply into the bedrock. When the ice melted, hanging valleys were left stranded high above the main valley floor. Hidden Lake sits in one of these hanging valleys, and from it Hidden Creek plunges 750 meters into Avalanche Basin toward McDonald Creek. On my many previous visits to this pass I have been too busy enjoying the wildflowers, the weather, or the scenery to realize what an open textbook of glaciation is everywhere displayed. I stand here on a small saddle of a pass. Wherever glaciers met, passes, or cols, were created. A high, notched pass like this one (or Swiftcurrent or Gunsight) reveals recent connections. Broad, lower passes, such as Logan, resulted where the ice early overran the mountain ridge and had a chance to work longer. Where two glaciers worked on opposing sides of a ridge and failed to meet, they formed an arÊte—a thin, steep-walled remnant resembling a saw blade. Another ice age would probably consume the park’s many thin arÊtes, such as the Garden Wall and Ptarmigan Wall; but it would also create new ones from existing ridges. Further testimony to the sculpting power of ice is presented by Mt. Reynolds, looming to the east. The most dramatic Sperry Glacier stares back at me from the flank of Gunsight. Glaciers found in the park today are not remnants of the last ice phase, which ended here about 8,000 years ago, but are newly formed, having come into existence some 4,000 years ago. They reflect a cooling trend in the present climate. Shrinking steadily from their period of greatest extent in the middle of the last century, these modern glaciers finally stabilized in the late 1940s and since then have shown only a slight increase in area. Movement distinguishes glaciers from icefields, and the movement of ice is a force on as well as a feature of a landscape. A glacier excavates by abrading and plucking at the rock. Alternately melting and freezing, ice at the headwalls plucks out blocks of rock. Ultimately the rocks are deposited along the sides or at the feet of the glacier as moraine debris. But as they move in the grip of the ice, they constantly abrade the rock surfaces they encounter. Polished rock beds of past glaciers show striations—grooves gouged by rock fragments imbedded in the moving ice. Flow rate of a glacier depends upon the thickness of the ice and the degree of slope. Under tremendous pressure, ice becomes plastic, like thick taffy. Unlike kilometer-thick continental glaciers, which may move a hundred meters a day, small alpine glaciers seldom progress more than two or three centimeters per day. Although a glacier moves, it gets nowhere if in a state of equilibrium—when annual melting equals annual accumulation. Snow mass gained at the sun-shielded headwall is usually lost as melt at the exposed snout. Glaciers such as Sexton or Weasel Collar, whose snouts perch on cliff edges, also lose mass by calving. Thunder you hear on a late-summer day near such a glacier may actually be the sound of ice pushed off from the lip of a cliff. Walking back to the visitor center, I suddenly stop where the trail skirts the steep moraine of Mt. Clements. From the opposite side of the moraine five mountain goats have appeared. Spotting me on the trail below, they also halt. But before I can get to my camera they are off in a stiff-legged gallop, running in single file along the crest of the moraine to the distant safety of the mountain face. Moraines are ridges of rock debris piled up along the edges and terminuses of glaciers. Like a bracelet lying against the wall of this mountain, the circle of steeply piled debris marks the extent of a small, recently vanished glacier. Ghost of the power that once resided here, a stagnant icefield lies beneath the confining walls of the moraine. The recent accumulation of these rock fragments is a mighty accomplishment, attesting to the force of moving ice. continued on p. 38 The Mountains of Glacier Lying astride the Continental Divide in the Northern Rockies, Glacier is above all else a mountain park. The special beauty of its lakes, streams, and forests derives from the microclimates and varied topography and soil produced by mountain-building and mountain-eroding forces. Overthrust Mountains 1 A hypothetical block of the Earth’s crust in the region of Glacier National Park as it existed more than 60 million years ago. The two layers shown actually represent many strata of sedimentary rocks. 2 Lateral pressure begins to force the rock layers to buckle. 3 A large fold has been created, forcing the rock strata to double over and overturning some layers. A break, or fault, is forming at the plane of greatest stress. 4 The break has been completed and the strata west of the fault have slid eastward, up and over the rocks east of the fault. 5 The Glacier landscape today. Throughout the millions of years during which the folding, faulting, and overthrusting have been taking place, the process of erosion has continued; a thousand meters of stratified rocks have been worn away, so that only a remnant of the overthrust layers can be seen today. Because Glacier’s eastern slope represents the eroded face of the overthrust block, the mountain range rises precipitously from the prairie, with no foothills breaking the abrupt transition from open prairie to mountain valley. The peaks in this photograph (a view to the northwest from Marias Pass) are remnants of the overthrust block, which moved eastward. The dividing line between the light-colored rocks and the gray talus slopes beneath them is the Lewis Overthrust Fault. Glaciation 1 This is how the landscape in this region might have appeared before the onset of the Pleistocene, millions of years ago. Note the stream-eroded, V-shaped valleys. The climate at that time was dry. 2 Glaciers began to form high on the peaks, crept downward, and joined to form larger glaciers. 3 After many centuries of glaciation, tributary glaciers have cut back into the peaks, forming basins called cirques. Thick glaciers, moving rapidly and carrying rock fragments, have abraded the main valleys’ floors and sides, widening and deepening the valleys into characteristic U-shapes.
4 In the present landscape, free of all but remnant glaciers, small lakes called tarns occupy many of the cirque basins; and waterfalls plunge into the main valleys from higher, shallower, tributary valleys, called hanging valleys. Alluvial cones—recent accumulations of rock debris—have begun to build along the valley walls. In the main valley, a moraine (a deposit of rock materials left by the retreating glacier) has formed a dam that holds back a large lake. During all this time, all parts of the terrain not buried under ice and snow have been weathered and eroded by nonglacial forces. Thus the contours of the jagged peaks and sheer cliffs have been softened.
Glacial landforms can be identified in this view of the Mokowanis Valley. A Divided Climate Because of an eastward flow of cool, moist Pacific air masses, the climate of northwestern Montana, including the western portion of Glacier National Park, differs from that of other portions of Montana. As a result of increased precipitation, Glacier’s western valleys support a rich flora, more typical of the Pacific Northwest. West Moist Pacific air As the moisture-laden Pacific winds are pushed up the windward slopes of Glacier’s mountains, the air cools and water vapor condenses, forming fog or clouds. Rain or snow begins to fall as the air continues to rise and cool. By the time the air mass reaches the crest and flows down the leeward slopes, most of the moisture has been lost. Western slopes average about 70 cm. of precipitation at elevations between 900 and 1,100 m. Upper elevations average 200 to 250 cm., mostly in the form of snow; and 300 to 500 cm. is common. East Dry chinook winds Eastern slopes, under the influence of Continental air masses, receive less annual precipitation. West Glacier’s annual average is 66.5 cm. Babb, a small town east of the park, averages 49.3 cm. Frequent high winds east of the Divide further reduce moisture through evaporation. Exposed to Arctic air masses flowing down from Canada, locations east of the Divide also suffer more severe winter conditions than do protected western valleys. Average January temperature is -5°C at West Glacier, -8° at Babb. Moreover, 80 percent of the winter days in the western portion of the park are overcast, a condition almost identical to that of Seattle, Wash. This serves to moderate winter temperatures and to minimize evaporation. Moss campion and mountain forget-me-not colonize a fellfield. Fellfields are rocky alpine sites that are slightly less than 50% bare rock, interspersed with such plant pioneers as cushion plants, mosses, and lichens. High lakes generally occupy cirque basins. These depressions in the valley bedrock, quarried by glaciers, are deepest near the headwall where ice thickness was greatest. Cold and deep, and ice-free only weeks each year, tarns cannot support vascular plants or vertebrates. Iceberg Lake, shut off from the sun most of the year by the encompassing 1,000-meter walls of Mt. Wilbur and the Ptarmigan Wall, is never completely free of ice. Lake McDonald, 16 kilometers long, 2 kilometers wide, and 134 meters deep, is the largest lake in the park. Its basin is the classic U-shaped glacial valley. Forested lateral moraines on either shore gently rise 600 meters above lake level. Going-to-the-Sun Road snakes along the eastern shore, and Logan Pass lies near the center of the photograph, behind the peaks of the Lewis Range. Subjected to the drying and shaping effects of wind both winter and summer, this Douglas-fir, growing in the prairie community near St. Mary, will attain neither the symmetrical shape nor the great size of the Douglas-firs growing in moister, more sheltered sites on the western slopes of the Continental Divide. Freeze-and-thaw cycles continually fracture and loosen rocks along joints, making them subject to removal by the actions of water, gravity, and avalanche. The resulting fans of rock debris (talus cones) indicate the extent of erosion since the withdrawal of the Pleistocene glaciers. Although moving water is an agent of erosion—the primary destructive force of mountain masses—it also permits life. Even small watercourses, such as this freshet, abound with plant and invertebrate life. Going-to-the-Sun Mountain, towering above the St. Mary Valley, from the trail to Siyeh Pass. The coniferous forest at its base and the alpine tundra plants at its summit are closely juxtaposed in space; but if these two communities grew at the same elevation they would be separated by thousands of kilometers. Hiking from St. Mary Lake up to Siyeh Pass is going, in effect, from Montana to the Arctic Circle; but here the life zones are compressed and sharply divided rather than extended and overlapping. Setting moon and snow shelf near the summit of Heavens Peak. Note stratification of Precambrian sediments. Western redcedars line the shores of Lake McDonald. Because of prevailing air currents from the Pacific coast, winters in the protected western valleys are moist and comparatively mild, and this deep body of water freezes over an average of only one winter in four. Moose often follow the spring snowmelt upwards to the headwaters of drainages. This bull will remain at Thunderbird Pond, at the base of Brown Pass, until autumn, when it will return to its Waterton Valley wintering ground. Because of the high reproductive capacity of insects and small mammals, if all their offspring survived the earth’s plant life would be consumed within one year. This is prevented by natural controls such as predation and parasitism. The American kestrel (“sparrow hawk”) feeds primarily on large insects and on small rodents such as the meadow vole here. Gray jays are found in the deep coniferous forests of the park. In some parks gray jays, or “camp robbers,” loiter about campgrounds and picnic areas begging or stealing food. In Glacier, however, they are seldom noticed as they search out seeds, berries, and insects. A generalized predator, the coyote will eat almost anything, from berries to carrion. When man eliminated most of the coyote’s enemies and competitors, including the wolf, grizzly, and cougar, it enlarged its range to fill the void. Intelligent and social, the coyote thrives despite man’s persecution. Although most numerous in the prairie community, it ranges up to timberline. The spruce grouse is a year-round resident of the spruce/fir and lodgepole communities. It forages on the ground for seeds and insects, in winter turning to needles. Several other species of grouse occupy different habitats in Glacier. Chipmunks are found in every community, from prairie to tundra, in Glacier. Each of the park’s three very similar species has its preferred habitat. The diurnal counterpart to nocturnally active mice, which have the same diet of seeds, berries and occasional insects, chipmunks adapt easily to the presence of people and become nuisances if encouraged by handouts. Feeding rodents is dangerous and is harmful to them. By altering their diets and blunting their cautious instincts, daily exposure to “free lunches” makes the animals less fit to face the harsh realities of their natural environment. Unlike whitetail deer, which remain in lowland areas all year, mule deer range upward into high meadows during the summer. The bucks, especially, are wanderers and travel together. Velvet antlers, worn during the time of summer sociability, presage the autumn contests to come. The checkerspot butterfly belongs to the most diverse group of animals on the planet—the insects, whose importance can hardly be overestimated. They not only help recycle nutrients in the living community and provide an abundant food base for other lifeforms, but are instrumental in pollinating most of the earth’s terrestrial plants. Alpine vegetation must be able to survive freezing temperature during the growing season, since winter conditions are possible even in summer. Early bloomers, such as the glacier lily, endure repeated snowfalls during the unstable weather conditions of June. Unlike mountain goats, these bighorn rams will desert the alpine zone at the approach of winter; they will join other bighorns congregating in the lower valleys. In November bighorn sheep rams end their summer-long isolation from the ewes, move down from the higher slopes, and begin a bloodless but taxing ritual of strength and endurance to determine the harem master. The sharp reports of clashing horns may carry for kilometers, and the contests continue for weeks until the dominant ram emerges. (Note the Many Glacier hotel complex in the valley below.) Hummingbirds, like shrews and other small-bodied, warm-blooded animals, exist at the theoretical thresh-hold of life. Because of their small size, body volume is not large enough in relation to surface area to prevent a rapid loss of body heat. To compensate for this, metabolic rates must be high; food is rapidly processed and used up. Thus, since fat reserves are not practical on such small animals, they must eat at frequent intervals. Two species of hummingbirds—the rufous and the calliope—are found in Glacier. Pictured is a female rufous (which weighs about the same as a dime) landing on its lichen decorated nest to feed its two young on a protein-rich mixture of nectar and small insects. The insect-eating yellowthroat prefers moist habitats. Unlike many of its treetop-dwelling relatives, this tiny (10-11 cm.) warbler is usually seen near or on the ground. Bands of bighorn ewes and lambs do not summer as high as the rams and are often encountered in the scrub-forest zone. Note the gnarled limber pine in the foreground of this photograph taken on the south face of Altyn Peak. Reaching the mountain wall, the goats scramble upward to a ledge, sending scree streams pouring from several clefts. Encountering a narrow, steep snowbank, they do not hesitate but continue across the slope. Above the rock fingers of this peak the gathering clouds grow black. A sudden crack of thunder hurries me down the trail. Although geologically young, the Rocky Mountains in Glacier are composed of soft sedimentary rocks that are easily assailed by the many agents of weathering and erosion. If not rejuvenated by continual uplift, these magnificent peaks will glimmer but briefly in the long memory of the planet. Already the sharp countenance of this land is being softened by the ongoing forces of erosion. Chief among these is water, which attacks the mountains everywhere. In addition, frost action continually exploits rock fractures, breaking down blocks of rock into talus and scree. Avalanche and rockfall sweep down the slopes. Layers of softer rock erode quickly, undercutting more resistant rock and creating overhangs which gravity, in time, will collapse. The lashing rain catches me on this sun-and-storm-contested pass. Ice, gravity, wind, and especially water—all attack a land that dares the clouds. The Rising of the Sun and the Running of the Deer: A Glacier YearAs if to make up for the days-long darkness of this last blizzard, the peaks today wear snow plumes—long, graceful trails of white, curving up into an ice-blue sky. Yesterday the snow-mad wind raced through the forest. Today the motionless trees are cloaked in heavy, glistening robes, the leafless aspen and young larch bent down. Moderate snowfall helps many plants and animals survive the winter. For ground dwellers it provides insulation from the wildly fluctuating winter temperatures encountered east of the Divide, protecting the hibernators and providing cover for the many small mammals that remain active during the winter. Wind-swept ground freezes deep; but under a mantle of snow life-sustaining heat is trapped, permitting many animals to survive and allowing the work of decomposers to continue. But this has been a winter of too much snow and too many temperature extremes. The heavy snowpack has forced the sharp-hoofed deer to yard up in great numbers; unable to range freely in deep snow, they are forced into smaller and smaller confines where their numbers allow them to break and maintain trails. But in time they exhaust the food supply. Younger deer, unable to reach the increasingly higher browse line, starve first. Then the does, heavy with unborn fawns, grow weak and fall to predators. So the imprisoned herds dwindle quickly this year, sometimes less than a kilometer from plentiful browse. Deep snow is also death for many seed-eating birds. As they are unable to scratch for food, their body furnaces quickly fail, and during a night of cold wind their fluffed corpses drop into the snow. Exposed to the noon sun, the snow surface thaws; when refrozen, it is restructured to crystalline ice. If snow repeatedly thaws and freezes, an ice barrier is formed, shutting off vital air exchange. Plants are then subject to rot, and micro-animal life is smothered. Travel beneath the snow is made more difficult for mice and shrews and they are deprived of food and cover. Under such conditions their numbers rapidly decline. But while many starve in a winter of deep snow, others benefit. The exposed traffic of small mammals is to the owl’s advantage. Foxes and coyotes more easily run down rabbits and hares on crusted snow. Deer and, to a lesser extent, wapiti and moose—their hoofs punching through the snowpack—swiftly tire in deep snow and become helpless before cougar or wolf, whose lighter weight is supported by the crust. Grim as this winter’s toll becomes, enough will survive to begin the process of renewal in spring. Last winter, a season of light snow, was a time of hardship for predators. The deer remained strong, the wapiti remote on high, windswept ridges, and the Only the water ouzel, winter after winter, seems not to notice the hardships of the season. Lord of his small world of open water, he sings in February, wading and swimming his diminished stream to find a never-failing supply of water insects and small fish. It is a voice of spring—glad, wild, continual as the moving water—an incongruous song in this winter-shrouded land. But with the growing stature of the sun, the grip of winter softens. The firs and spruce send their loads of snow sliding to the ground. Streams begin to sing again and soon the lakes increase, the booming of splitting ice breaking the silence of the valleys. Avalanches thunder down the steeper slopes, carrying trees to the swollen streams. Rivers hiss and rage, speeding the debris along. A spring that comes too suddenly will bring flood to lower elevations. Snow geese thread through the valleys, and ground squirrels tunnel up through snow to find invasions of birds returning from the south. Soon the three-petaled wakerobins appear, chasing the snowline up the ridges. Glacier lilies and Calypso orchids are next, and with the shooting stars spring arrives. The melting snow releases a new group of animals to populate the winter-thinned land. Up come chipmunks. Bears reappear. Young red squirrels, helpless and blind, squirm in their nest holes. Hidden dens rustle with pups and kits. Soon warm days will bring them out and the business of learning to cope with their world will begin. All life responds irresistibly to the growing strength of the Sun. Cottonwood, willow, and maple come into flower and unfold new leaves; green needle clusters spot the limbs of larches that in winter had seemed lifeless snags among the other conifers. Beneath the soil of prairie, meadow, and forest, in the mud of lakes and ponds, other life stirs; armies of insects, spiders, crustaceans, amphibians, and fish will strive to complete their life cycles against the formidable odds of a predatory world. Spring reaches higher up the mountains, the lowlands passing into summer. Wapiti and mountain sheep follow the rising tide of succulent browse up to the high meadows. In forest, grove, and meadow and along the stream new fledglings appear—thrush, vireo, hummingbird, waxwing, harlequin duck, bluebird, osprey, and flicker—as holes, nests, and cavities brim with begging mouths. In the alpine meadows, where snow overlaps the spring and winter follows hard behind the summer, the growing season is short and the climate unstable. Sensing the stronger light, flowers push up impatiently through the snow and hasten into bloom. Pikas and marmots scurry and sunbathe among the rocks of scree slopes. Summer matures in ripening huckleberries, and the bears that grazed the spring grasses now gorge themselves fat. Dry days of August bring probing lightning, threatening Sweeps of beargrass reach their climax now in the highest meadows. In dizzy succession wildflowers set seed. Fat and sluggish, marmots and ground squirrels disappear beneath the rocks. The golden eagle must search longer each day to find prey within its vast domain. Autumn lingers in the valleys and on the flanks of low ridges. The morning sun glints on hoarfrost, firing the yellow leaves of larch, aspen, birch, maple, and cottonwood, and shines on the blood-red berries of mountain-ash. Soon a night of killing frost will bring down the corpses of insects and spiders by the millions. The reptiles and amphibians, being cold-blooded animals, seem out of place in this long-wintered land. Unable to maintain body temperatures appreciably above their surroundings, they are the first to seek the protection of hibernation, collecting in dens or burying themselves beneath the ooze of pond bottoms. Songbirds gather and leave the valleys. The harsh cries of jays sound ominous now in the forest. Only the chickadees seem to ignore the long tree shadows; their ceaseless conversations carry through the leafless underbrush as they busily search for seed. Velvet has gone to bone, and in these final noon-warm days the rut runs through the land. It begins in the valleys in September with the joustings of deer and moose and the buglings of bull wapiti puncturing the forest silence. By November the higher meadows ring with the collisions of bighorn rams who compete for ewes by smashing together their massive, curled horns. On high slopes mountain goat billies posture and swagger; head to tail, they circle, threatening each other with dagger-like horns. From Flathead Lake, 100 stream kilometers to the south, kokanee salmon return to spawn in the clear, cold shallows of McDonald Creek. Gathering bald eagles surround the stream, again and again lifting vulnerable fish from pool and riffle. Perched by the hundreds along the stream course, their white heads and tails glistening against the dark trees, they stand out like lanterns strung for a banquet. Now the stinging wind comes down from the peaks and shuts the lakes. Life slows or sleeps. Ptarmigan, snowshoe hare, and longtail weasel, all wearing winter white, seek shelter and food in a silent land where spring and yellow lilies seem forever lost.
The mink, a solitary predator associated with low-elevation watercourses, preys on anything it can catch and subdue. |
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