The first time I visited Glacier National Park was on a train trip from Seattle to Chicago. Amtrak times those long routes so the most scenic stretches unfold during daylight, and the quieter miles pass while you sleep. Their timing was a little off that day, but I had a window seat, my big backpack at my feet, and my camera right on top. I was half‑asleep, leaning against my pillow, when I opened my eyes to see a man who looked straight out of a Marlboro cigarette commercial sitting tall on his horse. Just over his left shoulder stood a bighorn sheep. They were both waiting for the train to pass.
I scrambled for my camera, still foggy from sleep, and snapped the picture — only to catch the window frame as the moment slipped behind us. It remains the most frustrating “picture that got away” I’ve ever had, and the one I’ve never been able to recreate. That memory stayed with me, and I’d looked forward to returning to Glacier ever since.
Two months ago, I finally had seven days to explore it properly. Once my RV was set up at the campground, I realized I couldn’t just sit there. I headed into the park for a quick preview — just enough time to look around, take a few shots under dramatic clouds, and get ready for much more in the days ahead. I got a nice shot of Lake McDonald.
I had timed my visit so I could drive the Going‑to‑the‑Sun Road early in its seasonal opening. I wanted to see as much snow, ice, and glacier scenery as possible. The good news was that my timing turned out to be perfect: the road was opening early on Monday morning.
I’m treating this Glacier blog a little differently, so below is my first‑person account of my drive in the first group of motorized vehicles to cross the Going‑to‑the‑Sun Road this season.
Opening Day on the Going‑to‑the‑Sun Road
It’s a quarter to five, and even though my alarm is set for 5:00 — with a backup at 5:15 in case I oversleep — I’m already awake. Today is opening day for the Going‑to‑the‑Sun Road, and I want to be one of the early drivers heading east, toward the sun, all the way to St. Mary. Everything I can pre‑pack is already staged. I get up, dress quickly, gather my morning things, my breakfast, my precious Diet Mountain Dew, and a pillow and blanket in case there’s a long wait at the gate.
I climb into the truck and pull out of the campground just as another car ahead of me does the same. We join a small procession on Route 2 — a quiet little parade of people with the same idea. The sun hasn’t touched the mountains yet, but the sky is beginning to lighten. There’s no gate attendant this early, so even though I have an all‑access pass, we all just roll right in.
As we drive toward the mountains, the sun slowly creeps up behind the clouds. It’s a gray morning, with thunderstorms predicted later, but the cloud cover makes the light soft and moody — good for photos, though this stretch of road doesn’t offer many clear views through the dense trees.
“Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.” Well… we’ll see what the afternoon brings.
Past Lake McDonald, the river — probably the Flathead — runs alongside the road. We haven’t started climbing yet. The mountains loom ahead, dark silhouettes against the brightening sky. There’s no cell service here, and no satellite radio worth listening to, so I settle into the quiet. It’s a rare kind of solitude.
I can see the tree lines on the mountains clearly now. The big mountain to my left is fully treed, so I know it’s not as high as the ones ahead. Mount Logan’s tree line is sharp and obvious.
As the climb begins, the road tightens. Sheer rock rises on my right; a sheer drop falls away on my left. The sun catches the top of a cliff — Heaven’s Peak glowing in the early light. Around 6:00, the first car appears coming from the opposite direction. Someone from St. Mary must have crossed the whole road already. Early birds are everywhere today.
I can take pictures through the windshield — the focal distance doesn’t change — but side shots are impossible while moving, and I don’t want to lose my place in line. Only one car ahead of us pulls off for photos; everyone else is committed to the summit.
At the Weeping Wall, the car two ahead of me stops. A young woman jumps out, looks around, and then behind me — she’s dropped her phone while taking pictures. She finds it, relieved.
A moment later, the valley opens up. Cars are parked everywhere, and for a second I think the road isn’t open after all. But no — it’s just a spectacular overlook, and someone is getting married at six in the morning on that cliffside. It’s not a bad place to start a life.
We rise above the tree line. There wasn’t much snow this year, but pockets still cling to the slopes. The clouds we saw earlier? I’m driving straight into them. The views vanish into white.
I cross the Continental Divide again. The visitor center sits quiet and closed — it’s only 6:14 AM — so I keep going. I’ll head down to St. Mary, maybe even Browning, find breakfast, and then make the return trip before the storms roll in.
But something is wrong on the east side. Most of the trees are dead — easily 85 to 90 percent of the older growth. A few patches of green cling to the ground, but the forest is nothing like it once was. It’s stark. It’s unsettling. It’s impossible not to notice.
As I made my way back down from St. Mary that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about how dramatically different the two sides of the park looked. The west side was lush, green, and full of life, while the east side felt stark and almost hollowed out. I wasn’t sure why the contrast was so sharp, so I made a mental note to ask a ranger later — and to look it up myself. (As it turns out, asking Cody, my Microsoft copilot, counts as research.)
When I hit the summit on the way back west, it was socked with clouds and cars. The visitor’s center was now open and many people who had not gotten up at the crack of dawn had flooded Logan’s Pass. I decided to return in a couple of days.
A couple of days later, when the weather cleared, I drove back up toward the summit again. This time, the clouds had lifted, revealing the full sweep of the valley below and a massive waterfall pouring down the cliffs nearby. I finally got the photos I’d hoped for — the kind you can only capture when the mountains decide to cooperate.
Later that afternoon, when I went through the visitor center, I stopped and asked a ranger about what was happening on the east side of the park. He said, “Well, there was some fire,” but he also explained that most of the downed trees were caused by a beetle invasion. Because the winters weren’t getting cold enough, the bugs weren’t dying off. The trees weakened, and then dry conditions and fire finished the job.
It was striking how different the west side of the slopes were from the east side. On the west, everything was lush and green. On the east, the landscape felt barren and almost desolate.
Interestingly, the same pattern shows up throughout the Rockies. The west side gets most of the snowpack; the east gets less. Most of the ski resorts sit on the western slopes. Yellowstone follows the same pattern. It’s clear that the west side of the mountains receives more precipitation than the east.
I drove back into the park five of the seven days I was there, trying to capture that perfect picture of the Glacier Mountains reflecting off Lake McDonald. It was always too windy to get the great shot I wanted. Below is a good one — but not a great one.
Before leaving the area one afternoon, I stopped in Hungry Horse — the tiny tourism town just outside the park. It isn’t Jackson or Gatlinburg or even Medora, but it has its own easy charm. A few shops, a couple of things to do besides the park, and plenty of marionberry pie and ice cream for the season’s travelers. It’s the kind of place that feels like summer, where everyone looks a little sun‑tired and happy. It made a perfect pause between long drives into the mountains.
Glacier is an experience — one worth having sooner rather than later. There were 150 glaciers here in the beginning. Today, there are only 25. Ten years from now, there may be none, and the park will need signage explaining why the name is what it is.
If Glacier is on your list, don’t wait too long. The mountains will still be there, but the glaciers won’t.
