MONTANA
Travelling cross-country,
breaking the barrier between
humans and non-human
animals, nature became a
community, and I melded
right in. I no longer thought
of myself and nature as two
separate entities, but as a
society of wild things
T
he first time I hiked the Highline
Trail in Glacier National Park,
Montana, I fell under the spell
of subalpine country [the cool, largely
coniferous biotic zone in western North
America]. Patches of mist danced like
fairies, shining the sedge grass with tiny
droplets of water and gentling the sun’s
rays. A couple of miles later down the trail,
a mountain goat looked down from a rock
ledge at a sight that was fairly uncommon
in the 1980s: a girl hiking alone. Tilting our
heads in unison, we each studied a rare
creature from a new angle; we gazed into
each other’s eyes — mine, almond-shaped
and brown, hers, perfectly round and black.
Several years later, working as a
backcountry ranger in Mount Rainier
National Park in Washington state, I was
hiking uphill on the Wonderland Trail
when I crested a rise and entered subalpine
country and promptly found myself knee-
deep in purple lupine. Several feet ahead,
on a stage of pink heath with the white-grey
dome of Mount Rainier for a backdrop,
a chunky mountain goat kid pushed his
head under a tiny fir tree and peeked at me.
I was so astounded I stopped breathing.
Between my first and second encounter
with mountain goats, I’d visited the most
astounding scenery in the American West.
But the goat gave me something the physical
world couldn’t: recognition and acceptance.
The feeling of communicating across a
species boundary sank into my soul.
When I started working for the US
National Park Service, the Wonderland
Trail heading into Indian Bar from Stevens
Canyon was one of the wildest places in
America. In 1988, Congress designated
the area a Wilderness with a capital W, an
honour not yet achieved by Glacier National
Park. And wild it was. I slept in bivy sacks
far off the trail. I hiked cross-country,
unrestricted by man-made routes, and
forged streams unrestricted by man-made
bridges. At first, I thought these freedoms
would make me tougher and that I’d become
conqueror in the inevitable girl-vs-nature
battle. Instead, I slipped into Mount
Rainier’s wilderness unnoticed, abruptly
cognisant of my lack of prowess.An unexpected kinship with the wild landscapes of the West inspires a US park
ranger to find peace and a place to call home in America’s subalpine zoneStill, I worshipped Rainier, and not just
because I wasn’t brave enough to climb her
highest peaks and rappel into her deepest
crevasses. It was the sense of community.
Travelling cross-country, breaking the
barrier between humans and animals,
we were a society of wild things. Me, the
goats and all our living neighbours were a
fellowship akin to Tolkien’s hobbits, elves,
dwarves and man. But instead of wizards,
the white-bearded mountain goats gave the
area its unique magic.
Oreamnos americanos (mountain goats)
aren’t closely related to their domestic
cousins, but are truly wild. As a ranger, while
I replanted damaged campsites, curious
goats gathered around me. When I pitched
a tent in a circle of hemlock and fir, they
lay beside me. When they sneezed, I called
out “Gesundheit!”. Drawn to land without a
human watermark, but not wanting to be
alone, the subalpine became my favourite
home, not for its beauty but because of
the goats.
As a biology student, I understood that
this landscape, where plants surrendered to
wind, sun and ice before disappearing
into rocky alpine peaks, marked life’s last
stand. Empathising with mountain goats
changed my view. I saw instead a land
where wind sculpts fir trees into whimsical
shapes and where goats thrive. Only when
threatened by predators will they flee to the
suboptimal alpine zone. Now, when I hike
down from a mountain summit, I see life
restored. The subalpine isn’t where life ends,
but where it begins.
I manage my own land now. At dawn
today, in my home in Montana, a doe and
two spotted fawns greeted me; a skunk
waddles near my feet most evenings; and
for several years, my best friend was a wild
red fox. In Fox & I: An Uncommon Friendship,
I tell the story of nurturing the land and
befriending the wild animals of America;
and why I’m making my own tiny spot in
a place where a wild animal, or even just a
butterfly, can feel at home.Catherine Raven is the author of Fox & I, published by
Short Books, £16.99.
@walkedaway8NOTES FROM AN AUTHOR // CATHERINE RAVEN
SMART TRAVELLERILL
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