The Most Beautiful Lake in Glacier National Park
I woke up bright-eyed and ready for another stunning day in Glacier National Park. I knew the whole Pacific Northwest Trail wouldn’t be as consistently jaw-dropping, so I vowed to soak up every moment of this phenomenal landscape. Mother nature was also up bright and early, ready to impress.
Nick and I meandered without hurry that morning. There were no storms to beat, and no snow-covered passes to traverse. My permit had me staying at a campsite only six miles from where I’d slept, while Nick had to push on to the edge of the park. When we neared Lake Francis, I suggested we stop at the campsite there for a break. The comments on my navigation app dubbed it “the most beautiful lake in the park,” while others insisted, “the most beautiful in the country!”. I don’t normally like detouring too far off trail, but I had to judge for myself. The path to the campsite took us a few hundred feet down a relatively steep slope. It was just a tiny site with two tent pads, and a bear hanging pole that resembled a may pole. I looked around at the obstructed view, and reasoned the real beauty must be further down a side trail. As we lost even more elevation, I internally grumbled that this better be worth it. We crossed a stream, and were suddenly in the middle of a pebble beach on the shore of Lake Francis.
And yeah, this is probably the most beautiful lake in the country.
On the west side of the lake, Dixon glacier melted into a waterfall, and tumbled over one thousand feet to the green pool below. Another stream fed into the lake from the north side, creating a whirlpool effect in the center. A small family of ducks floated across the far side of the water. Trout jumped in the distance, only evidenced by the ripples their splashes left. Tiny wildflowers and mosses filled the gaps between the water-smoothed rocks on the shore. The entire valley was cradled by snow-capped peaks, isolating this magical place from the outside world.
I was grateful I had such a short distance to go that day. This was one of those places you just had to linger at.
Nick and I weren’t alone for our picturesque break. Another backpacker was fiddling with his fishing gear on the beach nearby. He was excited to speak with us, as he hadn’t encountered any other hikers so far on his trip. Trever was a carpenter from Canada, out for a few days to fish and paddle in the backcountry. He proudly showed us his inflatable kayak, which was light enough for him to carry for considerable miles, but sturdy enough that he’d been able to paddle himself across Waterton Lake a few days before.
Soon after, it was time for Nick to hit the trail. We exchanged email addresses, and he promised to keep me updated on his progress. I decided to stay at the lake for the rest of the afternoon, confident that there would be nothing quite as entrancing at my own campsite.
I spent the afternoon swimming, skipping rocks, and chasing butterflies around the shore. I might just feel a special connection to them because they’re the final metamorphosis of my trail-namesake, but butterflies just seem like a good omen to me. I’ve always had a special affinity for tiger swallow tails, in particular. Where I grew up, in midwestern farm country, they were the only large and colorful variety of Lepidoptera. As a child, they always felt like something especially exotic. Something that stood out among the brown plains and rows of corn. Even though I now regularly encounter more colorful species, I’m still transfixed by them.
When Trever offered to let me bring in one of his catches, I enthusiastically agreed. He coached me through keeping just the right amount of tension on the line as I reeled it in. I felt honored he was letting me have a special glimpse into his world. And after that, he offered to let me take his kayak out on the water. Um, yes please!
As the afternoon wore on, I learned more about my Canadian neighbor. He told me about his other hobbies of whitewater paddling and paragliding- along with fly fishing, he explained, each sport relied on the same type of energy. You had to carefully read the signals nature gave you, respond to them, and adjust your approach accordingly.
You can’t fight the natural flow of the water, or the trout, or the wind. You can only hope to go along with it, and enjoy where you end up.
In some ways, thru-hiking is similar. I felt an easy kinship with Trever and his connection to the natural world. And just when I thought he couldn’t possibly offer me any more kindness, Trever informed me that he was wasn’t actually going to use the tent spot he had a reservation for in the campsite above, because his hammock fit better in the trees nearby. I was welcome to tent there. The opportunity to spend dusk at the water’s edge was too much to pass up. If the park rangers ask, I totally continued on to my assigned campsite that night.
This far north in June, it never really gets dark.
Despite the moon having set by midnight, I didn’t need to use my headlamp to find the outhouse. A light glow peaked over the northern horizon. If I weren’t in such a remote place, I might have mistaken it for a nearby city’s light pollution. I jumped at the sound of footsteps in the night, then relaxed as a few fat rabbits hopped away. I was admittedly still a bit on-edge, my mind returning to the bear safety video I’d viewed at the ranger’s station a few days prior. Trever told me he’d encountered dozens of grizzlies in his years of camping around the Canadian Rockies, and had never felt threatened by one. This calmed my rational mind, but my irrational monkey brain was still jumpy. I was happy to have a neighbor in the campsite. Tomorrow would be my first day actually hiking alone out here. While I typically prefer to go solo, I was in no hurry to pass up all the company the trail had been providing me. I knew it wouldn’t be that way for most of the journey.
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