When the Crowds Descend
We've "lost" our favorite backyard national park to the masses. But are we allowed to keep that kind of awe to ourselves?
Last spring, an anthology book on national parks asked to re-publish a story I wrote on biking Going to the Sun Road in Glacier before it opens to cars. I spent several days deliberating on the request. I’d written the original story for Adventure Journal back in 2019, about (what used to be) an underground movement of cyclists who ride the tails of the plows tasked with clearing the steep, narrow ribbon of pavement from snow that, after deep winters, can rise eighty feet above the asphalt.
By the time the anthology reached out, I already regretted publishing that 2019 story. Glacier has blown up so much that it’s now defined by impossible-to-get backcountry permits, so many cars on Going to the Sun that it’s now a lottery to drive it, and the once-quiet activity of cycling before the crowds descend has become... well, when the crowds descend.
I don’t have the hubris to think that one story in what was then an obscure publication contributed all that much to blowing up biking Going to the Sun. But when that anthology reached out, I’d landed in a mindset where I refused to write travel stories about Montana anymore. Things here were (are) changing so quickly, and I was (am) mourning the loss of a lot of them.
Then I thought: Going to the Sun already has blown up, regardless of whether there’s another story on it. And, actually, there’s some good in that: in exposing more people to quiet, human-powered ways to feel awe.
Studies show that people in awe are more likely to show generosity, become less individualist, and emphasize a greater sense of connection to others and the world. And it’s a foundational tenet of conservation that if people come to know a place, they come to love it and thus want to protect it. We need that for our last wild places.
So. All those e-bikes whizzing by on Going to the Sun now? They allow people who might not be able to make that ride on a twenty-year-old hardtail (the way I used to) to experience the gift of awe. It means that those of us who want more solace, more “adventure”, just have to go farther to find it. Isn’t that part of the definition of adventure, anyway? And—just because Glacier is in our Montana backyard, that doesn’t make it “ours”. It’s a national park, held for the people of the United State in public trust. Who are we to gatekeep its wonders for our own jealous amusement?
That original story has disappeared from the old Adventure Journal website, so I’ll publish it here before the end of the month, and you can read about the Going to the Sun Ride that turned out to be the end of that particular twenty-year-old hard tail.
First though, I’ll tell you another story. Spoiler: Glacier has never been ours to begin with. And we’ve already been gatekeeping it hard.
But that’s for next week. See you then.
Very nice, Cassidy! I also remember pedaling GTTS Road years ago and not seeing a soul on both trips. We have the same "whoa, this is busy" situation with McKenzie Pass in C. Oregon when they plow it, but I too have shifted my perspective to just being happy to see so many smiling people whizzing by on ebikes. I'm still working on that mindset on my fav mtb trails up high in Cascades when shuttlers come ripping by buuuut that's just me being cranky.
I’m so grateful to have stumbled across your writing Cassidy! Awe (and its potential to inspire good in the world) has been a recurring thought in my mind of late AND so too has the recognition of what e-bikes might make possible that otherwise wouldn’t be. It’s so inspiring to see older folk in my area getting up hills that they probably wouldn’t have touched without that little extra help.
Looking forward to reading more!