|Image from Lublyou.com|
Thanks Mom and Dad.
Anyway, somewhere in my mother's photo albums are shots of us smiling awkwardly in front of dozens of signs: State Entry Signs, National Park Signs, it was an endless ritual. I know they exist, although they are most likely on slides: an ancient form of documenting the world.
Glacier National Park is isolated. Don't expect to find a large cosmopolitan city at the gates of this natural beauty, but there are stores available to resupply the basics. Being on the west side, our commissary was West Glacier, a conglomeration of stores at the western entrance to the park. Just beyond this little island of commerce was a bridge across a gorgeous, jade river and a few yards beyond, The Sign.
The rangers are clever. The park has a long, for lack of a better term, parking lot in front of the sign. Each time we passed this sign, a cars had gathered and their excited passengers were lined up for their photo op, but you won't be seeing our photo. I had enough of that in the past.
Call me jaded.