I Was Here

Image from Lublyou.com 

When I was a child, I traveled extensively with my family. At the time, I thought this was normal. But I was insulated. I wish I had known the opportunity my parents gave freely to me and my brothers. 

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.