As we left the awe-inspiring landscapes of Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks behind, my heart was filled with gratitude. Each day of our journey had been a gift—full of first encounters with wildlife, serene mornings along lakeshores, and the joy of sharing these experiences with friends who felt like family. We had woken up before dawn to catch the sunrise over Jackson Lake, came across a young bear on winding trails, and cooked dinner under the stars. Those were the kinds of moments I never wanted to forget. Yet, even as we said goodbye to Wyoming, I knew our adventure wasn’t over. Glacier National Park was calling, and we were ready. The drive from our campsite in Wyoming to Glacier National Park took most of the day, a journey that stretched over 400 miles and nearly eight hours. To our surprise, Hurricane Hilary had reached California and was now pushing north, bringing haze and rain along with much cooler temperatures. What had once been warm summer days were quickly turning into a chilly, wet atmosphere. It felt like the seasons were shifting in front of our eyes.

As the miles ticked away, we found ourselves deep in reflection. The farmlands we passed, endlessly stretching across the horizon, were the lifeblood of so many. These rural stretches felt interconnected to the wider web of life we all depend on, with the fields sustaining the country in ways often unnoticed. I thought about how the people who work these lands provide for families far beyond their view, linking the rural fields to cities and towns scattered across America. This quiet reminder of the country’s reliance on these lands stayed with me as we inched closer to Glacier, where the wildness of the landscape would further amplify these connections.

Our drive was interrupted in the best way possible when we approached Glacier’s East entrance. A young black bear crossed the winding road before us, almost as if it were welcoming us to this remote wilderness. The bear, though aware of our presence, seemed entirely unfazed—just another day for this creature in its natural home. We, however, were wide-eyed and thrilled by this chance encounter, feeling that undeniable rush you get when nature surprises you.

Accessing Glacier is no simple feat. The park is divided, with limited entrances on both the East and West sides, connected by the storied Going-to-the-Sun Road, a single, winding artery threading through the rugged terrain. This road, which requires a permit to traverse, was designed to minimize human interference with the landscape, offering an immersive yet respectful approach to Glacier's wilderness. Having a campsite reservation like ours granted us entry, a small privilege that made this vast wilderness feel like a rare and protected gift.

Our camp for the next few nights was at Two Medicine, nestled against the shores of Two Medicine Lake. As we set up camp, the rain briefly subsided, giving us just enough time to pitch our tent. Tall lodgepole pines surrounded us, towering over the landscape. These trees seemed to stretch even higher than the ones in Wyoming, their silhouettes adding to the rugged charm of our new environment. Just as we finished, a herd of mountain goats appeared, casually wandering through the campground. Their presence felt almost surreal—nature reminded us that we were guests here, and the wilderness belonged to them.

My friends needed time to catch up on work, so I was dropped off at the nearby trailhead leading to Running Eagle Falls. The trailhead was peaceful, with placards along the way educating hikers about the native plants, and their traditional uses for food, medicine, and fuel by the Blackfeet tribe. It was a rich learning experience, grounding me in the history of this place.

Here, I first learned the full story of Running Eagle, a name whispered with respect among the Blackfeet people. Born as Brown Weasel Woman, she was a remarkable figure who broke traditional boundaries, becoming a warrior and leader in a world that rarely saw women in such roles. Her life was a testament to courage and strength. She went on a four-day fast, suffering, dreaming, and praying to find her medicine and destiny. The only woman in her tribe to be given a man’s name, Pi’tamaka, she led hunting and war parties, guiding her people with rare bravery.

As I stood at the falls, I imagined her final raid across the Continental Divide, where she met her end. The Piikáni people, deeply honoring her legacy, buried her in a tree near the falls, where she overlooks the lands that gifted her the vision of her life’s path. I couldn't help but reflect on my journey—the responsibilities I hold, the strength I've gathered, and the connection I’ve developed to the landscapes I've encountered. A deep respect that grew in me from learning about her, feeling how her story was intertwined with the land, just as I hope mine will be. I write more about the details I learned from Running Eagle’s story here.

By the time my friends arrived at the falls, I shared what I had learned and we took time to gaze at the falls together and appreciated the force in front of us. I stepped away for a moment to find one of my friends escaping to what was in front of her. As I stood there watching my friend seated in front of Running Eagle Falls, she seemed lost in quiet contemplation, deepening her connection to the land she had come to explore. The cascading waters, flowing over the rocks, reflected a sense of peace that matched her stillness. I couldn't resist capturing this moment—her in her element, blending into the serene landscape we both admired. Before I interrupted, I called her name softly, and she turned toward me, offering a smile that expressed our shared understanding. This brief exchange, framed by the wild beauty surrounding us, reminded me why we have connected so deeply. It’s more than our friendship—it’s our mutual love for the landscapes we seek, a connection to the wild that runs through both of us.

I couldn’t help but feel the moment wouldn’t be complete without the rest of us sharing it together. I gently encouraged my other friend to join her, knowing how special it would be to capture the three of us here in this serene place. With a quick setting of the timer, I hurried over, positioning myself between them, feeling the anticipation of the camera's click.

It felt like we had reached the pinnacle of our trip—this perfect, quiet culmination of all the miles we had hiked and the moments we had shared. Sitting there together, I felt a deep appreciation for my friends and for this journey we had taken side by side. This was more than just a snapshot of a waterfall; it was a testament to the adventure, the laughter, and the resilience we had carried with us. In this moment, we were united by our love for exploration and for each other—a moment etched in both memory and photograph.

Back at camp, we gathered under the moody clouds that swirled over Sinopah Mountain, the winds carrying whispers of the storm on the horizon. The colors of the setting sun played tricks on the clouds, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. I couldn't resist grabbing my camera and racing to the lake’s edge. I wanted to capture the moment—the sky’s last light dancing with the low clouds and the towering pines framing the scene. But, as is often the case in nature, serendipity had other plans. A sweet couple approached, asking for a photo with the sunlit mountain behind them. I obliged, clicking away for them, even as my opportunity for my shot slipped away. Yet, in that small act, I found a quiet contentment. Sometimes, you share the beauty you encounter with others and find joy in their excitement. I did, however, manage to capture a quick photo from my phone.

That night, the rain began to fall again. We all laughed about the storm warnings, half-joking about flash floods but quietly prepared for the unexpected. Thankfully, no floods came, and we were lulled to sleep by the soothing sound of raindrops tapping gently on our tent. Excited for what tomorrow would bring, we drifted off in anticipation of exploring East Glacier, ready for the next chapter of this wild adventure.