Our first full day in East Glacier began quietly, with the stillness of the morning wrapping around me as I watched the subtle sunrise near Two Medicine Lake. Unlike our experience camping at Headwaters Campground, where sunrise meant braving the chill from inside a tent, I could step out and walk a short distance to find the lake waiting for me. The rains from Hurricane Hilary had settled over this side of the park, leaving behind a heavy blanket of low-hanging clouds. With my camera slung over my shoulder, I stood there, watching the water ripple gently from the raindrops. It was almost as if the entire scene was painted in soft blues and grays, with only a hint of light touching the lodgepole pines and Sinopah Mountain that reflected back from the lake's surface. The cool palette cast over the landscape made the moment feel otherworldly—quiet, moody, and serene.

I snapped a few shots before heading back to camp, where my friends were stirring, coffee brewing, and breakfast sizzling on the camp stove. We’d mapped out our day, planning to explore Going-to-the-Sun Road, unaware of the adventure that awaited us. The drive from Two Medicine to St. Mary is a story of its own, winding through US 49—also known as Looking Glass Hill Road. While closed during winter, summer months allowed us passage, but the weather had plans to turn this route into a deathly obstacle. Low-hanging clouds created a wall of rain that made visibility nearly impossible. The twists and turns would’ve been enough to keep anyone alert, but the dense rain clouds turned it into a nerve-wracking journey. I volunteered to drive us through the thick fog that clung to the high elevations. With each bend, the landscape disappeared into nothing, the clouds hiding cliffs that would drop into oblivion with one wrong turn. What was meant to be an hour's drive stretched into two as we slowly navigated through the mist. The rainbows that greeted us on the other side felt like a personal victory, nature’s reward for passing her test.

When we reached St. Mary, though, we hit an unexpected snag. Without a permit, we couldn’t enter Going-to-the-Sun Road. Glacier National Park now requires timed entry permits to help manage the flow of visitors along this iconic route. Disheartened, but undeterred, we shifted gears and turned our attention back to the eastern side of the park.

Heading back down US 89, we pulled off at a small memorial that honored the Blackfeet Nation, where I learned their reign once claimed lands stretching throughout most of Montana and into Canada. St. Mary Mountain is said to have been named after one of the tribe’s sacred figures and stands as a tribute to the vast territory they once inhabited. The mountain has witnessed centuries of history, and while today, the Blackfeet reservation has shrunk to a fraction of its original size, the memory of its rich cultural heritage is still palpable. The Blackfeet have a deep connection to this land, and the memorial, with its symbolic welded tipis and historical placards, highlighted that enduring bond. The region faced another challenge in 2006 when a massive fire tore through the landscape, reminding us of the delicate balance between nature’s beauty and its raw power.

Learning the land’s layered history was eye-opening, and it reshaped how I viewed the mountains and valleys around us. The stories of resilience, loss, and connection between people and the land resonated deeply with me, adding new depth to this place I already held dear.

We continued south along US 89, a part of the Kings Hill Scenic Byway, where a routine stop became a moment of awe. I spotted a nest atop an abandoned pole mounted by a wooden platform, and to my surprise, two Ospreys were perched, attending to their home. Ospreys are incredible birds, known for their specialized fish diet, and they make their nests near river habitats. Their nests are usually built from sticks and branches, but these two had also incorporated human trash—plastic bags, rope, and fishing nets—a reminder of the ways our world overlaps with wildlife, often not for the better. I grabbed my camera and zoomed in to capture their intimate world. One turned toward me, staring down the barrel of my lens as I captured a shot that would define this part of our trip and impact how I think about conversation efforts to protect the wilderness. Enthusiastic about this experience, I called my friends over to witness the scene through my viewfinder.

After our wildlife encounter, we made our way back to Two Medicine for a wet, but beautiful, hike along the South Shore Trail toward Paradise Point. The rain created an atmosphere that felt like walking through a forested dream. Droplets fell steadily from the towering pines as we made our way to the lakeside. One of our friends decided to head back to camp after reaching Paradise Point, leaving just the two of us to venture toward Aster Falls. The woodlands along the trail felt like stepping into another world—beaver ponds and creeks flowed steadily thanks to the rain, making the forest feel alive. The greenery was lush, and the droplets clinging to the trees created a glistening effect that transported us. When we reached Aster Falls, it stood tall, cascading down its tiers despite being late summer. Unlike the gushing meltwater from spring, the falls were steady but still magnificent. The height and flow of the water made Aster Falls an essential feature of the park, a hidden gem that felt well worth the hike, rain and all.

Before returning to our campsite for the evening, we stopped by the General Store, where we learned about the history of the chalets that dotted Glacier National Park in its early days. These structures were once hubs for visitors seeking shelter while exploring the wild landscape. They provided a glimpse into the park’s history, a time when tourists traveled by horseback and foot to experience the remote wilderness. Now, only a few of these chalets remain, standing as echoes of the park’s past, reminding us of how travel and adventure have evolved.

Our day ended with wine, snacks, and card games in our tent as the rain continued to fall. The next day, we’d tackle the Going-to-the-Sun Road, armed with our permit and ready for the next adventure. But that night we reveled in the simplicity of sharing a cozy space, surrounded by the sounds of nature, knowing that experiencing a full day in East Glacier had already given us more than we could have imagined.

When morning broke, I snuck out of the tent one last time before we left Two Medicine. The clouds were pulling back, and the golden light of the sunrise illuminated Rising Wolf Mountain. The lodgepole pines stood tall in the foreground, their silhouettes blending with the morning mist that hovered over the lake. It was as if the mountain was waking up with us, bathed in soft hues of gold. I was taken aback and had to take two separate shots of this scenery before making my final arrival at Two Medicine Lake: one in true color to highlight the rustic nature of Montana’s wilderness, and the other in the classic black and white to spotlight the stoicism of this deep-rooted landscape.

As I sat on the shore of Two Medicine, the reflection of the lodgepole pines danced on the glassy surface of the lake. Every moment felt like a perfect final note to our time in East Glacier, with each element—mountain, sky, and water—working together in harmony. Between each shot, every minute contrasted with the last as the landscape shifted. I could have sat here for hours, but we had a full day ahead of us as we’d travel west on the Going-To-The-Sun Road to our next campsite.

This place has a way of leaving you both humbled and full of wonder. As we packed up camp and set our sights on the next part of our adventure, I knew that the memories made here would stay with me long after we’d left.

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