Glacier National Park - Life In and Around the Mountains

High Life in the Mountains
Although Glacier's forests (and those of other western mountain parks, too) are dominated by evergreens, it would be a mistake to think they are all the same. From the long, slender cones of the western hemlock, from the dark green scales of the western red cedar to the light blue-green needles of the subalpine larch, the looks of conifers are as varied as the mountains themselves. To those who know them, trees are like landmarks, telling you where you are.

Above the McDonald Valley, Douglas firs, lodgepole pines, and western larches march up the slopes; crowding the valleys are Englemann spruce and subalpine fir, the two most common trees in the park. The sweeping boughs of the spruces and the short, horizontal branches of the firs create a thickly tangled forest offering coolness and shade. Farther north, some hardy subalpine firs cluster on rocky ledges above the tree-line, where they manage to survive a growing season measured in weeks -- but these individuals look very different from others of their kind. While those in the lower valleys stand 80 feet tall, the firs here have a prostrate existence; they are essentially straggly mats atop cold, bare boulders. Growth is painfully slow. From one year to the next, a twig seldom becomes more than a quarter-inch longer, and the appearance of a cone may represent a century of struggle.

This is the scrub forest -- a rather prosaic name for the flower-rich growth mountains wear like leis around their necks. Whenever winter relaxes its grip, a mad succession of blossoms erupts at the edge of the retreating snow. Awash in meltwater, glacier lily and spring beauty emerge. Gentian, paintbrush, monkey flower, penstemon, and a profusion of others follow, each rushing to set seed before October sleet arrives. But even in the last days of September, when purple and yellow asters brave the growing chill, it remains June farther unslope: against the last ledge of sunken snow, spring's glacier lilies have at last appeared. Here beargrass, three feet tall and topped with tight clusters of creamy-white flowers, achieves its glory, growing in such numbers that the high slopes rival the snowfields in brilliance. Not a grass at all but a lily, this official park flower was given its name by Capt. William Clark -- when he spotted some grizzlies in a bear-grass field. While bears do in fact favor the new spring growth, it is the mule deer, which wander up into high meadows to spend the summer, that prize the big flower heads. All the plants on a mountainside may be decapitated by these relentless nibbles.

Sleeping Sentries
The hoary marmot, largest of the rodent family, makes its home here, hibernating in burrows during the long winter. Draped over a sun-warmed boulder, this crafty mammal, with thick, grizzled yellowish fur, appears to be dozing, but it is acutely alert for any predator that might be near. As still as a statue, the marmot watches a golden eagle circle lazily overhead; if the eagle's wings were suddenly to fold, the marmot would be off the rock in a second, whistling a shrill alarm to be passed along from one marmot to the next. Cougars, wolverines, and grizzlies also haunt these slopes and can ambush the unwary with lightning speed.

Posing no threat to the marmots is the brief procession of bighorn sheep clattering past on the loose rocks above. Heads held high, their huge horns curled in a backward arc, the bighorn rams step with surefooted poise. The marmots will already be deep in their winter dens when autumn's first snowflakes signal the end of the rams' summer-long companionship and the start of their mating duels. Just as the lower valleys echo with moose calls, these high slopes will ring with the crash of horns during the weeks of battle among the males.