Summer Splendor

My introduction to Whitefish, Montana, was much like the town itself; bold and succinct, endearingly without pretence. "Good morning," crowed a 50-something man as we crossed paths on a hiking trail somewhere in the middle of Glacier National Park. "Move ahead quietly and you might see some elk."

Excitement set in rapidly; as a city boy who has since moved to the country, I had only read about elk in books. Large, graceful, shy -- these are the words I remember one book using to describe the beasts. Then, as if on cue, I experienced these attributes for myself, and wandered into a herd of nearly 50 of them.

Like giant horses, the mighty creatures stood motionless and watched my every move. I could see my reflection in their black eyes -- orbs the size of oranges. When I reached for my camera, the entire herd spooked and ran away.

Locals quickly informed me that this was an ordinary experience in the proverbial backyard of this town of roughly 6,000 residents. Sure, ski fans flock here in the winter for Big Mountain Resort, which boasts the only 7,000-foot peak in this part of northwest Montana's Flathead Valley. In the summer, however, Whitefish is all about Glacier, one of the most underappreciated National Parks in the entire system.

My trip to Glacier began in West Glacier, a "boundary town" about 30 minutes northwest of Whitefish. I checked in with the rangers to tell them I was headed out to a trailhead dubbed Packer's Roost, then I disappeared into the wilderness. Out there, at a remote camp site, the natural night sky made the IMAX planetarium seem dull. From the inside of my tent, I heard nothing, and the silence was glorious.

Three days later, after my run-in with the elk and breathtaking views of peaks in the Livingston Range, I emerged and returned to Whitefish to enjoy some civilization. Founded in the 1850s but made famous as a Great Northern railroad town in 1904, Whitefish is Jackson Hole Lite -- all of the warmth with none of the attitude. There were camping shops and toggeries, biking trails and hitching posts. Within hours of arriving in town, I visited the Great Northern Brewing Company, where businessmen in Armani were guzzling beer next to cowboys wearing leather chaps. Somehow, everyone just got along.

I stashed the tent and checked in for the night at the more hospitable 1920s-style Garden Wall Inn, where proprietors Chris Schustrom and Rhonda Fitzgerald set out sherry and hors d'oeuvres every evening. Later, at the Tupelo Grille, chef/owner Patrick Carloss applied his unique Cajun flair to my blackened orange roughy with crawfish etouffee, taking my palate to New Orleans and back again before dessert. Soul food in the high country -- who knew?

On my last day in Whitefish, I figured it was time for some culture. I ventured over to the Whitefish Museum, which is run by the Stumptown Historical Society. The museum occupies part of an old railway depot, circa 1927; part of the facility still serves as a waiting room for Amtrak passengers. Given this history, the building itself pays homage to the past. In the museum, however, informative exhibits told me all about the area's rich logging and railroad history.

The next day, back at my California home, I was already unpacked and walking the dog when my neighbor returned from his weekend at crowded Kings Canyon National Park. "Sounds far," he said when I told him where I'd been. I knew then that the secrets of Whitefish and its elk were safe for at least another year.