Lake
McDonald

Amanda Senrud

"If only walls could talk," people often say when a building has stories preserved in its structure, but what can be said of a lake? Lake McDonald has surely heard more than any building ever could. How many secrets could be revealed if the lake could talk? Lake McDonald lies in the southwest part of Glacier Park, paralleled by the Going to the Sun Highway, and bordered by Apgar Village on its southern tip. Gently sloping hills surround the lake but soon grow into towering peaks, some 6,000 feet above the shore. Snow leaves a blanket of white broken only by color from the evergreens. Few sounds break the silence of winter, but occasionally a chickadee sings his song to give comfort and hope to the creatures hidden around the lake.

In 1932. the governments of the United States and Canada created this Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park, making the nineteen mile shared boundary a pact of friendship and symbol of goodwill between nations. This symbol, which reaches into the veins of every creature that is fortunate enough to inhabit her lands, gives Glacier its serenity and mystique.

Just as wildlife has touched many, the wolf has captured my admiration. A lone wolf venturing across frozen Lake McDonald, halts to turn and peer at its audience of three: my mother, brother, and me. While watching this wolf I find myself staring and drifting into another world, and I wonder what he has done and where he is going.

Although 200 feet probably separate myself from the wolf, I can see every detail. His four toes lift silently from the snow, take a majestic step then return themselves to their resting position in one continuous rhythm. Each foot leaves a scar in the never ending white snow. Jet black legs lead to a silver-gray back standing as high as my chest. His tail, curled high above his back, signals to everyone his dignity and confidence. Attentive ears point to the tree tops, quivering at every break in the silence. The source of my reverence is his head. It glances back and forth surveying what lies ahead; the long nose leads each swing without hesitation and releases a cloud of steam with each breath. I can feel his eyes peering into mine as he turns to look at me. It seems as though I can see anything reflected in his experienced eyes; our surroundings even appear different, everything he and his ancestors have ever seen is locked inside his black eyes. The mountains are no longer mountains. They are looming keepers of life and death and everything in between, and the trees hush their chattering inhabitants while his eyes peer in their direction.

Through his great grandfather's contribution to his gaze, I can see our own ancestors, with whom he shared this lake. Whether it be in tepees, cabins, or lodges, humans have relied on Lake McDonald for recreation as well as survival. Today, I can see summer cabins lining the shore, but reflected in the lake and the wolf's eyes are tepees from long ago. Every summer the Kootenai Indians made camp along the shore. While here, the performed religious ceremonies, which earned the lake its Kootenai name, Yakolawilnamki Ahkoknuk. Translated, it means Sacred Dancing Lake.

Riding on the wind is the sound of drums and feet pounding in rhythm with nature. In a nearby clearing, the souls of a hundred natives dance. Feet pound against the ground and rise again with the dust drawing energy out of the earth. Leather adorned figures with feathers and bones bounce amidst a crackling fire and rising smoke. A white haired man raises his questioning face to the sky and calls to the Medicine Man for guidance. "In my visions I see the teacher, the wolf, what is to be learned?"

"Be as the wolf, run in your pack, but listen to your dreams. The wolf medicine teaches my children loyalty to their people and land," answers the voice of an old and feeble Medicine Man outlined in the smoke of a fire. "Understand him." He speaks through knowledge of the world but is quickly drowned out by the stomping of feet and chanting voices. Which in turn, slowly give way to bird calls and rushing air. Only an echo of the drums remain in my ears.

On the west side of the Lake McDonald, through the cracks in the branches, I can see Charlie Russell's cabin, Bullhead Lodge. Entertaining is a community gathering in this small area and Charlie invites the whole town to come to summer parties that are only ended by the coming dawn. Still, he also enjoys peace and quiet. When Russell is left to spend the day half sleeping and half fishing in the middle of the lake, I don't need to question where his inspiration came from.

The wolf's eyes have also seen Duncan McDonald pass through this territory in the cold 1878 November. Duncan is on his way to meet the Nez Perce who had escaped into Canada at the time of Chief Joseph's surrender, when he first came upon the place where I am now. Guided by chief Aneneas, McDonald is making his way to Canada for the second time now to meet with the Nez Perce. At the base of Sacred Dancing Lake is they make camp. Like a young man in love, Duncan carves his name into a tree. Visitors of the lake form then on referred to it as Lake McDonald. Through the simple act of signing his name, he left his mark in history books forever. From here, Duncan continues his journey up the North Fork of the Flathead River and runs into the group of Nez Perce returning to the States. He persuades them to return to Canada out of fear for their lives. Heroes such as Duncan McDonald can go unnoticed; he may have saved the remaining Nez Perce from arrest and death but he receives little credit. He is, however, remembered in the eyes of the wolf, and now in mine.

Just as Duncan is a part of Lake McDonald's past, the wolf has etched his spirit in the cracks of the ice and echos of the drums in the air. This lone wolf removed from its pack, still walks boldly out onto a open plane of ice and snow, not minding the invasion of his privacy. His footprints in the newly fallen snow are soon to be erased by a blow from Old Man Winter's chilling breath, yet his presence will be remembered by the quiet in the air and the impression he leaves in my heart.

Essay of Place Issue
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