Jammer Blues: The Adventures of a Glacier Park Tour Bus Driver

The iconic Going-to-the-Sun Road winding through Glacier National Park.

Prologue

June 1983

Okay, here I am driving a 1937 tour bus loaded with eight sleeping drivers at ten o’clock at night in pitch blackness. We all just left Many Glacier Lodge and had to report back to Lake McDonal Lodge. That meant driving across Logan Pass at night. This road, named Going-to-the-Sun, winds 3,000 feet above ravines and valleys with only occasional blocks of stone acting as guardrails. I had driven this road many times during the day but driving this route at night was totally crazy.

I prayed as the red bus approached every bend, hoping that the road was clear of animals, mini landslides or even crazy people taking a joy ride over Logan Pass. Around a narrow turn, a Great Horned Owl startled me, spreading out its six-foot wingspan in the center of the road.

Well, I guess we’ll just wait until you’re ready to leave. Sorry about disturbing your territory at this time of the night.

The sight was surreal under the white 1937 headlights making the bird’s ghostly shadow enormous across the rock wall. It appeared to be in no hurry and turned its back to my headlights. The defiant raptor was surely claiming its domain. Seconds later, with one stroke of those incredible wings it disappeared into the abyss.

  Almost two-thirds across the Pass, a greyish-brown coyote blocked my path. The animal, like the owl, didn’t run away when confronted with the two-ton bus. Instead, it meandered alongside of the road and made its way up an incline.

We all arrived home safely forty minutes later and a few of the drivers’ mumbled “thanks” as they stumbled off to bed. I sat alone in the darkness, thanking God for the safe return. My hands, still sweaty, were no longer clutching the steering wheel.

Just another jammer day in the Park…I then remembered how I came to this place and time.

June 1974

One moment can set your life in motion…

It was 1974 and college graduation was in a few short weeks. I had been attending Southern Connecticut State University majoring in Special Education and was ready to leave the cocoon of college. Simply, I was burned out from the four years of undergraduate life. My friends were all perfecting resumes and looking at job prospects for their future endeavors. Somehow, that exercise didn’t excite me and just wanted to shut off my brain.

I was finishing up my final day in an Electronic Music class (my college Minor) and hurried down the hall to avoid the onslaught of classrooms discharging a tidal wave of undergraduates. Instead of heading for the exit, a ten-foot-long bulletin board covered with hundreds of messages, invitations, and advertisements halted my steps. Oddly, I had passed by that board a hundred times and never bothered to peruse its chaotic matrix, but a lone word on a 5-inch crumpled leaflet caught my attention. MONTANA.

Montana was one of those magical places that touched my inner being. No, I knew nothing about the state, but its mystique prompted me to examine the advertisement. It read: Glacier National Park, Montana is looking for college students to work in various capacities in one of four hotel locations. Dishwashers, clerks, busboys, waiters, maintenance helpers, and tour bus drivers needed. Please submit a letter of interest.

The idea of being a tour bus driver was intriguing since I had previously driven a school bus for a local summer camp. I still had the appropriate license and figured if I could drive a school bus then a tour bus shouldn’t be a challenge. Without hesitation, a letter was sent and an application arrived within a few days. My acceptance was received the following week and despite consternation from family and friends, I was anxious to head West.

The Trip

Graduation came and by the end of May, I was leaving for Montana but had agreed to my parents’ clause concerning the transportation costs. I had to first take a jet to Duluth, Minnesota to visit my grandmother before proceeding onto Great Falls, Montana. It was a pretty fair deal that I could live with. My belongings were simple, a sleeping bag, a duffle bag, and my acoustic guitar. I was a bit anxious walking into the unknown, but I figured that I may never get such an opportunity. My youth was littered with crazy things, and this was just another adventure. Good or bad, I was taking a leap of faith.

The two-day visit to Duluth was uneventful and soon I was aboard a tired 1950’s turboprop aircraft that had seen better days. My seat was adjacent to the right-wing engine, its incessant drone vibrating through the faded carpet under my feet. The throbbing swelled as the plane left the ground and I stared at the engine, hoping that it would remain operational.

The plane was noisy, crowded, and a hint of stale cigarettes filled the cabin. Faded blue curtains drooped over the opaque windows added to a depressing atmosphere. Thankfully the flight lasted only a few hours, and I was greeted at the airport with everyone wearing cowboy hats, boots, and silver belt buckles. Something was different.

"Oh yeah, my body finally stopped pulsating from the damn engine."

A cab brought me to the local Holiday Inn, and I settled in for the two-hour bus ride for the following day. The next morning, a refurbished Greyhound bus lumbered up to the hotel entrance as the temperature climbed into the low 70's. The smell of diesel fuel spewed a blue cloud, wafting through the slight breeze as the air brakes exhaled, stopping at the front doors. I instinctively held my breath but chuckled to myself.

“Hmm, there’s a pattern going on here. Another oldie but goodie like my 1950’s plane.”

Only a few passengers were on board, so seats were plentiful. Once outside Great Falls, the veteran, smokey Greyhound bus chugged along reluctantly as we stopped at every watering hole across the sparce landscape. Native Americans eventually made up the majority of passengers along with their well-worn belongings, children and even a caged chicken or two. It reminded me that we were on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation for more than half of the journey. Heck, I had never known a real Native American but smiled knowing that was a whole new and exciting world. For an east coast kid who grew up an hour from NYC, this was definitely out of my element.

At one wide turn, the range of snow-covered Rockies appeared majestically in the distance, their snow-capped magnificence leaving me awestruck. I leaned in toward the glass window.

"Snow at this time of the year. Wild."

Photographs did not do them justice. The soft tree covered hills of Connecticut that we residents referred to as mountains now struck me as a joke. The Rockies rose out of the Montana plains like monoliths, ageless, holding onto the secrets of centuries.

The bus accelerated on through the beginning of rolling arid foothills in the direction of those peaks, prompting me to question my abilities driving that incredible terrain. I told myself,

"There’s no turning back now, kid!”

Within the hour I was standing in front of Glacier Park Lodge, a few miles beyond the tiny village of East Glacier. The building was an enormous wooden structure built in 1913 by the Great Northern Railroad designed to accommodate visitors coming to Glacier National Park. (I learned this fact later as a tour guide.) Massive 40-foot-tall Douglas timbers towered over the hotel entrance, freezing me in my steps. The girth of each log was over 40 inches.

“It is true. Everything is ridiculously huge in Montana!”

Suddenly an empty beer can bounced off one of the timbers, breaking my stupor. I turned and saw a rusty 1968 Ford Fairlane fly by on the blacktop driveway with what appeared to be a male Native American driver. He hollered something as the car swerved dangerously over the granite curb to get onto the main road. I watched him drive out of sight.

“Wow, welcome to Glacier!?’ What have I gotten into? "

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