Words and Photos: Nick VanHorn 2017-10-31 17:33:31
Brakes squeal as we pull toward the lonely concrete platform, the train breathing a steamy hiss before coming to a halt. Outside, the slideshow of snow-covered evergreens has stopped, the windows now framing an icy road and a single, snub-nosed railcar. We step out into penetrating silence, in which the rumble of our duffle-bag wheels and the “zip zip” of Gore-Tex pants feels almost offensive. Aside from the solitary engine, we see no sign of civilization.
Then we enter the stand of pines and see the building.
It’s February, and warm light pours from the rows of windows. The elegant, snow-covered structure’s large size seems in stark contrast to its loneliness. Combined with the incoming storm, the vibe feels like a sequel for The Shining.
This is the Izaak Walton Inn, perched at 5,000 feet and located in Essex, MT, a 50-odd-person town along the southern edge of Glacier National Park. Thanks to an 80-year-old planning error, the inn is also one of the most obscure and (unintentionally) impressive backcountry lodges in North America.
As we walk toward the inn’s double front doors, we decide it’s also one of the creepiest.
Our trip to the Izaak Walton began 24 hours before, in Whitefish, MT. Forecasters were predicting a huge storm, and rather than fight the crowds, our group—Jake Christianson, Yvonne May and myself—decided to escape to Essex, to investigate the tiny pit-stop town 50 miles west of Whitefish.
Those dreams never materialized, leaving Essex a mere stop along Amtrak’s Empire Builder line. But luckily for backcountry skiers, the Walton left its door open. Nestled between Glacier National Park and the Great Bear Wilderness, a million-plus acres of empty mountains and forests surround the Inn, making it the perfect launching spot for lifetimes of backcountry skiing. Due to its remote location, there’s hardly anyone to share it with besides a few Nordic skiers and railroad workers.
As we pass into the lodge, the original wood flooring creaks under our ski boots. The interior is rustic yet classy, with artifacts adorning the walls. A small group of guests gathers around the huge fireplace, chatting about the approaching storm. It’s now forecasted to drop as many as four feet of snow over the next few days, and the guests are worried about the highway closing.
For us, that is a good thing, and we head out to the 20-plus miles of Nordic trails behind the Walton that access vast terrain to the south. The increasing snowfall and deteriorating visibility push us into low-angle forest, and we decide there’s just enough light for one long run. By the time we see the glow from the Walton, it’s almost dark. The fireplace is a welcome finish.
The morning brings 18 inches of new and it’s still snowing—hard. To avoid the spiking avalanche danger, we return to the towering pines behind the lodge, taking lap after lap until it’s almost too deep to move. It’s time to prepare for our ride home.
The Walton’s common room is abuzz, guests huddled over a single computer, tracking the progress of the westbound train to Whitefish. Ten-foot-tall snowdrifts have reportedly closed the road, leaving the train as the sole access to this lonely haven on the Continental Divide. We settle in, content to wait for the squeal and hiss that will bring us home.
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