STRAIGHT LINE • Unintentionally Impressive Dry, deep and lonely. Yvonne May reaps the benefits of the storm behind the Izaak Walton. Originally built in 1890 as a train yard for the Great Northern Railroad, Essex didn’t see much attention until the establish-ment of Glacier National Park in 1910. Developers dreamed of the town becoming Glacier’s southern entrance, akin to West Yellowstone, and began constructing infrastructure to match. The Izaak Walton, built in 1939, was part of that effort. 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 be-tween 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 rail-road 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 ter-rain 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 snow-ing—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. 102 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume Eleven, Issue Two: Page 102
