I Took My Mom on a Hiking Trip to Glacier National Park

My mom is no daredevil. She’s 78, scared of heights, and uncomfortable on the water. She wouldn’t call herself a hiker. But she’s active—she walks and does yoga—and enjoys being in nature.  

She used to be a fast walker, moving at a clip that would get her heart rate up. I remember thinking sometimes, Can’t we just wander leisurely right now? But in recent years, she’s slowed down, and when I walk with her, I have to remember to go slower. Walking up and down hills often is difficult for her.

When Mom told me Glacier National Park was on her bucket list, I wondered whether it was a good idea. I’d been once with my husband and two athletic kids, and our hikes were gorgeous but challenging, rocky and steep. If we went to Glacier, how could I tell which hikes Mom could do? Would she be able to access enough of the park to enjoy it as much as we did?

I asked her gently whether she thought she could handle hiking on uneven terrain. She said yes, because she can still walk several miles with no problem, although it’s mostly on flat streets and trails. And she wanted to see Glacier National Park even if it would be a challenge. She wanted to try. And I knew she’d be awestruck by the natural beauty. 

My brother, Jon, and I signed us all up for a guided trip with Wilderness Inquiry, which makes outdoor adventures accessible to people with a wide range of abilities. I knew they could make our hikes doable for my mother. If that meant getting part of the way out on a hike and turning around while everyone else went ahead, that’s what we’d do. 

Before the trip, I asked Mom to buy trekking poles and learn how to use them. At first, she resisted, saying those were for older people who have considerable trouble walking. But I told her younger people use them while hiking all the time. She agreed and practiced with them before we arrived in Montana. 

Our first hike was a tough one, with some rocky inclines. She wanted me to walk in front of her so that she could see where I decided to step, and Jon to walk behind her, so that he could grab her if she started to stumble. At first, we stuck close to her in this formation. But as she got more used to the trekking poles, she became more confident. The poles ended up being invaluable, helping her negotiate all kinds of terrain.

This was an out-and-back hike to the spectacular Avalanche Lake and its broad swaths of greens and blues, nestled among tree-lined mountains. We rested on a bench, watching the thin white ribbons of waterfalls in the distance carrying water from snow and glaciers above us down to the lake at our feet. Mom said it was even more gorgeous and peaceful than she expected, and she could have stayed there admiring the view all day. 

On the hike back to the trailhead, we chatted with our two guides and the other members of our group. The three of us had never traveled together as adults. I’ve traveled with my mother and brother separately, and each of us likes spending time in nature, but we’re not usually with each other when we’re doing it. 

On the Avalanche Lake hike, we stopped at overlooks to admire the bright-turquoise Avalanche Creek thundering through a gorge and churning up cool air. At the creek’s quieter stretches, we paused to notice how perfectly transparent the water was, revealing a world of colorful rocks underneath, and how fresh the air smelled near cedars.

On other hikes, we saw whole families of mountain goats and laughed when two marmots wrestled like pro fighters, and Mom took pictures of alpine flowers along the way that our guides helped us identify. At Glacier, it’s hard not to be in awe of the mountains that have stood for millions of years and that will be there long after we’re gone—and to appreciate the shrinking glaciers that these mountains cradle.

One day in our itinerary included a whitewater rafting trip. I’d asked before the trip whether there was another option, assuming Mom wouldn’t even consider doing that, since she typically doesn’t go in or on the water. I convinced her to get into a kayak only once, and only on a tiny, sheltered lake, with the promise that we could return to the dock right away if she felt unstable. I was relieved to hear that there was an easy “float” rafting option without rapids. After some time with the group and our helpful guides, she decided to try it. She knew how much Jon and I had enjoyed whitewater rafting in the past. We didn’t try to convince her to do it, because we didn’t want her to feel pressure from us. 

Our guide Scout walked us through the details—the level of difficulty (mostly floating, with some class II and III rapids) and the likelihood of someone getting launched out of the raft (not likely). An expert rafting guide would be in charge, and the scenery would be beautiful. 

Once in the raft, Mom was clearly nervous, but our guide kept her close to him at the back of the raft to help ease her fears. Each time we went through a rapid, I looked back at her face to judge how she felt, and she never looked too scared. In the river’s calmer sections, we got to enjoy the view together. A fine drizzle was coming down that morning, which made the river and its surroundings seem even more serene. 

The trip would have been unforgettable if all we did was enjoy Glacier together—the scenery, the wildlife, the peacefulness. But it kindled something new in my mother. It shifted her perspective of what she can do and what she might want to try, even as she approaches 80. Her experience shows what’s possible if you’re willing to step out of your comfort zone and you have support. Months later, she says she still feels energized by the trip. 

Another member of our group told us that seeing my mom negotiate the hikes and other activities made her believe that her mother could do something like this too. 

If I’d told Mom beforehand that she’d become someone’s inspiration on this trip, she probably would have laughed. But she did. She was brave and adventurous. She impressed us and herself, and now she’s talking about where her next hiking trip will be.