Glacier Park has always been a family favorite. With its high mountain peaks married with deep valleys named by the ice masses slowly carving the rocky facades down over time. We owned a cabin, built by my Grandpa Fay, tucked into a grassy meadow across from the North Fork River.   In exchange for building the other cabins in Havretown, the name of this crop of homes away from home, the landowners annexed a parcel of land with just enough space for our modest three-room cabin.  It was just off the main road, passed the Ranger’s station, after a log gate and paddle lock, where we’d wind our way in our green Toyota wagon on a dirt path until we reached the second…