Glacier's tularemia scare is a call for manners, not a reason to cancel

Is a scary-sounding wildlife disease in a national park a reason to scrap your autumn trip to Glacier? We don't think so. But it is a good reason to look at how we behave in places like this, because we are not just spectators of a park's health. We are part of it.

The facts are modest. Park officials confirmed on September 17 that a beaver found between Upper and Lower St. Mary Lakes tested positive for tularemia, as AOL reports. Then, according to Yahoo Travel, the National Park Service confirmed on October 15 that two dead snowshoe hares in the Many Glacier Valley had tested positive too. One was found along the trail to the Swiftcurrent Falls viewing area. In the reports we have seen, the park has announced no closures.

The numbers argue for calm, not panic

Tularemia is a bacterial disease that can pass from wildlife to pets and people. It sounds alarming, but the reported figures are small. The CDC recorded 2,462 human cases nationwide between 2011 and 2022, and Montana typically reports only a handful a year, with three in 2024. An infected beaver is not an outbreak. It is a warning light.

We would be wary of any lurid framing. What the documentation shows is a rare disease that is treatable with antibiotics when caught early. The real risk, in our view, is that its symptoms can resemble more routine illnesses, which is why the CDC describes it as difficult to diagnose.

Closures are the lazy answer; rules are the smart one

Closing a valley would feel decisive. We think it would also be the wrong tool. The routes of infection are specific: ticks and deer flies, contact with sick or dead animals, untreated water, and dust or aerosols from disturbed carcasses. Each has a cheap, concrete countermeasure: long sleeves and trousers, repellent, checking for ticks, treated or boiled water, washing hands, and leaving carcasses alone and telling park staff.

None of that is new. Glacier already asks visitors to stay 25 yards (23 m) from most wildlife and 100 yards (91 m) from bears and wolves. The park's own safety page says that if you are changing an animal's behavior, you are too close. Those rules were written with big, obvious dangers in mind, and it looks to us like they now protect you against bacteria too. Our view: the best public-health tool in a national park is a visitor who actually follows the distance rule.

What we should accept, and what we should change

Three habits stand out to us. First, stop treating a clear mountain stream as a free refill. Glacier's own guidance is to carry water from the park's treated systems, or boil it for at least a minute or use an approved filter. A short hike that runs long is exactly when people cut corners.

Second, put the telephoto lens to work. The urge to get closer to a small, sick-looking animal is the very behavior that exposes people. If a creature looks unwell or is dead, that is a reason to back off, not to take a better photo.

Third, take pets seriously. The CDC says domestic cats are particularly at risk, and a Glacier-area tourism guide advises against bringing pets on trails at all. Dog owners, in particular, should read that as more than a bureaucratic nicety.

There is a fair counterargument: rules only work if people follow them, and plenty of visitors don't. That is true. But it argues for clearer signs, better ranger messaging and a little social pressure, not for locking people out of the landscape that makes them care about it.

Our verdict

Go to Glacier this fall. Fewer crowds are a genuine perk of the shoulder season, and a Glacier-area tourism guide notes that spring and fall can offer fewer people. Pack long layers, repellent and a way to treat water, keep your distance, and if you develop fever, swollen glands or a skin sore within two weeks of your visit, see a doctor and mention the park. That is the whole deal. A place this wild asks little of us, and we should be glad to pay it.