Grandparents are given the privilege of introducing their hobbies to grandchildren.  

For some, that could be music. For others, it might be reading. Many may share a love for gardening or baking with their young proteges. Board games or fishing or golf could be among the pastimes grandparents pass on to grandkids. 

Not me. 

I recently introduced my two oldest grandchildren to something that could be considered dangerous. It's not exactly educational. It's not relaxing. It actually involved a dirt path, large rocks, tree roots and switchbacks.  

And there was always the chance of meeting up with a grizzly bear. 

I'm talking about trail running at Glacier National Park. And more specifically, the trail from Ptarmigan Falls to the trailhead at the Many Glacier Campground.  

This 2.8-mile stretch, part of the trail that leads to two of my favorite places, Iceberg Lake and Ptarmigan Tunnel, is the most magnificent and glorious piece of terrain I have had the pleasure of bounding down. It is flanked by mountains, trees, flowers and streams. The scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. I have yet to meet its equal for the sheer joy it has provided without fail for decades. It is my fountain of youth because when I'm there, running free, I am a child again. 

Hadley, 12, and Holden, 10, joined me for the final 2 miles on that trail on our recent Glacier trip. I urged them to watch their steps and look for rocks, bumps and roots that could easily lead to tripping, falling and nasty gashes on knees, hands, elbows and head. 

I reminded them we were to go slow and easy, and yell loud and often so we could avoid surprising a grizzly.

They quickly got the hang of it. 

Hadley is graceful and smooth. She makes running look easy, almost effortless. 

Holden is soldier-like. He runs with purpose and determination. There is work to be done.

Both took turns setting the pace, until I decided that wasn't a good idea, just in case we came upon a bear. Their mom would be quite upset if she knew her kids were leading the way in grizzly country and I was bringing up the rear. 

(My Uncle Frank loved to say, "You don't have to outrun the bear. You have to outrun the person you're with.")

"I better be out in front," I said. 

It was also my chance to take the lead going into the final quarter mile, my favorite section, which involves a long downhill, sharp turns, big rocks and dirt stairs before it flattens in the final yards. 

I wanted to beat them. 

Hadley realized I was trying to win. She was close behind. I blocked her first attempts to pass, but on a turn she cut inside, got around me, and shot away. She was gone. 

I could still beat Holden. 

Maybe not.  

I heard something and turned to look. He was right there, coming fast. 

"Run Buley," I muttered.

I sped up and risked a fall as I leaped over rocks. Perhaps I could hold him off, just another 25 yards or so ... 

He charged past. Young legs. Youthful energy.  

No chance for an old man.

Both were sweating and grinning. I offered them high fives, told them well done and asked how they liked it. 

"That was fun," Hadley said. 

"Yeah, that was fun," Holden agreed. 

Music to my ears.

We walked to the campground store, got some ice cream and sat on the bench on the front deck. As we ate, we watched people, admired mountains and laughed as we recounted our 2-mile downhill dash. 

No falls. 

No grizzlies. 

No worries.

Just a grandfather running with grandchildren.

Maybe this is a hobby worth sharing.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].