Month: September 2022 (Page 2 of 3)

I began the day in the drooping goatee of Montana, the southernmost region that borders Yellowstone. Brisk again—that’s the norm for the mountains. I can probably use my car as a refrigerator overnight. I set out northwest, following the Madison river. Over fifty years ago, an earthquake shifted the river’s course and created a new lake, drowning parts of the forest, the road, and twenty people. The trees, still rooted to the riverbed, stick out like elongated tombstones.

Today was a long, ten-hours-in-the-car day. I drove from West Yellowstone to the capital city of Helena, stopping for lunch and trombone equipment, then continued north all the way up to the town of Browning in the Blackfeet Reservation. This part of Montana is called Big Sky, and I can see why: more than anywhere else so far, it looms, casting beautiful wreaths of blue and pink along the mountain ranges.

To pass the time, I listened to plenty of music and some podcasts. A new favorite is Triviality, which features questions that pull from my generation’s knowledge base (still plenty of history, but no obscure 1970s film questions). The highlight today, inspired by “That’s Life”, was a category called Puppet, Pirate, or Poet. Play along at home: how many can you get?

1. José Gaspar
2. Floyd Pepper
3. John Drinkwater
4. Sara Teasdale
5. Lionel Wafer
6. Pugsey Hurley
7. Siegfried Sassoon
8. Abelardo Montoya
9. Asad “Booyah” Abdulahi 
10. Horatio the Elephant

So far, I have not been impressed by the cuisine of Yellowstone and its surrounding environs. I’ve been camping in West Yellowstone, Montana; the other border towns are currently cut off from the park due to the extreme flooding earlier this summer. Both barbecue and breakfast were meh. I did, however, find a coffee shop with excellent turnovers. I tried a ham and cheddar, and then a blackberry rosemary, which was an excellent combination. Once I get home, I think I’ll try whipping up some scones.

Having conquered the Norris Geyser Basin, I turned my focus to the Lower and Midway Geyser Basins twenty-odd miles away. There aren’t as many strange or intricate geothermal formations, but the area does boast incredible hot pots. The turquoise water looks artificially saturated with color, and is apparently even more brilliant during the hotter months of July and August.

I then trotted down the road to perhaps the park’s most famous attraction. Old Faithful is so named due to its consistent eruption cycle—although it’s grown slightly more infrequent and less reliable due to seismic activity. I’ve had fairly good luck so far avoiding crowds, but this is the most popular place in Yellowstone, and the bleachers were full by the time I arrived. The eruption itself was majestic, but the swarms of people and the perimeter established created a feeling of domestication. We have tamed this geyser. At Norris, I felt like a visitor in a wild, strange place, and I much preferred that experience.

My last stop was my most anticipated. I parked at Fairy Falls Trailhead and made my way up a hill overlooking various hot springs and fumaroles. Stepping onto the observation deck, I finally saw Grand Prismatic Spring in most of its glory. It’s not currently as gorgeous as it is in pictures and postcards; you have to go during the hot season, where sunlight and microbial growth really make it sing. It was still a beautifully alien feature upon the desolate basin. Unfortunately, the folks around me were coughing up a storm, and I’d rather not catch Grand Prismatic Coronavirus. Back down the hill and into my car.

I could spend another two weeks here, but I’m heading out tomorrow in search of new places to explore (and better food). Tomorrow promises to be my first long drive in a week, and I’m glad to get back on the highway.

Yellowstone is designed differently than the other national parks I’ve visited. Instead of featuring one main road that guides visitors on a distinct path, it features two loops connected in a figure eight—the Grand Loop. This encourages more freeform exploration. As such, I will present today’s thoughts, learnings, and observations in no particular order. Feel free to bounce around.

• Yellowstone sits mostly atop an active volcano, which is why it is home to geysers and other geothermal features. Some scientists believe the next eruption won’t take place for at least another ten thousand years; others think it’s overdue.
• The predominant species of tree in the park is the lodgepole pine. These trees freak me out. They look like someone glued an unwanted Christmas tree on top of a telephone pole.

• Several visitors commented on my license plate. They had no idea where New Hampshire was. However, they did love the motto: Live Free or Die. 
• Speaking of license plates, the most boring ones are Ohio plates, and the funniest ones I’ve seen are from Idaho. Their byline? Famous Potatoes.
• I spent most of my time today among the geothermal regions of the park. I stopped at Artists Paintpots (no apostrophe, we’ll get to that later) and was rewarded with benching mudpots that spat hot clay at me. The area was awash in red, brown, blue and green, depending on the dominant chemical makeup of each region.

• The smell of sulfur, which rises up from magma vents, has dozens of different variations. Not one is pleasant.
• Remember how Devils Tower is missing an apostrophe? I have discovered why: I do not believe that commas or apostrophes exist in Wyoming. The good people at Yellowstone have posted interpretive signs with so many run-on sentences that I had to suppress the urge to buy a Sharpie and set out on grammatical vigilantism.
• The most wondrous thing I saw was at the rest stop, where a crusty old dude with a Santa Claus beard shoveled armload after armload of Bang cans into the recycling bin. He must have had fifty of them. I pray that he is still alive.
• There is a small community of geyser-watchers throughout Yellowstone. Every day, they log the times and durations of each eruption, communicate via walkie-talkie, and make predictions for even the most unreliable geysers. Some are retirees, while others work remotely from the basin. I sat and talked for over half an hour with a woman observing Vixen Geyser, which is officially considered to have no clear eruption cycle. She has watched the geyser since 2015, and claimed to have figured out its cycle. Sure enough, it erupted within five minutes of her predicted time. I am now listed as an observer at geysertimes.com, which will take a place of pride on my resume.

• I left the Norris Geyser Basin around 2:10 to explore Mammoth Springs. I drove back past Norris about two hours later, and was greeted by a three-hundred-foot spew of steam lingering in the air. I had missed an eruption of Steamboat Geyser, the largest geyser in the world. Better luck next time.

Tomorrow, I’m heading to the last two major attractions in the park. What are they? FIND OUT NEXT TIME!

This one’s late, and I’m tired. I will let my pictures tell of my first day in Yellowstone.

Today was the gloomiest morning so far. The rain was constant and depressing. I stayed curled up in my sleeping bag until 9, especially once I remembered I had to drive back through about two miles of dirt road. Once I was brave enough to slide into the front seat, I muddled through the puddles and ducked back into Jackson. No rainy-morning jaunt for me: I wanted to find a pleasant coffee shop to wait out the glumness.

My first option was stuffed to the gills with patrons, the second seemingly nonexistent, and the third closed. I had to settle for the Starbucks in the grocery store. I glumly chomped on a danish and read to pass the time.

Once the skies had dried up, I drove back out to the Tetons to see if I could catch a glimpse of the skyline. South and Middle Teton poked out from time to time, but Grand Teton remained stuck in the clouds. I consoled myself with the view I had last night while driving to my campsite—distant, but clear.

Today, I snacked, rested, and looked ahead. Among other possible stops, my Food Bible indicates a cluster of tremendous restaurants in northern Idaho. Once I arrive there, perhaps some gastrotourism is in order.

I woke up to a chilly backseat. The temperature had dipped below 40 degrees on the first of what I’m sure will be many frigid mountain overnights. I creatively got dressed in my established pocket of warmth (thank you, Dad, for the subzero sleeping bag) and drove into the Tetons.

My goal today was a moderately challenging hike along Jenny Lake, the second-largest lake in the park and one of the main tourist attractions. I’m in the habit of starting out early on the trail, but I waited an hour or so until the thermometer hit 50 degrees. The Teton range was initially shrouded in clouds—I drove through one on my way over—but they lightened up to reveal yet another stunning mountain/lake combo. Are you tired of lake and mountain pictures yet? Tough. I will keep posting lakes and mountains until the cows (and I) come home.

The hike was pleasant enough, if a bit crowded for an after-Labor Day excursion. What struck me the most was how physically capable I felt. After surviving Old Rag and forcing myself along trails ten thousand feet in the air, I was crushing it under more reasonable conditions. This morning, I felt as healthy as I have all trip. I resolved to stuff my face later as a reward.

I drove back into town to stock up on groceries and do laundry. I would wax poetic about the laundromat again, but I need the space to describe a life-altering experience. Apologies to the USA Subs steak bomb, but I had the greatest sandwich of my life tonight.

Egg and sausage crisply fried up. Ham with melted Oaxaca cheese. Mashed beans as a base. Onions, tomato, and avocado. Chipotle in adobo throughout. A soft bolillo roll, delicately daubed with mayo. I ate half. I should probably shoot the rest into space as the culinary equivalent of the Voyager gold record. I will spend the rest of my life chasing the flood of serotonin provided by this sandwich.

I’m camping in the Elk Wildlife Refuge tonight. Hopefully I’ll hear their haunting bugling at some point. Good night, everyone.

If Wyoming knows how to do anything, it’s how to tear up its highways. There are signs advertising how long it will be until it’s your turn to drive the one-lane road: two minutes, eight minutes, fifteen minutes. I can throw my car into park, turn it off, rummage around for a snack, read a bit; if I see a sign for a twenty-minute delay, maybe I’ll go for a walk.

I drove north, through La Barge and Big Piney, and found myself at the tourist town of Jackson. Every building was made of faux log siding or fashionable brick, even the Subway and the Target. It was the prettiest Target I have ever seen. After stopping for a roughly spherical 6” Italian sub, I drove into Grand Tetons National Park, so named for its famous trio of mountains. Here are the Tetons as famously photographed by Ansel Adams:

I figured I should give it a go as well. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t quite right today.

Oh well—the park is still filled with great vistas and drives along the Snake River. I made my way to Jackson Lake, one of the park’s secondary attractions, and enjoyed a serene walk along the lakeshore, spotting mule deer and plenty of smaller mammals. The two-mile hike was easy and rewarding, but few people were out on the trail; most of the other tourists I saw stuck to the road and kept staring with futility into the clouds.

Tomorrow, I plan on going for a longer walk around Jenny Lake. Let’s hope for clear skies in the morning and the beautiful 70-degree highs of today.

I’m back! I had a wonderful weekend with family (thank you for asking), but I’m glad to be back on the road.

I flew back into Denver last night, then started my push into Wyoming, which I finished this morning. My route today took me along Wyoming’s southern edge, starting in Laramie. I filled up my water jug at the University of Wyoming and downloaded an album on which one of my college professors had worked, Considering Matthew Shepard.The oratorio is about the murder of the titular Wyoming student, which was an anti-gay hate crime, and especially about the aftermath. It’s important that the story is told, so I’ll plug it here, but the album is just alright. It suffers from the same issues that many oratorios have: its text is occasionally uninspired and it outstays its welcome. The blend of genres is also a bit too White Album for a cohesive work (in my opinion). I’ve heard good things about The Laramie Project, a play about the same event.

I swung by Green River to check out a publicly-sanctioned spaceport (no typo—the town was concerned about refugees from Jupiter). Wyoming has been geographically interesting throughout, but the county roads here are almost alien. Strangely formed buttes spring out of the ground haphazardly; sagebrush fills the beige hills, giving the appearance that I am driving on colossal everything bagels; the proximity to the clouds causes them to appear stretched and flat. The spaceport itself is, sadly, just a public landing strip at the moment. Hopefully more funds are incoming.

I’m finding a place to camp on federal land tonight, then continuing north, where I plan to spend a considerable amount of time among some of the most well-regarded natural areas in the country.

First of all: a huge thank you to my buddy Sam for letting me crash at his place in Boulder. This is a land of Subarus and mountain bikes, where the average person runs a six-minute mile. I am once again out of my element.

Today‘s main event was a trip to an interactive art exhibit by the collective Meow Wolf. The group is not animal-centric and I have no explanation for the name. I also have no explanation for the installation, Convergence Station, which is 70,000 square feet of three hundred artists‘ collaborative sci-fi fever dream. The loose premise is that chunks of four worlds had been drawn together through quantum entanglement, creating a garbled mass of cultural and architectural zaniness. The main draw is the sheer scale and quality of creation. Every room is stuffed to the gills with detail—flyers on alley walls, tomes detailing the worlds’ mythologies, shops stocked with alien supplies. There are rooms dedicated to indigenous people and disabled artists, two-player video game diversions, and a horrifying ’90s pizza birthday palace knock-off. You can either lean back and let the sensations wash over you, or soak up as much minutiae as possible. If you are the type of person who delights in the beautiful, the uncanny, and the absurd, this was made for you.

I only left when my ravenously hungry stomach could no longer be ignored. I had completed the main adventure within, but still had plenty of secondary puzzles left to solve. Hopefully, I’ll return and answer the riddle that brings honor to our robo-fish overlords. After swinging back to Boulder, I hiked part of the Flatiron Mountains with Sam and inhaled an entire pizza. Today was a great day.

I’m flying home this weekend for a family event, so the blog will be on pause until Monday. I’ll check in then—enjoy the weekend, everyone!

Headache, begone! I woke up feeling right as rain, ready to face the mountains. After a quick pit stop to fill my water jug, I took a shuttle bus down the Bear Lake Corridor. This road is probably the most popular section of Rocky Mountain; I saved it for last to hopefully dodge the Labor Day crowds. I knew I was in the right place for my ability level, as I was surrounded by fewer buff dudes in tanks and more retirees dual-wielding hiking poles. My new motto: follow the sticks.

My route for the day, 1.8 miles each way, took me to three different lakes. A quick review of each:

Nymph Lake: The first chunk of the trail is mostly uphill. This is more tricky than normal due to the sparse air at 8,500 feet, and I was more winded than I expected by the time I reached the first plateau. Nymph Lake is, in a word, disappointing. Thin green water, coated with unappealing lily pads and filled with detritus. I trudged on.

Dream Lake: Up and up I climbed. The ascent would never end. I stopped and sat on a fallen log for five minutes, chugging water. Finally, sucking wind, I arrived at Dream Lake’s photo op spot. The mountains in the background were impressive, and the lake was clearer, but I was underwhelmed and tired enough to seriously consider joining most people and turning around. I kept going with the promise that, if another horrid incline appeared, I would head back. Fortunately, this is where the hike turned around. The trail followed the level edge of Dream Lake, the crowds thinned, and the lake opened up.

Emerald Lake: This is the rewarding part of the hike—an easy walk through pure forest, surrounded by clear views of mountaintops and bereft of too many fellow tourists. After the last ten minutes, I plopped down lakeside and took in the ridges. It was a beautiful place to catch my breath.

I bounced down the mountain, shuttled back to my car, and once again moved from shelter to shelter to avoid the heat. The thermometer hit 102 degrees, which was most definitely not how I envisioned my September. I still found time for a tremendous meal: a large elk hot dog, topped with pickled cactus and crispy onions, served with french fries covered in green chili. Colorado’s food has been good to me. Tomorrow, I move into the city for a bit.