Glacier

I planned Glacier to be short and sweet.  I have many great memories there but they are all from my pre-park obsessed days so I didn’t have a stamp or a magnet to prove it.  I also worried that the park would still be snowed in, which in fact was the case.  The Going to the Sun Road was closed, as the pass had still not been cleared of snow.  I was profoundly disappointed.  Logan Pass provides some of the most dramatic views anywhere from a drivable vantage point.  Unfortunately, the stop was complicated by an ever increasing anxiety over bears.  I really hadn’t gone to Yellowstone expecting to see so many bears whereas I expected bears in Glacier.  30 years ago a family friend was killed by a bear there.  So whatever I may say here, I do not take their danger for granted.

            With this in mind, I once again found myself running on the road both because I felt this less likely to surprise a bear as well as well to have increased traffic to ward them off.  However as I ran, I realized that lining the road, these were the exact sorts of foliage that the bears like to tromp around in.  They could remain well camouflaged and cool down there next to the streams.  Indeed, 12 miles into my run, I had the joy of looking over to find a bear on the other side of the road watching me.  As I ran off, he walked out and continued to stare at me.  It was much closer than I cared to see him without the reassuring glass and steel of my car encasing me.  Paranoid that the bear would suddenly break into a trot and join me for my final miles, I flagged a ride back to my car.

            Later when I was told that Logan Pass was open to those willing to go on foot, I was determined to go.  With the morning’s bear encounter fresh on my mind, the real problem was the 8 bear infested miles to make it happen.  This was one of those moments that I really had to step outside of myself.  I am not one to strike up casual conversations with random strangers.  This trip has forced me at times to engage with people when I would otherwise shy away.  Fortunately, when you are out in the woods, you tend to meet like-minded people that can appreciate your naïve questions and your occasional dependency on each other.  It was with that mind set that I raced to catch up to two cyclists, Dennis and Donna, who graciously allowed me to accompany them to the top and back.  I am incredibly grateful for their generosity in allowing me to crash their party and then inviting me over for drinks, too.  It was much needed conversation and community after what had been a long stretch without any socializing. 

            Logan Pass delivered.  In fact, I would count it as one of my most spectacular experiences of seeing the pass. Normally it is mobbed with people.  With only a few cyclists at the top, it was possible to get a sense of how this place probably felt for thousands of years: silent, solid and stately.  It is heartbreaking to know the glaciers will all be gone in just a few years, but their incredible power has certainly left a stunning legacy.

            So in spite of the very short visit, it was nonetheless, once again, memorable. 

Sledding on a glacier!

No really, I can take a picture of a moose

St. Mary Lake

Life up close

Yellowstone is an odd collection to say the least, an eclectic geology show and safari all rolled into one, overlaid with rich historical accents and a dash of horror show.  I mean what else do you say when you swerve to avoid a branch in the road only to discover it is a partially gnawed leg.  For the nerd in me, it doesn’t get much better than this.  Yes, when your last two book purchases consists of a field guide to birds and Theodore Roosevelt’s biography, you might be a nerd.  I’m embracing it.  I even bought a pair of binoculars.  This consisted of an uniformed visit to a local sporting goods store that went like this.  “Um…yeah…everything looks way closer.  I’ll take these.”

            Over the course of five days I watched water go up and water fall down.  The earth steamed, boiled, burbled and crackled.   I climbed mountains, cruised the valley, and chased rainbows.  Yellowstone has it all.  Except oxygen.  Above 8,000 feet, it could really use a reintroduction of oxygen.

             I have always been a fall girl.  Blame it on the name.  I held a strong bias that the parks should be seen between Labor Day and Thanksgiving. Yellowstone showed me that there is really something to love about spring thanks to Doug McLaughlin. By pure chance and curiosity I met this man who generously shared his high power scope with me and took me on an impromptu tour of the Lamar Valley.  I have not endorsed products or accepted sponsorship for this trip on purpose.  I am not out here to sell myself or anything else.  I do recommend good people and Doug McLaughlin is good people.  If you care to really see details of Yellowstone up close, buy or rent one of his scopes (opics.yellowstone@gmail.com).  His generosity with his lens as well as his intimate knowledge of the park literally opened up a whole new world. There were babies everywhere! Baby moose, baby elk, baby bison, baby owls, baby goats, baby geese, baby bears and even baby wolves!  In a moment in my life when there are nothing but earthquakes, it is good to know that life goes on.

Bear hunting

While Yogi Bear and Boo Boo got famous stealing picnic baskets in Yellowstone Park, my knowledge of Yellowstone history would suggest that there was no actual need to steal as food was frequently and freely given. Even my father has fond memories of walking next to a bear and taunting it with a fishing pole back in the good old days. That was when bears were still considered cute and cuddly.

            They have since changed to Floyd Mayweather's PR firm to toughen up their image.  Now bears are vicious and ready to attack you at a moment’s notice.  Signs are posted on how to avoid bear attacks: Go in groups (challenging, as I am traveling alone), make noise (I would sing but at 8,000ft, I feel like I am doing well to breath), don’t run (failed again), and carry bear spray (easier said than done).  You might as well dress me in huckleberry garland and ring the dinner bell.

            My first bear sighting was such a thrill, a brief passing moment of momma and her cub.  I savored it.  You never know how many you will get.  This was where I was terribly wrong.  What unnerved me about this is that I had been running in that very spot only an hour before.  I tried to keep my anxiety in check.  Bear sightings are rare overall.  Many people come to the park and never see one. The second bear sighting was a pleasant one I got to enjoy in the early morning all to myself.  Again, it was in a spot I considered running but promptly altered my plans.  Then for the third day in a row, I had the pleasure of six bear sightings.  These are easy to spot because of the traffic jams and people mobbing the road way.  The bears are harder to find as they prefer the bushes.  Four of these sightings included adorable playful cubs.  This sounds like such a treat but it makes me nervous.  Momma bears are notoriously grumpy and the last animals you want to meet on the trail.  It’s probably all those late night feedings and sore nipples.  Plus, dad is a slacker and contributes nothing.  By the end of the day, my paranoia had officially grown eightfold.  I had originally avoided the trails thinking that I would be more likely to run into a bear in the woods, but all these bears were taking their act on the road.  So while I had child like enthusiasm for my first bear encounter, by the end of the day I was buttoning down the hatches against the invasion crying, the bastards are everywhere!

            There have been many well meaning suggestions of bear spray, as if you just spray some on and poof, bear be gone.  Let’s think about this.  It really means that you have several hundred pounds of teeth and claw coming your direction and she isn’t even going to get a whiff of the stuff until she is within 30 ft and that’s presuming that you have it pointed in the right direction and haven’t just coated yourself instead.  I did look into buying a can but it runs $50 in the park.  It comes with the most stylish of hip holsters to keep it handy, none of which were going to work on a run and I couldn’t figure out where to put it in my pack.  Apparently it takes a canister the size of a fire extinguisher to stop an angry bear.  The park clearly realized that most people were unwilling to buy $50 of insurance considering that visitors are dangling their children in front of the bear to get that classic Christmas card photo op.   Now Yellowstone has bear spray kiosks where you can rent a bottle for the day, but do you really want to put your faith in a used can of bear spray?  Why not just reuse your condoms?

            In an ironic twist, I am now searching out the busiest places to run.  Come out screeching children.  Hurry along in your sandals and heels.  Bring on the slow and plodding.  When Yogi Bear comes calling, I can out run you all!

Wild Life

The Grand Tetons have to be the most stunning backdrop ever to watch wildlife. The prairie dogs have been left behind but replaced with an abundance of elk. Squirrels were exchanged for the adorable marmot. Each of the last few parks has added an interesting new ungulate to the mix.  This time it is the moose, a really hideous looking mammal honestly.  They are all legs and big lips, the animal kingdom’s version of Mick Jagger. The first moose was viewed from a pleasant distance.  The second was a bit more intimate.  She owned the trail and was not going to share.  I could climb up a rock cliff or jump down into the water to avoid her.  So I did what I do best and ran back down the trail.  The problem is that she insisted on following.  Eventually I hid behind a rock and watched her saunter by 15 feet away.  So I should have incredible up close pictures, right?  Nope.  This is what I have to share of the moment.

The two sets of nesting eagles (**cough**) I saw as I floated down the river also came out the same. I was much to excited watching the momma bear with her cub to even think of my camera.  It seems I need some lessons from the Goatographer who seems to have no problem catching me mid flight. Photography is simply not my gift.

            Let’s focus on other people’s flaws, shall we?  The most intriguing species by far is the homo sapien.  It brings a whole new meaning to “wild life.”  The recent buffalo-napping is only the beginning.  This was repeated with a baby pronghorn as well.  It makes me ill to speak of the graffiti decorating Arches National Park.  Or how about the men prancing through the hot springs at Yellowstone?  Such things just seem so obviously wrong, you have to wonder what motivated them.  Perhaps they saw a reward sign for a lost dog and thought, close enough.  Or maybe they thought the graffiti was a new interactive display provided by the park service.  The guys in the hot spring were probably just too cheap to buy a shower.  You wouldn’t think I would have such high expectations when I’m accustomed to people coming to the ER for hangnails.  I keep thinking that perhaps with a good night’s sleep and strong cup of coffee the American IQ will suddenly rise.  I might as well by lottery tickets.

            Even if I have never witnessed outright atrocities myself, the shallow bottom is easy to see. I have come across women carrying giant purses through the Badlands.  They require an assistant on the other side just to balance out the 20 lb bag they are carrying. I realize there are warnings to go to prepared but how much can really happen on a ½ mile trip down the boardwalk.  I doubt that Vera Bradley is full of first aide, splints, and rescue harness in case of emergency. There was the guy wearing flip flops walking up Guadalupe.  I can only imagine the toe jam after that expedition.  His poor pedicurist. On second thought, perhaps I should give him credit.  There is no way I would have made it that far in flip flops.

            Today’s sighting was by far the best.   A young woman showed up to the trailhead doing her best Taylor Swift imitation.  In fact the woman looked like the early version of Taylor with her long blonde hair and long skinny legs.  She was dressed in a thin long sleeve shirt and high waist shorts, the type that the gluteal fold falls out of with the slightest provocation.  To complement this, she had on knee high socks with leather ankle boots that had a 2-inch heel.  It was accessorized with a classy leather satchel hanging low and loose across her shoulders.  I am sure this is the absolute latest high school fashion however those of us in long pants, hiking boots and down jackets to protect us from the freezing temps were openly incredulous.  We might as well have stumbled upon a peacock strutting among the buffalo and elk.  I simply lack the imagination to empathize with what she was thinking when she put it on that morning but I am sure the wildlife were very impressed.

Huckleberry wild

I was raised on the huckleberry.  I had no idea for many years that this was unusual until I discovered that there were people in the world that didn’t even know what a huckleberry was.  Like a blueberry, they would insist after I described the small purplish berry to them.  Nothing like a blueberry, I insist.  It is on a whole other cosmic level.  It has a tart sweetness that I have never had a blueberry come close to.  You are never going to find the huckleberry languishing in a plastic bin in the grocery store like some commoner.  It insists on being elusive. The huckleberry is a wild berry that largely seems to reside in the Northwest, preferably at the end of a bumpy dirt road and several miles of hiking.  Much like myself, it resists domestication.

            As a community we took pride in being friendly and helping one another but all that stopped when it came to huckleberry picking sites and elk hunting grounds.  These were sacred family secrets.  This is because the huckleberry is incredibly tedious to pick, like the worst Easter egg hunt ever. This was learned one summer when my grandfather forbade my grandmother from paying $25 per gallon for the huckleberries dutifully picked by the elderly couple that clearly had a cash crop somewhere. Being a good student of the Depression, he thought this was a ridiculous price for what a little hard work couldn’t produce for free.  So we made the long trek to the woods and spent several hours picking. Although my brother and I in theory provided extra sets of hands, our contribution was small.  Our mouths on the other hand had a distinct purple hue suggesting our productivity was artificially low. By the time we were done we were covered in dirt, sweat and scratches from digging through brush.  We were all exhausted and we had barely scratched together a gallon or so of berries.  From then on my grandmother was given permission to buy as many huckleberries as she desired.

            The other challenge of huckleberry picking is the bears.  They, too, have a fondness for the berries.  They will happily sit in a patch and gorge without any intention of sharing.  It makes the whole berry picking process a little nerve racking when you aren’t sure if it is your brother rustling in the bushes or something a bit fuzzier.  It gives a whole new meaning to organic when you have to pry them from the jaws of a grizzly. 

            For years now I have settled for the blueberry, a second rate substitute for the finer things in life.  As if injected with steroids, they seem to be grown for size over flavor.  They are either mushy or tart.  My taste buds have grown nostalgic.  So when the woman checking me in at the campground encouraged me to try the huckleberry ice cream, there was no question that I would do just that, over and over.  Bear claws not included.

South Dakota

From the beginning, I ruled out seeing national monuments as well as all the national parks because it just became too much.  There are stronger people than I attempting that particular goal. However, I am making a few exceptions to that rule,  one of them being Mount Rushmore.  I don’t think that there is any monument that better represents the quintessential American road trip better than Rushmore.  I mean, honestly, what is more American than driving hundreds of miles to see four white men carved into a slab of rock that belongs to a Native American tribe? Still it is an impressive feat given the era in which it was done and the fact that no one died doing it.  I hope that one day we have the audacity to make the Crazy Horse rock sculpture a national monument as well.

The other national monument I dropped by to see was Devil’s Tower.  This giant monolith is completely unique to everything else around it.  It has long been held sacred by the Native American tribes in the region.  However, being a tall, large, intimidating object, there is an innate desire to conquer it and climbers are drawn to it like ants.  I can understand the desire.  There are many places I wish to run because that is how I can best understand and appreciate my environment.  There is no question that the common theme of my park tour is disputed ownership and priorities among users of the land.  I never imagined my trip would by so morally conflicting.  I mulled the debate over a local hard cider at the Firehouse Brewing Company.

The rock tour continued in the Badlands.  The Badlands are an impressive formation.  They look like blades sharp enough to cut paper rising straight out of the ground.  What I find so fascinating is that they are essentially mud with rock cores and are slowly wearing away.  Some day they won’t even exist.  There are signs of partially decayed formations everywhere.  It reminded me of a giant sand castle that is slowly worn away by the surf.  You can still see that most of it is intact but eventually it will all be washed away.  I can see why some would wonder why we are preserving something that can’t be preserved but these are questions for another time. Underneath it all are the things that used to be.  The Badlands are a major fossil bed and as things erode, new discoveries keep showing up.  Someday it will be my car keys. 

What amused and baffled me were the numerous boardwalks on each trail.  I am accustomed to these when the park is intending to keep people off sensitive areas but this did not seem to be the case at all.  The primary goal was to “improve access”.  To whom, I wondered?  It would be nice to think this was accommodating those with true physical disabilities but mostly it seems to cater to the many flip flop wearing, out of shape tourists.  Tourists that weren’t even willing to leave the paved road, I discovered.  While have the parks has a lovely paved road with many beautiful view points, the other half of the park has a gravel road.  Promptly upon leaving behind the masses, I was rewarded again with animals galore: bison, big horn sheep, coyotes, prairie dogs, turkey vultures and a burrowing owl.  Worth every cent at the car wash. Never hurts to get a little dirty now and then!

Uncle Al

I once shot a man in Longmont.

            This was how my Uncle Al launched into a rather long, complicated story about a transgression that perhaps only another Harley rider would understand.   The shooting was revenge and a police chase ensued straight out of the movies.  The night ended with him escaping to Aspen to watch the forest fires from a boat in the lake.  It’s a wild tale both to be believed and be doubted because it was Uncle Al after all.  When it came to Uncle Al, trouble seemed certain.  A happy ending did not. 

            The mystery and legend of Al started young.  The family moved often as my grandfather was a career military man.  Maybe this allowed him to start over again and again or maybe it just left him isolated, never really setting down roots. When they found themselves in Japan, neither my father nor my uncle fared well.  My father escaped back to the states to finish his high school years.  My uncle was kicked out of the house after a fight with local boys made the paper, embarrassing my grandfather deeply.  It is hard to know what all transpired but I’m sure being homeless in Japan cemented whatever wandering tendencies he had to begin with.

            If Uncle Al did one thing, it was wander.  Al was a long time aficionado of Harley Davidson Motorcycles.  He was never the rich banker type that hauled a Harley around on a trailer to keep it shiny.  He was more the ride until I die type.   He wore his hair in a long braid and always looked like he needed a shave.  It was rare that he wasn’t dressed in his leathers.

            My only real memory of him growing up is of his surprising arrival at our house when I was about 7.  He took my baton and twirled it every which way.  Why does a hippy, Harley rider know how to twirl a girl’s baton remains a mystery but I was dazzled. He made rare appearances in the family life, skipping his own brother’s wedding but showing up out of the blue for my brother’s wedding years later.   There were long abscesses that worried my grandmother to tears.  Whether he was in jail or simply lost on his bike I can only really speculate because I hardly knew the man.

            According to Al and the legend that surrounds him, he was a regular at the Harley rally in Sturgis, SD.  It has been said that he is even in the hall of fame.  So when I found myself driving by that very museum and self proclaimed hall of fame, there was an understandable pull.  I stopped, I turned around but then I kept moving on.  While there was some part of me that wanted to know, I didn’t want one more disappointment, one more time he didn’t show up when he said he would.  I preferred to keep the story untarnished.

            Is it possible to mourn a man dead 6 years that I hardly knew but feel I understand better than ever? I think he would understand this trip better than anyone.  He would get it when I say that I don’t know why I have to make this trip but I have to do the trip to understand why. The need to be lost to find out what is worth living for. He is in heaven making hell for the angels but sometimes I imagine him playing hooky, riding shotgun in my car, making sure the next family gypsy doesn't lose her way.

RIP Uncle Al