yellowstone park...Part 2

We awoke to the roaring V-8 Dodge Ram, must be going to work. Emily rose and got the coffee on. On opening the door, it was a perfect blue-sky day and it didn’t take long for us to get suited up in ski clothes and get out the door. We were coming back for another night at the yellow cabins, so we didn’t need to move out. Heading into the park we arrived at the gate, purchased our year pass for all national parks- a deal at $80; one day through Yellowstone alone will cost you $25. The sun was bright and the snow sparkled. We drove through the military-like Mammoth encampment. We parked above the Mammoth terraces where the road ends in the winter and turns to snowmobile or snow shuttle service only road. The morning temperature had a bite in it, but it was easy to see that it would soon heat up with the bright western sun. We chose skate skis as the transportation device de jour and skated off- up and up the crystalline snow-covered road. We were not long on our journey before we were passed by one of the old snow bombardiers- a cross between a VW beetle on steroids and a snow mobile. These vehicles are old and one has to wonder how they are allowed in the park anymore. They are noisy and smell like an old truck with a bad exhaust/carburetor problem. Americans love an old vehicle, even if it is bad for the environment. It’s this nostalgia-based thing that makes no sense to me. Its represents the ‘good ole glory days’ to some, but to me it’s where we went astray- relying on petroleum and mechanization, giving up faith in our own physical means of transporting ourselves. Yellowstone Park grew from this time period when the populace would no longer walk, hike, or ski to destinations, but would motor… and damn it if they had to walk. The Park is set up for the motorist and downplays the human’s ability to move about the Park by his or her own means. Most of the hikes are not longer than 10 miles and the vast majority are as short as possible with multiple trailheads within easy walking distance of each other. There are expensive and exhaustive efforts (ramps, stairs, boardwalks paved footpaths, etc, etc) put into making hiking as easy as possible. Some of this is necessary because humans have proven to be pretty stupid while in the park. They have walked off cliffs, fallen into the waterfalls, been swept down the icy rivers, and stepped onto thin crusts around the hot geysers then fallen through to be boiled alive. They have had little respect for the place that they visit. I think it’s the auto and the snowmobile that contribute to this lack of respect because it isolates the human from the environment. The auto makes them comfy and cozy in their climate controlled SUV while it speeds through these environments making a joke of the distances, the weather, the temperature extremes, and the topography. Once they arrive, they clumsily pour themselves out of whatever vehicle on the brink of some massive drop or boiling geyser. There is no prelude activity, like say walking, and yes, a lot of them are in poor health because of this lack of exercise and because of this easy transportation.

Easy transportation leads to a lack of respect, not only for the lazy visitors, but also for the environment that they motor through. The animals are turned into an amusement park-like phenomenon and are not appreciated for their many difficulties including their overall strength to remain alive. Instead, Carl and Sarah and their little Jonny and Suzie arrive from a long motoring day of sitting and watching a DVD inside the new Suburban as they tear across Montana…slurping on yogurt in a straw, munching on chunks of hardened hydrolyzed grease, and then finally, they poor themselves out at the first bison they see next to the road. No matter how much warning you present to these people, they are still going to try to put Jonny and Sarah up on that bison and get a digital photo to send to their work mates back in Chicago… to prove that they, too, had conquered the Wild West. Why are we still trying to conquer the West? Aren’t we getting a bit old for that? The vehicle is the direct connection to the lack of respect. I say, make these people earn it. At least make them realize how far they are from Chicago- and not in numbers of MacDonald’s that they ate at from home.

So, Emily and I skied off and up. It was beautiful. You see things clearly for what they are and you realize after skiing for a half of a day how big this park is. You see and feel for the animals how tough it must be to survive the cold here all winter long, while we go into a warming hut to dry off. You can hear the fierceness in the howl of the wolves calling to each other as they set up a flanking ambush on the elk. You can better understand the idea of strength in numbers and how each animal’s natural survival instincts and physicality attributes to survival. You can smell the smells of Yellowstone- the sage, the conifers, the rotten eggs of the geothermal waters, and the awful smell of bison farts. It takes a lot of grass to feed a 1000-2000 lb. bison in zero degree temps. How do the animals do it? They make our human American culture look so inefficient…. Yet we bathe in the glory of inefficiency; we pride ourselves on our consumption.

We meet a couple along the ski trail by Sheepeater Cliff. As I skied by them on the trail, they had that ‘alive look’ and they stopped me with words. First the lady, with white sunscreen smeared over here face said, “Wow, you really ski nicely. You’re so smooth.” The guy nodded in agreement. I thought to myself, ‘This is what I am talking about: a respect that people gain from where they are and how hard it is to get there.’ They become filled with endorphins and are happy; happy to have camaraderie. Compliments flow and it feels… humane… a far cry from how I feel when I am passed by the snowmobiling herds that zoom by. They, on the other hand, look bored, tired, and annoyed; annoyed because they are lazy and that I am in their way, enjoying my health, without a motor. It’s a competitive feeling and I get this feeling that they see me as either a poor, unlucky person because I have to actually hold my own weight up on these skis or that I am an ‘Elitist.’ I am so tired of this dumbing-down ‘Elitist’ thing. I am an elitist because I don’t spent all my money (all of it) on a $10,000 snowmobile, trailer, SUV to pull it, associated gear and garb, suitcases of cheap beer, lodging expenses, etc? Not only am I an elitist, but I am also a dreaded naturalist, liberal, commie pinko, un-American, non-consumer…. that Nordic skis…. and my skis are not wide enough!

‘Emily really has learned how to ski in just 3 years,’ I think to myself as we skied 20 miles over hill and dale that day. It was perfect; I didn’t have to wait for her. She’s quick as a matter of fact. When I do have to wait, its good for me to get the heart rate down. At noon, we fired up a wood stove in a warming cabin and ate some sandwiches that Emily had toted around in her backpack. We then skied toward a different trail back to the trailhead- over Bunsen Pass. It was great to get away from the snowmobile road. The snow had warmed up (just right… fast!) and I didn’t even have a hat on now. When we caught up with an older, lean man making his way on skis, I skied by and he started talking excitedly. Emily pulled up and we talked to this guy. He seemed to be a guy in his mid-fifties that pulled the ripcord on the Eastern U.S. and all of its phony material ways. He culled security in exchange for happiness. He was just bubbling and so happy, evident in the big smile. Between breaths, he told us how fun it will be to go down this trail and that it was good to get off the road. We could tell this guy was cool; that he found happiness like we did in simple, but extremely rewarding outdoor activities. We smiled at each other and wished each other happy trails.

This Bunsen Trail was fun. There were wolf tracks and obstacles to avoid, like hardened bison flops. Hit one of those and you’re going to go down and/or scratch a ski. The trail took us along Burnt Mt, aptly named because it was barren with burnt lodgepole trees sprouting up. The view was so clear and we could see for miles out to the north over what seemed to be unending wilderness. We skied down, down many tricky switchbacks. I had to snow plow; a rare occurrence for me. We stopped and looked down into a huge canyon that had frozen waterfalls and a basalt rim. We skied on…down, down. At times I could ride my skis up the drifted, hardened snow banks and tele-turn. At one point, a bison was 50 feet away from the trail. I let him know that I wanted to come through; they can run 30 mph, but I doubt they feel the need to- its winter and running just exhausts more energy for them. Once clear of him, I watch Emily, courageously, determinedly with head down, ski quick as possible by the bison that looked on casually. What would I do if he charged her? Attack it with carbide pole tip? Finally, we finished and at the trailhead we realized that we had to walk up hill for 1.5 miles to where our car was parked, but guess what? A park ranger picked us up and gave us a ride up the hill. He was familiar with the danger of skiers walking that road- it’s icy and people drive tooo fast. Sure enough, on our way up a SUV came careening down. Why would they go so fast and where would they need to go so quickly on this beautiful day? I don’t think they would have the answers if you asked them.

Next, we walked the Mammoth Terraces. After the great day we had, it was kind of lackluster, like a prefabricated event- very canned, planned, and boring. But we were in anticipation for soaking in the Boiling River. We arrived to it’s trailhad with just a few hours left of soaking time. Evidently there has been times in the middle of the night when drunken bathers have died here, so the park sets more rules because, again, of the few, the bad, and the ugly. We carried our packs, containing a change of clothes, sandals, and towel, along the river. A very beautiful spot- arid landscape, junipers, welded tuff hills on the other side of the river with draws and rivulets coming down. It’s a half-mile to where the Boiling River wells up from beneath limestone slabs and runs into the cold Gardner River. Along the river junction, stones have been piled up to create a dike, which helps meld the cold and hot water. The Park Service has had to intervene with this area because once, again, people have no respect. People don’t think, even the type that would climb into a hot spring. You would figure that these visitors would be alternative, environmentally speaking….Wrong. In this day and age, the Boiling River visitors are most likely young Spring Breakers looking to kill a few six packs; their cans floating about them. Sure enough, when we arrived there was a group like this. They guzzled beer while taking photos of each other with a digital camera (how this thing didn’t just fry from the steam?), but they were at least reasonably quiet. So, Emily and I took off our ski clothes, dawned our swim suits, and stumbled our way down river with feet in the cold and hot water until we found our own spot with hot water gushing over falls into a pool. Emily loved it…much better than Chico. As the sun set on the hills beyond, we moved about from spot to spot. Emily found a cave with falls over it (grotto). After an hour and a half, we quickly dried off and walked toward the car. Time to get back to the yellow cabin.

The drive from the Boiling River to Gardiner is a short one, but quite beautiful. We saw some pronghorn antelope on the darkening hills. Back at the cabin, the satellite TV and a million channels waited. Emily and I were starving. We lay on the bed, ate a whole loaf of bread, and drank a bottle of wine. First, we settled on what they call ‘cage fighting’-weakest sport I have ever witnessed. It is supposed to be rad, but instead it’s like federation wrestling and seemed really fake. A guy with tattoos who was supposedly the kick boxer/punch 'em up just laid on the mat waiting for the other wrestler to …no, not wrestle, but punch. Boring. The next channel was a soccer game between Ecuador and Venezuela. We watched this until Ecuador scored its second goal and well, it seemed Venezuela had no chance. These players were such good actors- always crying, falling down, and raising a stink. Finally, we both fell asleep.

Well, morning TV (remember we don’t have a TV, its mysterious to us) has a million religious channels and a million channels trying to sell some sort of device that some buff, steroidal actor claims will make you lose 30 pounds in 30 days or some ridiculous claim. At this point, Emily and I are done with our coffee and we are ready for some real weight loss…not that we need to. Off to the Park for another round of skiing. We drove to Mammoth then hung a left towards Cooke City. We were told that a 20-mile drive takes you to a turn-off where there is good snow that is groomed for x-c skiing only. It is a sparkling morning once again, the night frost coats the tall grasses and makes everything bright and surreal. We pass elk and bison and we see eagles. The trees along this east/west passage are large white bark pine, aspen, Douglas fir, and many lodge pole pines. The views are airy and the valley massive. The bison look like the dark rocks of the area. A stellar morning.

After many twists and turns on the glazed road, we arrive at the trailhead. There is a tour group in a bus at the rest room and we wait for them to finish. It takes a long time for 20 or so people to empty their bladders. Emily comments that she is glad that it is just a tour of the two of us. I agree. I do not care much for group activities and I’ve never understood why one would want to take the fun out of finding places and things. The experience of finding is so rewarding, especially when you have not been there before. It’s a process: doing the initial research, the maps, the questioning of local folks, and the searching (sometimes in vain) that makes the finding an adventure. It is this adventure, which is not spoon-fed to me, but self-created by companions and I, that makes memories. We are in a time period now where most people want the instant gratification of seeing without the adventure of the finding. For these people, adventure is associated with danger. Adventure is when you might get lost, hurt, frustrated, or, heaven forbid, when you may learn some things about yourself. These canned tours exemplify our modern, lazy time period. It scares me that people are giving up on their ability to create their own adventures and these people often do not realize their sacrifice. They rob themselves of a connected experience with the trials and errors of a true adventure. I also feel sorry for the ‘adventure tour guide’ who has fallen for the old, “If I could just do this for a job.” Guides are almost always disillusioned this way. If you could just do this (adventure touring) for a job, it would become a job. Then catering to the lazy and guiding the same old beat would get boring. The guide has to dress them, tell them to eat and drink fluids, tell them speed up (or they won’t make it there and back before the wolves come out) or slow down (they are over-heating and sweating too much and will freeze later), and tell them to come over here look at this (because they are too busy playing with their cameras). What a pain in the ass for the guide. Have you ever been out and observed a guided trip run by a bored guide? Yikes! It looks like no fun. But lets face it; this is what happens unless the guide is challenged.

We got our ski clothes on- layers today. It’s cold; in the low teens now but, with this sun it will get warmer. I take a look up the trail, puurrrfect tracks, So, I say to Emily, “A classic day,” meaning get out the kick wax. We’ll start blue/green and if we ski with speed, we will beat the rising temperatures to the top and have kick the whole way. The descent will be fast with the warming snow- slick and slippery. We waxed, clicked into our skis, and off we go, starting in a meadow that approaches the forest then an obvious climb ahead. We moved around the tour group that was still standing on their skis, ready to go, but their guide was giving them final instructions. If I were in this group, I would have already skied off… probably to be reprimanded later on. I notice that they all had heavy skis, telemark boots, or egads…dreaded fish scales. Emily and I are excited to get the blood flowing because it makes the cold go away. Knowing that this ski is 5 miles up hill for 1000ft, I started the day with my heavier gloves, then, once my hands warmed, I transitioned to thinner gloves. I don’t want to sweat-out my heavier gloves because I will need them on the descent. It is this sort of thinking ahead that many people are not used to during winter outdoors activity. Most of the touring people were overdressed to the point where in 1 km they would need to completely stop and undress. The guide, I am sure, warned them all about this, but obviously to no avail.

Our kick is good, maybe too good, but it will get better with the warming day. Same with the glide wax- a bit too warm of a wax, but as soon as the western sun hits the tracks, snow crystals start to melt, which rounds the spurs on each flake. The melted snow lubricates the surface of the waxed ski. It is tough waxing in an environment that is constantly changing and often there are compromises that one has to make. ‘Good now, crappy later on’ is not the way to go because you become tired later on. Later is when you want your wax to be approaching best.

Climbing the trail, we pass a Rainy Lake. I wonder why it is considered a lake. I could throw a rock across this frozen puddle. My mind imagines a cloudy spring day with a light rain coming down- the kind of day you really wish you were not looking at Rainy Lake. I imagine standing around a smoldering rain-drenched fire, clothes smelling like smoke… Then I snap out of it and notice a bend ahead. We ski around the bend then come upon a vista of a canyon and a steep drop in front of us. There are basalt cliffs in the sun on the other side of the canyon and junipers sprouting up from unlikely benches. The ski trail goes down hill for a bit, to the left of an immense basalt cliff that towered over us. There is evidence of decay, as chunks of columnar basalt lay next to the trail. I look up and find myself dizzy and I start poling quicker to get clear of this cliff. Not far after this spot is one of the tourist trap areas known as Tower Falls. It is named after the many pointed, witch-hat-like rock formations that the waterfalls flow through. In the summer, this junction is like an ice-cream stand on a hot day. It actually resembles one, too- there is a building on the side of the road that looks like a lakeside knick-knack and ice cream selling concession. The architect hit the nail on the head. On this crisp, winter day, the spot looks quiet. It will for a few months until its alive once again. We glide by.

The trail starts to steepen, but the tracks remain solid with better glide now. We see a herd of elk moving parallel to us on the opposite hillside. They are looking a bit spooked. I turn and Emily skis up. “Do you hear them?” she asks. My hearing sucks, so, no. “The wolves are howling in the woods to our left and right.” I look around and see that the wolves have been using this track as a highway to avoid the deep snows. Their tactics must be to quickly cover distance on this trail, then to spread out and signal where one another is. This must get the elk to panic and get confused, which spreads out the herd. I am sure that it is very difficult snagging an Elk in deep snow. We notice that the elk stay in deep snow a lot and maybe this is their tactic… longer legs. [Emily: I am editing this story for Mark. His hearing does suck (as does his grammar). The wolves were not howling to our left and right. They were howling to the left and right of the hill that the elk were on (apparently surrounding the elk).]

Whatever Emily!

As I ski along, I think about these wolves. They have obviously grown in numbers since reintroduction in the ‘90s. The U.S. department of wildlife has recently taken the wolves off the endangered species list- one of Bush’s 11^th hour last stabs to naturalists. The cattle industry wins once again. It is always the cattle industry that wins. They win against the Bison, too, because of a disease called Brucellosis, which has spread from elk to bison to cattle. This disease causes the first newborn calves to be aborted. So, of course the native animals get the shaft and the domestic ones get the rules to protect them. With all of the land in Montana and Wyoming for cattle, the Cattle Industry needs even more. They want the land on the outskirts of the Park to be free of bison. I ask myself, ‘if it comes from elk, why not go after them, too?’ Well, the cattle guys would be killing elk, but elk hunting is an industry in itself. It brings huge revenue to the states that have an Elk Hunt. The bison on the other hand barely have the numbers to sustain themselves. Imagine… there used to be 60 million bison in the West. Now the largest numbers in the wild remain in the park- no more than 3 to 4 thousand of them and on occasion they need to move outside of the Park to get additional nourishment. Have you ever eaten bison? It’s actually pretty good and has far better nutrition than beef and less fat. Bison are natural grazers that need less pampering. They have instincts in bad winter weather that allows them to stay alive. For example, the bison move into the wind head first during snowy, wintry days. This means that they move through the weather system quickly. The cow does the opposite- it keeps its butt to the wind and gets blown along like tumbleweed, ending up in bad weather longer…dah!

Finally, we are high up and we can see over the landscape. We can see Mt Washburn to the south and many other nameless peaks to the north. No manmade things as far as we can see. We stop and have our lunch in the sun under some lodgepole pines. The fields in front of us flow out until interrupted by more lodgepole stands. The grasses and tall plants now drop the whore frost crystals that had grown on them over night, which makes a dreamy sparkle to the snowscape. Food tastes really good when you have a vista like this. Time to head down; don’t want to get a chill. It looks like our direction of travel was well chosen because the tracks end and the groomer has dropped the flattening blade- meaning downhill. It is odd because the ski guide recommended that novices go up this steep, winding trail, which is obviously better to descend. I can just imagine running into one of these herring boners as I come whipping around one of the many corners. Never trust guidebooks; use your own instincts. Guidebooks instill a sense of confidence that lacks reality. What happens if the guidebook is lost? Do you really know where you are? Once instinct has been left behind, it is hard to get your bearings. So, down, down we go and low and behold, we meet some skiers that are coming up the descent. They look discouraged; they could have had the sweet tracks up like we had.

We pop out at the Tower Junction (ice-cream joint) and we see the guide and his clients. The guide sees us and knows that we have gone twice as fast as his group. He looks like he wants to abandon ship and ski with us. We smile as we fly by. On the remaining 2.5 miles down, we run into all kinds of stragglers in different states of overheating and exhaustion. Emily and I comment on how our conditioning has paid off. We started our ski season on snow back in November; we have been skiing at an elevation of 7000-8500 ft. most of the season. Its really fun this time of the year to get off the same old tracks and be able to tour, but in a quick and efficient manner covering some distance.

My dream of Yellowstone Park in the winter… If I had my way, I would scrap this whole snowmobile thing and turn the park into a winter refuge with little motor intervention. The Park could be a series of huts, yurts, and cabins that are spread out along the roads that the snowmobiles now ride. The skier can tour from cabin to cabin in a ski-able day’s distance. Not only is this type of experience so rewarding, to attain warmth and a place to sleep after a day of skiing, but also it is easier on the already taxed wildlife. Winter is hard on them. Should they have to be fighting whirring snowmobiles all winter? As it is now, the Park is mostly meant for snowmobiles and x-country skiers are the minority taken into account by the Park with few ski-only trails. America loves to dumb down experience. There are arguments like, ‘what about people in wheelchairs or blind people?’ This has extended to fat people who can’t get out of their SUVs. I think exceptions should be made for the disabled folks, but let’s be real, all summer long anyone can drive into the park and see by wheel chair accessible ramps almost every geyser and mud pot. Should the winter be dumbed down in the same manner? Why not make one of the greatest outdoor experiences about a challenge and an adventure, minus the motor. How can we call this place ‘Americas Foremost Wilderness Park’ if it’s nothing but parking lots, ice cream stands? Is any of this really ‘happy’? Motoring year round? It is demeaning to the word ‘Wilderness’ to turn it into a year-round amusement park. Yep, I am going to be labeled ‘Elitist’ again. Y’ know what? Fine, call me elitist! I will call most Americans lazy, slothish, spoiled fatsos. I am not going to sugarcoat the picture. The obesity rate is out off control and most Americans are like flies, slurping up sugar drinks by the gallon threatening to get diabetes before they have their first kiss. Most can’t do a simple sit-up; you can’t bend a bowling ball made of lard. This park should not be dumbed down to comply with the standards of a degenerating culture of motorists. Join me in the experience of earning the experience.

We arrive back at the car…I know, what a hypocrite. There are differences, though, between those who try to be efficient, less impactive to the environment, or strive to live in a more sustainable way, and those who simply don’t even try. We can’t dumb down all arguments in such a way. Yes it is a car, but it is four cylinders, aerodynamic, and has emissions that are far less than the average behemoth 8 and even 10 cylinders SUV on the road now. The SUV culture, yes a culture, is a belief system that you need to bring everything with you (the kitchen sink, too) when traveling. We Americans have a lot of baggage aside from massive bodies; we are consumer-oriented gear heads. Everyone needs every piece of gear/gadget to prove that they have had an outdoor experience. Most can’t go on a simple hike without a battery of REI-certified hiker paraphernalia kits. So, the SUV acts as a freight car. It also acts as a safer vehicle. The auto industry has figured out that most people can’t drive on snow, so it supplements the ability to drive safely with all wheel drive, ABS, satellite navigation, and hoists to load the driver and occupants. I know its Elitist to try to be sensible.

In the end, Emily and I really had a great time. Our journey into the park was so rewarding because we powered ourselves into, what felt, very remote parts of the Park. We were part of the place for a few days. As we reverse our trip, back through Paradise Valley, to Livingston, and over the pass to Bozeman (the next Salt Lake city of strip malls and 7-elevens). We try to keep calm and stay in the zone that the time in Yellowstone helped us to find. This is hard, though, when every Dodge Ram super truck is breathing down your back, on your bumper….racing, racing …. unhappy, disgruntled, pissed…. “And damn!” they think ….a Maine license plate…. “Liberal Elitist! Run ‘em off the road!”.

I pull over and let them by.

Part 1 of Yellowstone Park trip

February in Montana. We have had some really incredible weather- warm, sunny days, cold nights; the snow is fast and its time to get out and see some different places other than our old beat. So, Emily and I packed up and headed to the North entrance of Yellowstone Park. To get there, if one could fly, it would only be about 40 miles at best, but over some giant mountains. By car, we had to drive 120 miles, first north to Bozeman, than east to Livingston, than south down Paradise Valley to Gardiner Montana, the Northern gateway to the Park. The drive was dark and gloomy this day, much like weather that is reminiscent of New England. It was warm and balmy, mild with big snowflakes falling on occasion. As we entered the Livingston area, the wind was blowing hard as usual. Livingston is at the junction of the mountains and the plains, so there are is a pressure difference that causes high winds. Tractor-trailers sometimes are blown over and off the I-90. We turned onto route 89 towards Paradise Valley and the snow fell harder as we approached the narrowing that the Yellowstone River has cut through limestone walls. The drive was beautiful in a non-scenic way. We could not see the mountains to the left nor right; the snow hid all except the field of winter crops. Everything was monochromatic and blurry.

Paradise Valley is a strange valley. It is developed in a scattered way; houses and farms are plopped down wherever the acreage was parceled with no rhyme nor reason. There are few trees, mostly fields, and what trees there are most likely are cottonwoods or junipers along the river. This makes the housing seem so obvious, obtuse, and unplanned. It is like a junkyard of human habitation. We wondered how these people live… then we noticed the satellite antennas abounding. The river the whole time winds through in a serpentine way with massive blocks of ice jammed against the banks. I commented to Emily that there will be a surprise on the way back through this valley if the weather clears, for once it does, the majesty of the Absoroka Mountains is stunning. They are jagged peaks covered with tall conifer trees, high meadows, and plenty of angular talus rocks.

We decided early on in the day to break down the drive and stop at a hot spring resort called Chico so we could soak our skied-out legs before heading on. In the back of my mind I had a hike planned, but would wait before suggesting it to Emily. We turned off and head over the Yellowstone towards Chico, past a settlement of strewn-about trailer homes, barbwire fences demarking boundaries, plastic bags stretched out in the wind clinging to the barbs. One area was quadranted off with a perimeter of old trailers lined up end to end. Where there were gaps, someone chinked them with whatever junk they could find: old refrigerators, sheet metal roofing, even an old plow blade. Whoever owned this property made it known you were not welcome. We drove down the long access road towards the mountains where Chico lies beneath. I informed Emily as to what to expect at Chico. It has a place in history for sure. Once it was a saloon, where a cowboy could soak his tired saddle-sore ass, drink from the saloon, and get a whore. Today it is a therapeutic resort with a day spa and masseuses. I warned Emily that that doesn’t mean that this place is hygienic or sterile…but nonetheless the water is true geothermal mineral ‘hot Wada’ as they say at Chico. On arriving, the new buildings that have been installed to add to Chico’s ‘grandeur’ are formula lodgey things, but cheaply constructed. Out here in Montana there is truly the modern formula for lodges: use a bunch of whole trees, saw them up into lengths and plaster them up to what is cheap stick framed, lackluster modern, ill thought-out ranch-like dark, viewless, boxes. The actual old saloon and Chico Hotel are more honest; they too are cheaply constructed of old hewn planks and timbers, but without the airs of being high end and ‘simulacratic’ bullshitting undertones.

We entered the main lobby of Chico. The lady behind the desk, a narrow lady, wrinkled, with spectacles fitting for her personality, you know the rectangular ones that the wearer looks over the top of in a bitchy kind of a way. Well, she didn’t look at us once. She had her phone headset on and glared at the computer and lodging book She didn’t say a word even on the phone, wouldn’t look up at us… so I sat down on a plush couch as if I had lived there forever. Emily wandered around the main desk looking for information and trying to put out the vibe of a customer needing help. In the back room, another chunky woman worked the phone and didn’t glance up. After about 10 minutes, a cook came out of the dinning area, he looked at me slouched on the sofa, looked at Emily looking through brochures at the check-in desk, saw the old, wrinkled bitch staring at her computer, looked into the back room behind the check in desk and could see chubby working the phone. It was clear that he had seen this before: people waiting, waiting, and no help. He asked me if we were staying the night, no we are not, so he walked off. We got the point; those that come to use the hot spring pool are not worth waiting on. We finally had the chance to pay our $6.50 apiece and were pointed towards to door out of the Inn to a covered walkway to the Saloon entrance where we were told to show the barman our pass. He pushed a buzzer that let us through a door to the pools. I figured that they must have had problems with drunken cowboys letting themselves into the pool without paying.

The pool area itself is a very odd construct. It is open to the outside (above), but closed in by buildings made of cheap texture 1-11 paneling. The whole thing brought together by a dark green trim and green metal roofing that had a barbed wire look- sharp, jagged edged (I wouldn’t climb over it). The men’s and women’s rooms are at the other end of the two pools. Signs around the pools remind the bather of Montana state rules about bathing in public pools: that you shouldn’t drink alcohol nor have heart problems, and if you do, 15 minutes max in the hot water. Also if you have open sores, you shouldn’t use the pool. Another sign read, “Welcome to our ool. Notice that there is no P in it …we would like to keep it that way.”

Emily and I made our way to the changing rooms at the end of the pools, on the way stepping over bathers’ fruity alcoholic drinks in plastic cups. Several couples were embracing and floating drunkenly, lethargically in the mist of steaming waters. On entering the changing area, I remembered on a past visit that it had been remodeled and that I thought at the time it looked like a cheap job and wondered what kind of glue they use to paste up the plastic paneling. The rooms themselves were made mostly of mold, mildew, and grime at that time. Well, it smelled in there like old times; one big changing room, floor of a dirty concrete, walls, yes, plastic sloughing off, benches made of some material I recognize from I think dock and ramp prefab outfits. I didn’t sit to change, but stood, removing each article of clothing and neatly rolling them up and stowing in my bag, which you are reminded by a sign that the Chico management posted, “We are not responsible for stolen items. Please use 50 cent lockers around pool.” I also remembered the Montana rules and regulations about public pools and entered the shower, to clean off my filthy body before entering the pool. The shower seemed like the kind of place that you might contract legionnaires disease, or at least a bad case of athlete’s foot or planter warts…. I was glad I brought my sandals.

I entered the pool before Emily. She was still in the changing room enjoying her shower. Once you enter the pool of unchlorinated hot mineral water, your body just instantly relaxes no matter how nervous or spooked you may be. Emily came out of the women’s room with an expression of fright that I knew would disappear once she entered the pool. She had on her black bikini bathing suit and looked out of place in an athletic way amongst the beached walruses sipping drinks and floating wrapped in those colored float tubes. We relaxed and swam to the saloon end where the ‘hotter’ pool and the buzzer for a take out window for alcoholic drinks are located. We drank water from our bottle that we brought; Chico was not going to make a killing on us- we are ‘cheap athletes.’ We soaked for about an hour and a half and in that time our fellow bathers drank what we figured was enough to stop the heart. It was time to go. On leaving through the dark dank saloon, I could still smell tobacco smoke of the yesteryears before the new age liberals had it all shut down. I glanced at the patrons slumped over what I imagined were shots of whiskey and draft beers…only imagined…more likely bud light in a can.

We both breathed a sigh of relief as we walked back out into the Montana open air. Chico had a closed, claustrophobic kind of uncanny, perverted feel to it and it felt liberating to leave. I suggested a hike up a canyon nearby to shake off the musty feel and Emily agreed. We drove out of Chico the back way. The dirt road, the cattle fencing, and the rustic nature of the place really make you feel like you are in Montana. The turn we are to take is marked by a friendly brown forest service sign, so we took a left and drove up a narrow dirt road, covered with a hardened ice, in between small cabins and humble homes, then along a small river flowing over jumbled river rocks. The canyon is steep on both sides with scree slopes and juniper trees flowing up and up. Along the narrow road are gnarled aspen trees and piles of stones left behind by barge dredge machines. These machines were used in this river drainage long ago. They dig a hole, which fills with the river flow then they float and dig ahead sifting the material for ore. On and on they go making a huge mess of piled river rock…. A wasteland for years after…snakes love these places in the summer.

We made some sandwiches and ate them sitting in the car while looking way up the canyon. The snow is falling on the steep craggy mountainside above, but a light rain where we are parked. We are ready to hike and I don’t feel a need to wear winter boots for there is just a small amount of snow on the ground, a change from the Big sky area where you have no business hiking without ski, snow shoe, or at least winter boots. We start walking up the road, someone had driven a truck, someone had driven a snowmobile up the center, and we walked the ruts. We notice an aspen tree scarred by a bear that had clawed its soft bark away. It is quiet, there is little wind, the sky is gray, and snowflakes fall as we go higher. Along the road, rock sloughs down off the slopes into the road. We see small snow avalanches of what I call cinnamon swirls: snowballs that roll down the hill and roll into our feet. We look up- not a friendly place to hike up, so we stick to the road. The trees are lodge pole, Douglas fir, hemlock, and the mountain behind is crazy-looking steep jagged rocks coated with a sticky snow. The river gurgles along. We wonder why the forest service has needed to pound metal stakes with signs denoting that forest service land is beyond them. Who would care? No one could hike these slopes nor are there resources there that anyone would want. We didn’t even see an animal other than a few lonely birds and one tree squirrel that angrily scolded us. As we walk higher, the snow gets a little deeper, but the road is well packed by the snowmobile track. We cross the river over a culvert that is 6 ft in diameter and made of ½” steel riveted tube that was roughly cut off at one end by a torch. Emily wondered why anyone would go through the effort to place this here and as we climb this road, which is cleaved into the scree slopes, I wonder too. Some desperate skiers had traveled the climbing pass road. I couldn’t imagine their descent- lots of rock debris had fallen onto the snow on the road and the road itself allowed no room for error. To one side, a steep drop down into the river far down below. We hiked up and up until we were in a cresting notch between the ramparts of the crazy, craggy mountains. We paused and Emily ate some snow, not much though. Then we headed down, down, back through the canyon.

Back at the car we headed on our way. Back by Chico, there where more cars and mostly trucks now, working day was over I guess. We drove back out onto the highway, hardly any traffic, snow now lifting. I told Emily about the CUT or Church of the Universal Triumphant. It has its compound in the area and I guess after the new millennium when the apocalypse never happened, membership died off. They had built, from what I have heard, underground bunker houses filled with supplies and such, in case the world went crazy. Now they are selling off pieces of property to whoever will buy some. The Park actually is lined up to buy a piece from CUT to allow the bison a corridor out of the park and onto grazing land. I hear it’s a bum deal and that the bison wont use it anyway- ‘prolly’ freaked out by the CUT, too. We passed a bunch of elk and then on to Yankee Jim Canyon where they do some white water rafting in summer. The Yellowstone River is the longest undamed river left in the USA. I hear 500 miles long before a dam.

We finally get to Gardiner and are welcomed by White-tailed deer on the road, beside the road, and in folks’ yards, even on their doorsteps getting a little supper. We pull into the local grocery store and I get a much needed six pack. Beer prices were a bit high, but the locals were nice and everyone that I saw in the store looked me directly in the eye and nodded; a change from Big Sky where the Elite Wealthy don’t see well. We drove a block to our destination lodging that Emily had set up by phone that day. Cabins on the River they were advertised. We spied the sign and low in behold there they were right on the main drag. Emily told me to pull down in behind. On driving in, there were two bucks snoring in the driveway. No one was here yet even though the sun had gone down. There was a pen next to the cabins where a goose and some deer were hanging out. The cabins were in a row, more like an extruded cabin, each with one window on a small porch. They were the color yellow, kind of giving it a feminine touch on the outside.

Emily went to find the proprietor. I cracked open a beer in the car and looked out towards the park and the dusk sky glowing a bit, mountains far off, and the river way down below. It looked hard to get down there. I noticed that Emily had found a lady, the owner I assumed, and first she showed Emily, their pride and joy: the deer, the goose, and the hot tub platform that over looks them. She opened the tub up, steam rose, and I saw her fiddling with the knobs. Emily was looking at the deer. She loves animals. So, I took this meant that our accommodations were marginal since viewing them came last. Emily was shown in. The manager with her frosted blonde hair left us to sort things out. On entering the cabin, it was small, and not feminine, a brownish shag rug, not a window to see this river, but instead, a nice TV and with a satellite system too! There were also amenities like a microwave, a coffee maker, and a refrigerator… I stowed my beer away. What do you expect for 50 bucks a night? I wasn’t complaining. Emily was paying. We were going to the park first thing in the morning and sleeping and some satellite TV were in between that. So, we settled in. Emily heated up some left over spaghetti in the microwave while I tried to figure out the dish thing. There we laid ….I clicked through infinite stations, mostly buying channels or sports networks that were payperview. Oh, and soft porn channels that were payperview at $11.56 a channel…Debby does Dallas and such…. You would have to be pretty desperate. At this time laying back I noticed the manly fishing paraphernalia on the walls. They seemed to be made by some guy that was a store clerk that had always wanted to be a wood worker. Plywood stencil cutouts of a ‘German brown’ trout. Even in the bathroom, a toilet paper dispenser that was modeled after a fishing reel. I noticed the joinery was lacking and that a hot glue gun was the attachment system. Well, it wasn’t but about 8 pm when the neighbor, the guy that I guess rents the cabin right next door, roared in with his must have been Dodge Ram truck, dual exhaust. We kind of had an idea that the room next to us was rented ‘by the week’ because there was a propane barbeque grill on the deck. Cigarette smoke started to fill our room as soon as he slammed his door and then we noticed our room had a door to his and the seal was not very good. I kind of have allergies to cigarette smoke and Emily detected that the night might turn sour after my first sneeze. She quickly got up and turned on the air conditioner. The smoke blew about so she opened the door and checked on the deer. All in all I slept ok, the baseboard electric heat is kind of hard on the nostrils, though.