Yellowstone

At the ranger station, we arranged for one backcountry camp and three nights in village campgrounds. We pieced together a route that connected trails and roads south to the great lake, then to Grants Village, just seven miles from the official CDT which we hadn't seen in weeks. Another night in the backcountry, then we'd leave the park to the south.

The ranger was really nice and helpful, though much like on entry into Glacier National Park, we had to watch a video on bear and bison safety. No problem... It was nice to sit, knowing we had twenty miles to do before we could sleep.

It felt great to head south on the road out of Mammoth. We'd been traveling east for hard days, but Mexico isn't that way! However, it's not so easy to walk the road on Yellowstone. The shoulder is narrow, so oncoming cars need to move a little. They need to see you, but that isn't so easy for the modern American driver, distracted by devices. We often waved. Sometimes a passenger would want back, but the driver looked stonily ahead, lost in dream. In these cases, we'd step down into the grass if possible. In one case, a man was angry with us, having decided we were the cause of a traffic jam, though it was likely a group of bison near the road that caused people to slow down to look.

Trust me, we don't WANT to walk the road, but it was necessary. Really, there aren't so many trails in Yellowstone. There is one that goes boldly across a big expanse, but not in the direction we needed. Other trails are more helpful, but usually stay within a few miles of a road. We turned gratefully onto one of these, which followed power lines to the southeast. We met a man brandishing a pistol and asking if we heard that strange noise in the forest. "Yeah, it's a dead tree rubbing against another one," I said. "You sure?" he asked dubiously. His female companion appeared impressed by his attention to possible danger.

It was good to move on.

Eventually it grew dark, and we crossed a meadow to find out designated backcountry camp. A Frenchman named "Marwin" was there. Wild of beard and hair, shining eyes and a great desire to talk, he spoke of his journey through Alaska and the Canadian Rockies before coming here. We set up camp, and enjoyed cigars as the sun set. It was quite a beautiful sunset, and I hate to report how rare it is that we really get to enjoy our camps in the evening. Usually we are too damn tired to stay up and watch the stars come out. But tomorrow would be a short day to Canyon Village, and we could afford to stay up.

Over the next days we moved south through the park. The scenery is big, but not that impressive. What sticks out are the wildlife encounters. We had two bison kick us off the trail with pawing and tail swishing. Once on the open savannah, and once in deep forest. Those things deserve a lot of respect and a wide berth! Later, we travelled through a closed area with our bear spray in our hands, transfixed by the many grizzly tracks. I'll have to go into this story more later...

In Grant Village, we splurged on a fancy restaurant, only to have two women at the bar pay for our dinner and drinks after the bartender told them we'd travelled 750 miles over 45 days. They were gone before we could say thanks. I must admit it brought a tear to my eye. We left the Village in light rain, not knowing how bad it would get. Yellowstone kicked us out the south door with rain and mud and cold, wet feet. We got a few minutes of dry conditions in two days by sitting on the porch of a ranger cabin, and cooking dinner along with a woman named Giggles and a guy whose name I forgot. They would speed ahead of us, then get lazy and sleep in, and we'd meet up again. Finally they pulled well ahead.

20 miles of backcountry when there is nowhere dry to sit creates a purgatorial kind of day. Your only joy is crawling into a wet tent, and spending an hour rubbing your feet to warm up. You lay there, calculating miles and dreaming of clean, dry sheets... And possibly pancakes.

Heather and Mike, two cousins who I may have mentioned before were often nearby in this stretch. We all enjoyed mid day sun on top of Two Ocean Mountain, drying our gear, and stealing ourselves for the next rain storms. A German man named Hummingbird was up there, and told a plaintive story of the trail so far: "I give 100%, but it is still not good enough. In Wyoming I go to 120%, but still fall behind. Now I give 150% every day, and can't imagine I'll reach Canada. My knees are giving out. I'm falling apart."

Ach. I feel you, Hummingbird.

Days of sun will help him. But for now, he lives in mud, and his mind lives there, too. I also hit a breaking point on the last day of the stretch. I fell into a deep, brown pool of mud after carefully keeping my socks dry with hours of tricky gymnastics on the edges of the trail. I was so angry, I took off running the wrong way, bruising my face with the metal bear spray bottle as I stomped through the deep mud, losing a shoe at one point.

Cory calmed me down with a patient, logical professor voice, but I only got mad again and took off once more, charging up and down hills on pure hate. Eventually, I had to laugh. It felt good to quit caring about my feet and socks. I charged across a meadow in knee deep water to avoid a slippery hillside of useless trail. I passed three people, and even frightened a young woman who stared at me in horror as I ignored a bridge, stomped through a river and even stumbled and nearly fell. Didn't care. Just wanted to get my resupply package and then go to town.

I could laugh on the inside at the character I presented to the world, but also use the character to get myself further.

Later, covered in mud, we despaired at getting a hitch into Dubois. Too few cars came along. To make things worse, a couple came out and did the strategically correct thing, though much to our disadvantage: the woman pushed up her shorts to reveal the full, tanned legs. The man went and sat on the side, and they put themselves well in front of us.

This tickled a pet peeve of mine. Women on the trail can hitch easy, and if asked, they'll offer a possible solution to every problem to be "an easy hitch to X." However, for men, there are few easy hitches. Grr.

Anyway, as sometimes happens, another's misfortune redounded to our gain. A truck picked up the two savvy hikers, then, pulled over so we could also hop in the back. The reason was that a grizzly had attacked and injured a surveyor up the road, and the truck driver saw a grizzly coming towards us.

And so we were brought into Dubois, muddy and a little broken, where recovery could begin...