After two days of relative Montana calm, the time arrived for the breakneck portion of my journey, beginning with the bane of family vacations everywhere.
When my buddy Athens first told me about his TV gig in Bozeman, one of my early thoughts was "Yellowstone National Park, due 90 miles south." I wouldn't have the endure the tourist-trap tackiness of West Yellowstone; I could just set a course and go in the morning.
The narrow mountain valleys south of Bozeman provided a spectacular prologue to the park. Sheer, pine-covered drops ended in the Madison River and U.S. 191, which clung to its banks in many places. As soon as I passed the resort town Big Sky, the traffic peeled away and I had the rugged forest to myself.
Some 20 miles north of the actual park entrance, Montana drivers taking U.S. 191 cross Yellowstone's border. In early September, hardly anyone travelled the route - I encountered three cars in that span. In no way did the soft entrance prepare me for the wonders of the park itself. Neither did the first 15 miles - while the Madison was entrancing and the scenery undeniable, I wanted more than what the past 100 miles delivered. Yellowstone draws 70,000 people a day during the summer, and there had to be more to it. Once school starts, it draws around 20,000 for September, so while it was hard to avoid tourists, the park roads never turned into Atlanta rush-hour.
It's appropriate that Yellowstone was America's first national park - it encompasses aspects of all the others I've visited. Between the bare, alpine peaks, the cold clear rivers, the canyon, and all the manifestations of the massive volcano below the park, it barely leaves anything out.
Leaving the Madison behind, the road climbed a bit, until finally tufts of smoke rose in the distance. Yellowstone's volcanic legacy reared up at the Fountain Paint Pots, a series of thermal pools and hot springs that in some cases resembled natural Jacuzzis thanks to crystal blue water. Other pots of boiling mud, with their odd scent of sulfur and soil, billowed steam, provided a near-constant reminder of what lies below the park. Unfathomable Yuppie Woman's comment to her husband at the boardwalk entrance: "I don't think there's anything photogenic here."
Shortly after the Paint Pots, a large pack of cars clogged the roadside, meaning wildlife lied close. Sure enough, a cluster of bison lounged across the Firehole River. Rather than join, I rolled the dice that I'd catch more bison down the road.
At the Old Faithful center, the wildlife prove me correct. The famous geyser is a necessary stop solely to get it off the checklist. Luckily, it streamed away as I approached, saving me the waiting time, and as I left, a familiar congestion slowed southerly traffic.
A family unit of several males, females and young bison grazed, choosing the nibble at the foliage rather than flex those famous tempers. I played tourist here and jumped into the media, snapping a handful of photos before making for the Continental Divide. The park road swooped through the woods, passing a few good viewpoints (it's as close as you can get to Shoshone Lake without hitting the backcountry.
But better lakes soon arrived, as the road curled downward from the divide to hug Yellowstone, which occupies the southern portion of the caldera with its 400-foot depths. When the road reached the shores, I stopped to cup my hands and drink in that beautiful lake water (seriously, I grew up on Lake Erie; this was a rare treat).
Before long, the road soared again, as lake winnowed down to river, with wide plains and the occasion burst of fly-fishers and wildlife (bison and mule deer).
North of Yellowstone Lake, wildlife again took center stage. The rangers dropped an alert sign, and when crammed in the crawling traffic, I wondered what to look for. First I spied the male elk foraging at the edge of the trees. Further up, at another ranger sign and another stop, I expected the same.
Instead, a glance out the passenger window gave away a male bison walking the lip of the northbound lane, immediately next to my car. Had I a passenger, they could have rubbed his burly mane without fully stretching an arm.
For all the beauty displayed thus far, nothing prepared me for the lower falls of the Yellowstone River, which cascaded into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Hell, even the real grand Canyon was no prelude or substitute. The rock faces unveiled the park's in red, gold and earth tones, patterns of geology opened to me for the first time. I expected Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone to be an overstatement, but like the larger gem at the roof of Arizona, words cannot do it credit.
Still unadjusted to the altitude, I opted to skip Mount Washburn and cruise down its slopes to the north exit at Gardiner, finished the U-shaped journey. Because the path up the mountain starts at 8,000-plus feet above sea level, that left a lot of elevation to shed before. At first the switchbacks felt simple - if you get to hug the mountain, they're always simple. But switchbacks are at best fair weather friends; they give you the inside track but inevitably give you a slow, sharp turn that leaves the car's right edge a foot or two from a several thousand feet of sheer drops. Driving 20 mph or less keeping the temporary Corolla in second gear acclimated me to mountain driving quicker than my lungs took to mountain heights.
Towers Falls came in a distant second to the canyon falls, but were a necessary stop after the rapid descent. Even more impressive to these eyes were the infinite rows of charred stumps and dead spires still towering on the mountains 20 years after a fire savaged them.
My plans to spend some time at Mammoth Hot Springs were foiled by the crowds; this piece of the park draws steady visits from the female elk populace and their young. Dozens packed a village green among the old stone buildings.
Past the springs, the park threw out another ecosystem, this time going with desert. I never expected mountains sprinkled with desert vegetation in northern Wyoming or southern Montana, but those peaks resembled the best of Arizona the entire 50-mile trip north to Livingstone. All the way, rain clouds unleashed their cargo upon the mountains and small settlements. east Coast eyes aren't accustomed to the distances visible out here; rain can be observed from 20 miles away yet the sun might never cease shining overhead.
Despite covering 126 miles and most of the landmarks, I left Yellowstone feeling I could have covered more terrain. That was until I sparked a conversation with a Yellowstone volunteer at the Montana Aleworks while conducting (ahem) research into Montana brewing practices. When I told him what I covered, he shot a surprised glanced and said, "You covered all that in seven hours?" That put me mind at rest while a pack of rainstorms whipped the Gallatin Valley, and my thoughts turned northward for the sites awaiting at the top of the Lower 48 in the morning.
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