On my second trip across the Bozeman Pass, I found the rain which coated the valley had dropped several inches of slushy snow and coated the hills above Livingston. The high winds had somewhat moderated, but slight offered an occasional shove. The skies would clear before I hit Big Timber, the mythical route to Melville, Montana (to which a visit would once again be denied).
But in Livingston, I picked up a companion I would not escape until the interstate twisted due east at Glendive - the Yellowstone River. An ex-co-worker/friend had advised me to take U.S. 12 across eastern Montana for a different view, but the combination of Interstates 90 (before Billings) and 94 (after Billings) offered plenty of stunning vistas, thanks to the incredible badlands and the longest dam-free stretch of river left in the American (the Yellowstone from its source at Yellowstone Lake to somewhere north of Glendive).
The Yellowstone carved a unique swath across a landscape I expected to be flat farmland, not loaded with beautifully striated rocks and splendid views stretching to either horizon. After Billings, I stopped off at Pompey's Pillar, a 150-foot sandstone feature abutting the river. American Indians, explorers and colonists has camped there and left their marks in petroglyphs and signatures.
The most famous came from William Clark (of Lewis and Clark) in 1806. A history so distant from us in the Midwest lies everywhere in Montana. It's hard to visit most of the famous spots in Montana without running into their presence, just as the Gallatin Valley contains the reason behind their quest (the headwaters of the Missouri River). But climbing up the small butte early in the morning was a refreshing break from the repetition of the road ahead. Aside from a brief stop for gas in tiny Hysham - recent winner of a six-man high school football championship - and spying the Little Bighorn River for the first time, it was mostly alone time on the big road.
For many hours, I had it all to myself. For about 10 minutes, I shared a stretch of emergency lane with a Dawson County Sheriff's Deputy. Eastern Montana brought my first speeding ticket, a $40 fine, thanks to extended daydreaming on those rock-strewn hills and badlands. Just an hour from the park, I had earned it, traveling 89 in a 75 zone. While I would like to blame the cursed SUV given me by the rental company that didn't accelerate at all like the four-cylinder I was used to, my foot fell too long on the pedal.
Luckily, I had just miles until I hit a new state, and quickly shed the guilt of the incident, albeit at a steady 72 mph. North Dakota. Past the border crossing, I stopped at Beach (neither sand nor water anywhere in sight) for a little wake-up juice. The kind ladies at the coffee hut brewed me "a fresh batch of North Dakota coffee" to keep me alert on the trip's final 30 miles. They seemed a little surprised I would drive from as far away as Bozeman to catch their park, but pretty much everyone I encountered reacted the same.
After a brief thatch of Northern Plains, I re-entered the badlands - Theodore Roosevelt National Park awaited. I knew it received scant traffic, but not as little as the ranger told me - 2009 marked a 25-year high in visits with 500,000 people for the year. Yellowstone National Park can get upwards of 70,000 a day during the summer, eclipsing TRNP's annual total in just a week.
But I wanted a site few others saw, partly because T.R. is my favorite president, and this land played a major role in sculpting his views toward the environment. Roosevelt lived here for several years following the death of his wife and mother, reforging himself as a conservationist. In a park now home to several hundred head of bison, he struggled to find a bull bison to hunt, due to their near-annihilation by the army and hunters during the Indian wars a decade prior. Roosevelt's house has been reassembled at the visitor center, with the foundation of the original located in an unimproved section of the park accessible only by crossing the Little Missouri River in a 4-Wheel Drive.
Homestead or not, I got what I wanted from the park, wildlife roaming free, including a plethora of buffalo and incredibly colored feral horses (because they are descended from domestic horses, the horses roaming federal land out west are not truly "wild").
At most moments, I couldn't take my eyes off the bison. For all the criticism people levy at them - they smell bad, have ill temperaments, and deposit buffalo chips everywhere - I am still awed every time I see them. These were not the pure bison of Yellowstone National Park, but had some cattle in their ancestry. I wouldn't know that by looking at them, but the herds grazed with impunity. They once ranged across nearly every state, they nearly got wiped into extinction by overzealous hunters, and now, most live on protected lands or private ranches - despite serving as a national symbol. I find it ironic that we wiped them off the Northern Plains and Mountain States to raze cattle for beef, when the thick-maned bison provided much leaner meat and already lived there. I'm just glad this unique creatures are still here for us to observe when those last few thousand survivors could have just as easily ended up in trophy cases.
Near the entrance, I spotted a few random grazers as I mounted the badlands, then hit the jackpot. At the Skyline Overlook, I couldn't get out of the car thanks to a herd of nearly 10 of mixed age. They fed and muttered deep guttural tones at each other, barely acknowledging me.
What could I do but sit and watch in silence? Here I saw little quirks you wouldn't get with a squad of fellow tourists - one bison used his hind leg to scratch his head much like a dog. For all their bulk, these land mammals are quite flexible. Any bison sighting in Yellowstone spawned a traffic jam; here I had them all to myself. Down the hill, a second herd with more females and calves wandered near the road. In just a few minutes, I neared buffalo overload.
Shortly after catching sight of a herd fording the Little Missouri, I ran across a bizarre field pock-marked with tunnels; this was the first of several black-tailed prairie dog villages nestled in TRNP. Aside from their clicks and chuckles, I was faced with absolute silence. I sat on the ground, watched the prairie dogs prance and prank each other, and basked in the lack of noise. Quiet encompassed most of eastern Montana, but I hadn't been able to truly revel in it until that moment.
Likely used to the handful of cars which passed each day, the feral horses were not as wild as I expected; they didn't dash off at the first sign of people, but glanced in curiosity before returning to the grass. They are all descendants of the same herd which roamed here in during Roosevelt's tenure, one concrete connection which can draw between his time and ours. Again, I just took time to observe, since I virtually had the park to myself. On the 37-mile Southern Unit loop, I saw three other cars.
Once the road finished its loop, I pulled back to the overlook for one more look at the herd of bison. Their grazing had brought them even closer to the lot, with the bull watching for tourist trouble. After a handful of pictures, he looked up in my direction and grunted something unfriendly (or so I'm guessing). I killed the engine and put the camera down while we looked at each other for a few minutes before he lowered those giant eyelids.
For some reason, I spoke to it, wishing the attentive bull a good life, knowing well he would enjoy a better life than his ancestors did, not having trophy hunters line him up in their crosshairs. I might just be a white guy born of the suburbs with little connection to the land, this patch of wilderness deserved a few words for its impact.
Talking to animals is not a specialty, but I felt the need to utter something to someone or thing in Medora on what would likely be my last pass through this quietly beautiful and chaste pocket of America few bothered to see.
No comments:
Post a Comment