Bison and the Beehive

Low-lying clouds cut across the mountains above Cody. With a call to the Wyoming highway hotline, I found that we had one path open to Yellowstone. Snow  pounded the Chief Joseph Highway, and the Beartooth Highway closed. Dead Indian Pass and Cooke City would wait for another trip; the route to the Lamar Valley became less convenient.

To the west, the Wapiti Valley awaited. In our dinner hunt, we had come awfully close to the edge of town where the Shoshone River dropped into canyon and eventually filled the seven-mile Buffalo Bill Reservoir. To reach the dam, the road entered a mountain tunnel. The rock above us was mesmerizing as it held back the rest of the mountain. Unlike the usual mountain tunnels, no tile lined the ceiling, only misshapen rock. We were glad when daylight returned, and took a spin past the dam backing up the reservoir. Sun broke the wall of clouds, shining scattered light on the beige crags framing the valley.

As the reservoir winnowed back into a river, the road gained elevation. A sure sign gave it away. A female bighorn, the first either of us had seen in the wild, grazed on a narrow strip between the road and the steep canyon wall that reached toward the mountains. What looked impassable posed little problem for the sure-footed bighorn. To stay ahead of a tour buses grinding along the highway, we left the bighorn to its grassy breakfast and throttled ahead to Yellowstone.

We approached the eastern gate on an empty road. The ranger demanded a song upon hearing we came from Nashville. Nancy and I both declined so he relented upon finding out that we had not gone to Tennessee chasing musical pipe dreams. Signs of life were sporadic as the road curved ever upward.

The road climbed appreciably through a forest untouched by the wintry storms that grazed the rest of the region. As Sylvan Pass neared, a sky of unimaginable blue opened above the forest and the peaks. We saw a tiny shack at one point that felt entirely out of place in this wilderness. It was too obvious to belong to some mountain man roughing it in Yellowstone. At Canyon, a ranger revealed its secret. Despite its name, Sylvan Pass turned treacherous in spring, and its peaks bore scores of potential avalanches. The shack hid a Howitzer. In late spring, the rangers fired a few shots to expedite the cascades of snow and to avoid collapses on unsuspecting tourists.

We arrived at clear blue lakes atop Sylvan Pass too late for any morning wildlife. Sight of a moose raising his head from a drink, water dribbling back to the lake, would go unfulfilled. Descending to Yellowstone Lake, we briefly glimpsed the jagged Tetons beyond the steep peaks framing Yellowstone’s cerulean waters. We went no closer to the peaks; Yellowstone was not designed for shaving away time.

Further down, where the road formed the shoreline, we stopped at sight of smoking ground, the first volcanic features of many. For all the people that flock to Yellowstone, the steam always serves as a healthy reminder that most of the park sits above one of North America’s largest volcano. Near the steaming cliff, several ravens gathered on the stone overlook. Apparently used to food scraps, they made no effort to flee while she stood and posed among them. As soon as another car rolled up, their wings flared into action and they cruised off.

Near the lake, all concessions and campgrounds were shuttered for the season. At times, just driving through felt like trespassing. Leaving the lake at Fishing Bridge, the Yellowstone River took over. Its 400-plus unimpeded miles toward junction with the Missouri started with a series of rapids and cascades. They did not hint at the larger two ahead, but would have troubled any river travelers.

At Mud Volcano, we ran into our first bison. A massive bull lumbered through a small grove then sped to a trot across an open floodplain. Dragon’s Mouth gurgled and belched, its sulfuric emanations proving its name in full. The volcanic features grew and the field of the Hayden Valley blossomed with plumes of smoke. Life in Yellowstone came from more than its wildlife. Geologic time moved faster here.

One cannot come this far and skip the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Even in October, tour buses roll up and dozens of tourists spill out. We stopped at the Upper Falls, by any measure an inspiring cataract. I had skipped it during my previous Yellowstone excursions. If you see the Lower Falls first, there’s no point in backtracking. Fewer tourists stop because of the Lower Falls’ renown, so the solitude overlooking the Upper Falls has its graces. You won’t be mauled by tourists snapping pictures without an instant spent absorbing the beauty that turns into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone’s rust-patched walls.

From our first turn toward Norris we found bison, a small group of bulls grazing and wandering at a forest’s edge. The short drive skipped much of the majesty we witnessed thus far, but soon enough, geyser plumes sprouted from the hills. The mountains swooped and dived, twisting high over gorges and valleys as we approached Mammoth Hot Springs. The massive terraces loomed large over the park headquarters.

Bison just past Canyon Village

All along I insisted on a trip to the Lamar Valley. Despite taking us far from the main attractions, there were wildlife guarantees I could make about Lamar and nowhere else. Just miles after leaving Mammoth, we found that wildlife blocking the road.

A herd of bison, with at least one hundred members, maybe 150, thundered across the park road. The traffic jam was thick but worth every moment. In bunches, bison of every age crossed the road with respectful but inevitable gaits. We would wait and snap pictures while they did as their ancestors had, albeit in much reduced numbers.
 Everyone in Yellowstone wants to play Ansel Adams, toting impossibly large zoom lenses and cameras that cost more than our entire trip. That’s their right, but I wonder if people sacrifice the experience to merely capture images. Throughout the Hayden Valley, clusters of photographers signaled wildlife cameos. Watching one man track a coyote made me wonder if he thought it was a wolf; it’s really hard to spend a day in Yellowstone without spotting a few of the scavengers. In three trips, I have yet to spot a wolf. Once out in the Lamar Valley, Nancy understood why we raced to escape the packs of motorists. Bison ruled this valley, and few of its broad plains went without herds grazing placidly. In Lamar, we expended little effort to be alone with scores of bison.

Large bison herd near the Lamar River.

Since the Beartooth Highway was closed, we picked a turnaround point in the Lamar Valley and began the long journey back to Old Faithful. Unexpected encounters awaited us. Nancy spotted something peculiar traversing a peak rising thousands of feet above the Lamar. We watched what appeared to be a black bear or grizzly bear scaling a high ridge in the Lamar Valley. It was distant, but captivating. No matter the zoom, we tried to trace its course. Nancy ruled out a bison because the moves were more limber and calculated, like it was searching deep for nutrition below the tan grass. Photo proof was inconclusive.

But we know what we saw, and we alone saw that bear. When other drivers approached, we feigned ignorance, acted we were walking innocuously on a hilly plain. Bear or not, we did our best to avoid a traffic jam. A half-dozen cars slowed but none stopped. We could claim this wildlife encounter for our own.

We returned to Mammoth, as had its most famous visitors. On the village green surrounding the park headquarters buildings and its lodge, the several bull elks assembled with their harems. Some grazed, some lounged. I couldn’t take my eyes off a massive bull sitting alone on front of the park buildings. As we left, we loomed just feet from the bull. With his antlers, he reached back and scratched an itch on his back. Nancy aimed and captured him. A simple, everyday gesture provided the best wildlife visual of our trip (ravens excepted, of course).

 We did not circle the upper and lower paths of Mammoth Hot Springs. From a lot near the park headquarters, we walked bellowed the mounds of where heated water drizzled down the beautiful travertine terraces.

The trek to Old Faithful and the Lower Geyser Basin covered more than 50 miles and even in October, with the park traffic dying down, we could not escape tourons who refused to use the pullouts designed to give slower traffic a chance to step out. These drivers just didn’t get the protocol, and probably never would. At a four-way stop, an obvious foreign driver blew through the sign in a motor home. With geysers, minutes mattered. Our race to Old Faithful ended as the geyser’s payload diminished into a minor spray. The geyser gave out till its next regularly schedule performance, when twilight would begin intruding.

 All was not lost. As the rangers forcibly began pushing people toward the visitor center’s doors, one ranger began encouraging all comers to head out to the nearby boardwalks. The Beehive Geyser, which erupts every 11 to 17 hours and seldom keeps to a schedule, might soon exhale. The excited ranger repeatedly told the crowd that some visitors waited years to see the Beehive burst into action.

The Beehive Geyser roars above the Firehole River.

A tiny indicator geyser next to the Beehive, named for a hive-like mineral formation at its mouth, spouted a few feet of water. Gradually, the indicator geyser’s activity rose.

The Beehive came to life with a steady flow that quickly turned furious. Noise from the geyser as water escaped defied easy categorization. Water broke the sound barrier as it throttled out the beehive. It roared as the steaming water cooled instantly in the fall air. Rainbows were born in the mist and faded as the Beehive calmed again.

For an encore, we turned into the Midway Geyser Basin, home of the park’s largest hot springs. At the edge of the basin, spring water streamed and steam its way into the Firehole River. Steam obscured the Excelsior Geyser, formerly the world's largest geyser. Its eruption once exceeded 300 feet, but it has been 130 years since it unleashed that fury. Grand Prismatic Spring also sat in the fog, releasing more than 500 gallons a minute into the Firehole. Deep as a lake with scalding water, its crystal blue surface occasional poked through the white puffs. The combination of steam and the sun falling behind the nearby mountains masked its vibrant hues.

The Turquoise Pool lives up to its name.

The Turquoise Pool provided a better view of the thermal springs feeding the Firehole, flashing the same deadly blue beauty. The road followed the Madison River’s course out of the park. Abundant female elk popped from the woods. Some picked at grass just feet from our car. "Elk jams" became common on the final miles of Yellowstone before the park spit us out into the only outpost of civilization for miles. More tourons refused the grasp the concept of pulling off the road to watch wildlife, and impatient drivers honked, spooking the previously placid elk.

I had thoughts about Glacier; we had plans in Missoula on Friday evening and Saturday. If we left Yellowstone and drive as far as the night allowed, by daylight we could reach St. Mary, the east entrance. These were the ridiculous thoughts that could only be rationalized after two days on the road and the end of a Montana vacation growing closer by the hour. There was no guarantee of what weather clung to that jagged chunk of the Rockies.

Those thoughts faded rapidly and fortunately; snow closed Going-to-the-Sun Road that Friday. Settling down for dinner among the blocks of hotels that comprised West Yellowstone, those thoughts quickly evaporated. After that twilight meal, we decided to try our hand at West Yellowstone. It was too dark to tempt U.S. routes 191 or 287; at the best, it would have dangerously satisfied all urges to see wildlife. We could have gone as far as Big Sky, but neither of us knew what accommodations would wait.

 At a recommended hotel on the main drag, the office was closed. At 7 p.m. in October, most innkeepers gave up on national park stragglers. Circling West Yellowstone, we settled on the Westwood Inn (its marquee had one “O” extinguished). The actual hotel was hard to see. Beyond the office, a series of cabin-like rooms lined a dark lane. But from darkness emerged a comfortable place for the evening. Like many motor courts, the rooms were large, even if the amenities were a tad older. We fired up the heat and sprawled on the bed, glad for a respite from two days of road wear.

Madison River elk grazed in large numbers.

We wanted a nightcap, something more approachable than Bakken Bock. Besides, after a day in the car, I felt like a short stroll in the cold, dry air. With the busy season over, West Yellowstone's lights still burned bright, but it felt like a city ready to sleep soon.

I would be tempted to say that beyond the borders of West Yellowstone lies nothing. To the east, the town ends with a national park, and national forest hems it in.

Near the darkness sat a small liquor store in the corner of a grocery. With no pints on the shelves, I scrambled for Plan B. It came from Neversweat, a whiskey blended in Butte, and it would serve as a solid end to our second long day in the high country.