Yellowstone National Park
Some places don’t just sit on your bucket list. They move into your mind, unpack and occupy your thoughts for years. Yellowstone is one of those places.
We enter the Park from the south at 12:25pm. The time is important because I’ve been waiting for this moment for over 25 years, ever since I saw a film about the introduction of wolves to the park and how they changed the course of the rivers. The science may have been romanticised but the idea stayed with me. Now I’m here, Yellowstone does not disappoint.
Our first stop is Lewis Lake, where snow blankets the frozen water from shore to shore, blindingly white making it impossible to tell where the land ends and the lake begins. We slip and slide the hundred yards or so towards the lake from the car park in footwear clearly not designed for winter exploration. Snowshoes would have helped, however we have this wonderful scene all to ourselves, but it is cold. Not the mind-numbing cold that takes your breath away, but a fresh, crisp, clear air cold that makes you feel alive and free, thanking nature for all it has to offer. We’re under-dressed for this part of Yellowstone, so reluctantly we leave this pristine scene and move on.
We move on to civilisation and the expected comfort and warmth of Grant Village, however the small collection of deserted buildings haven’t woken up for the season yet. There isn’t much to open here anyway but a mobile coffee van wouldn’t have gone amiss if only to be able to talk to someone. The automatic filling station allows us to top up on gas as refuelling opportunities are few and far between in the park. At West Thumb, mud pots bubble and small geysers spout beside an ice filled lake, steam drifting upward like breath on a winter morning. However, I start worrying for the rest of the day about what happened to East Thumb? It’s nowhere to be found. Maybe it succumbed to frostbite.
It is no surprise we find Old Faithful bustling with tourists patiently awaiting the big blow. Also waiting patiently, and with some dignity, are two bison sitting comfortably in front of the geyser offering up a classic photo opportunity. Moments later Old Faithful, true to its name, erupts with surprising force, a silver column roaring into a bright blue sky.
The bison remain unmoved by this remarkable display of nature, no doubt having seen it show off many times before. As the great spout subsides, and knowing the show is over, the two great lumbering friends move on as the human audience drifts away, all of us with the common aim of foraging for food.
Our lunch is a little bit more accessible for us than our bison actors who graced the stage earlier as we move a few yards inside to the Old Faithful Inn to take refuge.
This remarkable and very old hotel is seething with admirers as they gaze up at the vast timbered cathedral of a building. Beers in hand, we step onto the balcony to watch the geyser erupt again. What goes up must come down, so as the geyser goes up, our beers go down.
Apparently only 2 per cent of visitors ever venture more than a mile from the few roads that populate Yellowstone. That’s partly to do with available time, but there is also a sad lack of adventurous spirit around. Regrettably. time constraints put us firmly in the majority We loop through Mid-Geyser Basin over the footbridge on the Snake River, then the two-mile one-way Firehole Canyon circle and its waterfall, through landscapes that change faster than you can process them. It advertises the opportunity for swimming, but with the snow run-off it’s hardly surprising there are no takers who are willing to experience hyperthermia as part of their tour.
Our accommodation for the evening is Canyon Lodge, although we are delayed by a grumpy bison in the middle of the road who refuses to move, no doubt upset at losing his way to Old Faithful. In the distance a herd of elk are lifting their legs high and slow, carefully picking their way through a swamp like a marching band, so the hour-long drive seems to pass quickly.
Like all National Park hotels, the accommodation is expensive and underwhelming, the food forgettable with the sad looking chicken burger and a decidedly desperate feta pie served by the canteen, sorry – restaurant, doesn’t cut the mustard either. If only there actually was some mustard on offer to provide some bite to these bland dishes.
We escape quickly and drive to Artist Point. The view of the Lower Falls comes into view, and it’s a showstopper. Years of anticipation crystallise in an instant as water thunders into the canyon below. A rainbow forms at the base. First, a ghostly mirage of fused colours, then crystalising into sharp focus before being seemingly washed away by the sheer force of the water. Later at the Upper Falls overlook we look down on people standing precariously close to the edge. Sleep that night, despite the uncomfortable beds and banging doors, is serene and contented.
Skipping the delights of the canteen breakfast we drive north, past Roaring Mountain, under Grizzly Lake high up in the hills, alongside Obsidian and Sheepeater Cliffs, before falling into Mammoth Hot Springs. The Terraces rise like a frozen cascade, white and immense shaped by heat and time. I guess the word Mammoth says it all. The 300 feet climb can be challenging, where the loop hike takes about an hour.
Our stomachs now rule again, so we invade the general store looking for lunch and are rewarded, if that’s the phrase, with Ritz Crackers, Philly Cheese and an Almond muffin. America’s National Parks are not known for their edible offerings, which I might have mentioned before.
On the way to Tower-Roosevelt through the Blacktail Deer Plateau I’m expecting an interesting story behind the name. However, it turns out that Teddy Roosevelt merely holidayed here beside a large, tall, towering waterfall. Nothing more, nothing less. I suppose it does what it says on the tin.
As we stop at one of the numerous lookout points to enjoy the view, a van speeds into the parking area and u-turns rather quickly, stony dirt being thrown aimlessly from under the spinning tyres. The driver shouts one word – “bear” and speeds off. We follow and sure enough we spot a huge grizzly on the hillside. We use these precious minutes to take some photos before the big, bad Yellowstone ranger comes round the corner with flashing lights to moves us on so as not to create a queue.
As it happens, just round the corner, a herd of bison decide to take 20 minutes to cross the road, stopping intermittently to stare at the queue of cars as if to say – this is our road, not yours. Not much further and we get stuck again, this time by a type of animal known all over the world – the road-worker, or as they call them here – the highway operative. I assume it doesn’t get you any more pay, just a more important job description so you don’t ask for a rise. There are dozens of them laying down new tarmac so the bison can walk on the road safely to hold up more traffic in the future. It’s one vicious circle in Yellowstone, but a beautiful one !
Entering the Lamar Valley is another truly uplifting experience. The valley stretches for miles with sweeping views of the meadows giving you a panoramic view of the wildlife on offer, filled with herds of bison and elk.
A girl pulls up, gets out of her car and swings a camera with an extraordinarily long lens on to her shoulder. Normally I would be impressed by this, but she is looking at something in the far-distance so I follow her gaze. Without skipping a beat, she says just one word – Coyote. Now, I’ve never seen a coyote before, and at the moment I still can’t see it, so I’m very impressed that she spotted it in the bushes from her car. Apparently, many people treat them with disdain because they’re scroungers, but I think we should admire them for their tenacity, if not their good looks. It looks like a wolf that failed the audition.
We turn at the end of the valley for the 30 minute drive back to Canyon Village and are confronted by a lRoad Closed sign. I groan as it’s 37 miles back the way we came, so no early dinner tonight. However, what’s for you, won’t go by you, as some Scottish sage once said. We come across a host of photographers standing along the side of the road staring up into a hillside, their huge telephoto lenses almost blocking the road. We find a parking space by chance amongst the dozens of cars abandoned at various angles on the grass verge, like they had been swept away in a flash flood. Looking up at the hillside we spot what everybody is here for – a grizzly bear called “Obsidian” with her three cubs.
Watching a bear and her cubs in the wild is profoundly moving. Everyone, everywhere, should get the chance to see a bear in the wild. It’s one of life’s great experiences. We watch them for half an hour while they graze and forage along the hillside, and as they move southwards, the whole crowd moves as one. I’m not sure what a group of avid photographers is called – maybe a Frame of Photographers? A Focus of Photographers, or maybe it’s just a Negative of Photographers!
They said they had been waiting to see Obsidian with her newborn cubs in tow for a couple of weeks since she emerged from her winter slumbers. If it hadn’t been for the road closure, we wouldn’t have seen them. I’ll never shout at road-works again. As the bears disappear over the hillside, we all drift away silently, content that in the last hour or so we’ve witnessed a scene that, in reality, only the lucky few in this world get to see.
Time was moving on and we had a reservation at Lake Yellowstone Hotel for dinner. We pass through spectacular scenery in the half-light giving the surrounding hills a mysterious and intriguing feel, as if an artist’s deft touch has added light and shade to create a moving tableau round every corner.
The evening descends into chaos. long waits, missing food, harassed waiters complaining guests and very weary staff. Nicole, the manager apologised. I told her to sit down as she looked as though she’d had just about had enough. You know it’s really bad when the tables start groaning. Those sitting at those tables were equally angry. The meal is comped and the total bill comes to $16, plus three hours of my life.
I feel sorry for the harassed waiter, so I give him a generous tip before turning round to see my partner and Nicole disappearing down the hotel corridor arm in arm, now best of pals. Nicole was very excited to learn we were from Scotland, apparently because she is a McDonald, and so the two of them swap emails. Never to be used of course. It has been an unforgettable day softened by exhaustion and shared stories.
Day three drops in and we’re all packed up at Canyon Lodge ready to leave. We return to Artist Point once more. There is no rainbow today as the sun is too low, but the emotional pull happens again, partly because we don’t want to leave. Driving East we pass ice-rimmed lakes, shimmering in the morning sun.
At Fishing Bridge, we stop to raid Pendletons General Store where once inside, we decide not to pillage but actually pay money for some snacks.
At Mary Bay near the exit, the storm damaged forest stands as a reminder how fragile even this vast wilderness is.
We exit Yellowstone at 12:45pm, and a little bit of my heart is left behind. I make a promise to myself that I will return. It may be the sad goodbye that plays a part, but some small sliver of my soul lives in these wild open spaces where the animals roam and the waters flow. Suddenly it starts to rain. Almost the only rain we’ve had on this month-long trip through the States. By coincidence a song starts playing on the car radio by the Scottish band Runrig. The beautiful and haunting “Going Home’’.
“In the distance day was dawning,
Comes to me the early morning,
Something tells me that I’m going home
The brand-new sun shining bright
From the darkness, fields of light
Something tells me that I’m going home”
