Where Grizzlies Roam and the Waters Flow
We enter Yellowstone National Park from the south at 1225pm. The time is important because I’ve been waiting for this moment for over 25 years. This extraordinary place has been at top of my wanted list for so long, ever since I saw a film about the introduction of wolves to the park and how they changed the course of the rivers. The story, while not entirely factual, fascinated me about how nature works, and the film projected images that I wanted to see for myself. Now every minute counts and Yellowstone does not disappoint.
Our first stop is Lewis Lake, where a blanket of endless foam-like snow covers the water from shore to shore, blindingly white so you can’t tell where the land ends and the lake begins. Slipping and sliding in footwear not designed for cross country hiking, it takes us a while to cover the hundred yards from the car park to the shoreline. Winter Olympic athletes we are not, but snowshoes would have helped. 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. It takes a great deal of effort to leave the sheer purity of this make-believe scene of snow and ice, but we are somewhat under-dressed for the occasion.
We move on to civilisation and the expected comfort and warmth of Grant Village. I pull into the parking lot with the realisation that the village is basically closed. Clearly Yellowstone hasn’t rolled out the welcome mat for the season yet. There isn’t much to open here anyway but a small mobile coffee van wouldn’t have gone amiss, if only to be able to talk to someone. The unattended but automatic filling station allows us to top on gas as refuelling opportunities are few and far between in the park. We stop again at West Thumb to sample the small geysers and hot springs in front of the ice filled lake, which offers up a magical scene, but I worry for the rest of the day about what happened to East Thumb? It’s nowhere to be found. Maybe it succumbed to frostbite.
We continue on to Craig Pass and Old Faithful. This is where the action takes place, as it is bustling with tourists patiently awaiting the big blow. Also waiting patiently and with some dignity I note, two bison are sitting comfortably in front of the geyser, offering a classic scene for taking a great photograph. There is a buzz about the place and the patient crowd are getting wound up. It appears we’ve arrived just a few moments before Old Faithful takes flight, so we have just enough time to get settled on a bench, and wait.
Timing is everything as they say. Old Faithful, true to its name, erupts skywards with surprising force creating a silver fountain and emitting a great wooshing sound against the bright blue sky. The bison are unmoved by this remarkable display of nature, no doubt having seen it show off many times before. Shortly after, as if knowing the show is over, the two great lumbering friends move on in the realisation their human audience is drifting away, so we all go our separate directions 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 staged with such dignity, because 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 huge wooden rafters soaring over three floors. We settle on a couple of beers served from a pop-up bar in the corner and walk out onto the large balcony to watch Old Faithful spout again 20 minutes later. 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 any of 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 we are in the speed merchant camp as well, as we don’t have a lot of time to spend here, although I do want to see it all. We move onto Mid-Geyser Basin over the footbridge on the Snake River, through the two-mile one-way loop that is Firehole Canyon and its waterfall. It advertises the opportunity for swimming, but with the snow run-off its 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 price tag outweighs what is on offer, and Yellowstone accommodation indeed excels in that area, making sure your wallet can’t stretch to stay more than a couple of days stay. A ropey looking chicken burger and a decidedly desperate looking feta pie served by the canteen, sorry – restaurant, doesn’t cut the mustard either. If only there was some mustard on offer to provide some bite to the bland dishes.
But we are not here for the cuisine, so the disappointing food drives us from the hotel, down the road, up the track all the way to a spectacular view from Artist Point. Looking down the ravine, the iconic Yellowstone image of the Lower Falls comes into view, and it’s a showstopper. All thoughts of eating disappear, as a culmination of several years of wishing and hoping, coupled with months of planning, come together. It’s hard not to be moved by what nature has created, and I have a bit of a moment as I gaze down at the waterfall cascading far below. A rainbow starts forming at the base, firstly a ghostly mirage of fused colours, then crystalising into sharp focus before being seemingly washed away by the sheer force of the water. Later we reach the Upper Falls overlook and look down on people standing on a ledge beside the falls, called unsurprisingly, Brink of the Falls. Sleep that night, despite the uncomfortable beds and banging doors, is serene and beautiful.
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 Springs the journey throwing up hugely changing landscapes. The Terraces of Mammoth Springs are like a huge white waterfall frozen in time. I guess the word Mammoth says it all. We had stopped at a large variety of springs around the park already, so decide not to climb the 300 feet up the various terraces where the loop hike takes about an hour.
Instead, our stomachs rule again and we end up in the general store looking for lunch and are rewarded with Ritz Crackers, Philly Cheese and an Almond muffin. National Parks are not known for their food, 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.
We stop at a lookout point during where a van drives in and turns around, the driver shouting out of the window that they had seen a bear further down the road. We follow and sure enough there is a huge grizzly on the hillside. We manage to take some photos before the big, bad ranger comes round the corner and moves us on.
As it happens a herd of bison decide to take 20 minutes to cross the road. It’s a good job I’m not running late for a train……. 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. It doesn’t get you any more pay, it’s 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!
Entering the Lamar Valley is a truly uplifting experience. The valley stretches for miles with sweeping views of the meadows giving you a panoramic view of the wildlife on offer, which is filled with herds of bison and elk.
A girl pulls up, gets out of her car and swings a camera an extraordinary sized lens on to her shoulder. Normally I would be impressed by this, but she is looking at something in the far distance and I ask her what it is. Without skipping a beat, she answers in one word – coyote. Now, I’ve never seen a coyote before, and still can’t see it, so I’m impressed that she spotted it in the bushes from her car. Apparently, many people treat them with disdain because they’re scroungers, but I kind of 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. A big sign just says – road closed. I groan as it is another 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 said. We are confronted with a host of photographers standing along the side of the road staring up into the hill, their huge telephoto lenses almost blocking the road. We find a parking space by chance amongst the dozens of cars lying at a variety of 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.
The experience of seeing a grizzly in the wild with her family is like no other feeling. It’s an emotional tug that you can’t explain to folks who weren’t there. Everyone, everywhere, should get the chance to see a bear in the wild. It’s one of life’s great privileges. We watch them for half hour as 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 a Negative of Photographers! I spoke to one guy who had even bigger lens than the coyote lady. Does size matter in everything? His picture suggests it does, as he shows us what the family were eating down to the last morsel.
They said they had been waiting to see Obsidian with her newborn cubs in tow for a couple of weeks since she emerged after winter. 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, which was another 17 miles from Canyon Lodge. We rushed back to get changed, and five minutes later, we are passing 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.
That’s when the farce started when we managed to get a window seat in the restaurant. We had arrived at 8pm and eventually got our starter at 910pm! We’d ordered a halibut main course but it took them 30 minutes to tell us they didn’t have any left. So, trout was then called for and lo and behold the waiter came back after another 10 minutes to say they didn’t have that either. In the end they put together some scallops and pasta, but my meal didn’t arrive at the same time. They chased it and I got it ten minutes later, just as my partner was finishing hers. Nicole, the manager came over and apologised. I told her to sit down as she looked as though she’d had a hard day. After relaying all the disasters of her day, we told her about our disasters, in a vain effort to trump her. She won, as there appeared to be a lot of angry tables in the restaurant. You know it’s really bad when the tables start groaning. Those sitting at the tables were equally angry. Nicole tells us they are going to comp us for the whole meal but asks us to pay for the drinks that we ordered, not the additional drinks that had come as the first apology from the waiter. The total bill for dinner 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 Nicky 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. A rock and roll day but in the end a fun night and a wonderful, extraordinary, out of this world day.
178 miles today
Day three drops in and we’re all packed up at Canyon Lodge ready to leave. We have to take another look at the falls, and as it’s only 12 minutes or so away from the hotel we drive up to Artist Point again. There is no rainbow today as the sun is too low, but both of us get a bit emotional again, mainly because we don’t want to leave, but leave we must and so head for the East exit and our planned six-hour drive today.
We drive past the north shore of ‘Lake Yellowstone’, as the ice-covered shoreline shimmers in the morning sun. As we climb up towards the mountain pass, we run alongside ‘Sylvan Lake’ giving us a stunning view into the distance of the broken ice in the water stretching for miles. At Fishing Bridge, we stop to raid Pendletons General Store where once inside, we decide not to pillage and actually pay money for some snacks.
At Mary Bay near the exit, the huge forest devastation from recent and past storms reminds us once again how fragile this astounding wilderness is. We exit Yellowstone at 1245pm, 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. I want to believe it’s heaven crying tears of sadness at our departure. A song is playing on the car radio by the Scottish band Runrig. The beautiful and haunting “Going Home’’ – how appropriate.
“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”
