Day 10 - Yellowstone

Meteorologists? More like politicians.

We awoke to sunny skies. There was a slight chill at 8am, but with plenty of promise for a lovely day. A significant difference between East and West is the ability to perceive skies for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. One fellow biker shared with us an anecdote she and her husband recite to each other: "you can watch your dog run away for 2 days straight."

Breakfast is not only our first "fueling," but the time to reflect on the previous day and collect ourselves for the day ahead. As much planning as is demanded for an excellent adventure, one can only plan so much. We are perpetually at the mercy of Nature - arms open to receive her good tidings, and a clenched fist to combat her hardships. As we endured another sub-part "continental" breakfast, a couple in their 40s were conversing with a couple in their 70s. The elder twosome was Yellowstone-bound. The younger were residents of Cody, WY - the last town before Yellowstone, about 50mi from the park entrance. I politely interposed, and after briefly becoming acquainted, put forth our extensive forecast research results. The 40s man returned the local interpretation: "It's not like where you guys are from... around here, 30% chance of rain means almost definitely no rain. Not guaranteed, of course." Nothing ever is.

40s man assured us that lodging - both in Yellowstone, and immediately outside the park in sleepy neighboring towns - was available. Whether it was booked was another question, but at this time of year, the end of the tourist rush, we didn't anticipate much cause for concern. Time to return the options to the scale.

Last night, the endeavor to Yellowstone seemed futile - but through the lens of frustration, fatigue, and a tinge of nostalgia for home; ensnared by the impending blotch of green on the radar screen. Both of us, without expressing it to each other at the time, even considered turning back, as all of our potential destinations-to-be were soon blanketed with precipitation. Today, however, was a new day. "One day at a time." Voa was right again. Today, after careful consideration, we were Yellowstone-bound.

The first ten minutes into our ride landed us on the Cloud Peak Skyway, part of the 1.1 million acre Bighorn National Forest (one of the oldest government-protected forests in the country), and named after the Bighorn River, which was in turn named as such because of the bighorn sheep that were once abundant there. Disease decimated them, and hunting nearly finished the job. They disappeared. Conscientious effort was made to reintroduce them, and they are back today, although in lesser numbers. I wish we had crossed the path of one, so I could reiterate to him or her the magnificence of his/her residence. We wound through mountain passes and switchbacks amongst scattered evergreens, creeks nurturing sporadic yellow deciduous trees. In the distance, the Bighorn mountain range blended into the horizon of its snow-capped sister range, the Rockies. It was positively glorious - one of the most breathtaking scenes to date. There was no question in our minds that we had chosen wisely.

Exiting the skyway, we returned again to the plains - this time low hills of scrub shrubbery against a mountainous backdrop. We past through countless acres of farmland, predominantly sugar beets grown for sweetener. Hours later, we strolled into Cody, the namesake of Bill Cody, aka Buffalo Bill. Here his original saloon, hotel, and hunting lodging reside. It was the most developed town we had passed through in awhile (we had, hours before, passed a forgotten-named town, holding the population record of 10 - literally, two farmhouses.
Conversations were envisioned: "dinner at your place tonight?"). Cody is also a very motorcycle-friendly town. Fortunately.

We grabbed a quick lunch at Subway, and I mention this because it has not been recorded in the excellent journal that Subway absolutely dominates North America. No other chain can hold a candle to its presence, both in the US and Canada. That's right McD's, you have been served. The city limits of Cody bump against Buffalo Bill State Park, which was right on par with the morning's magnificence. Mountain passes along a pristine reservoir too beautiful not to stop and take in. I put my blinker on, signaling to Snake to pull off at the scenic viewpoint, when it happened.

A couple months back, my father who, given his background, is well-versed in Latin, introduced me to a fabulous - and, more recently, regularly applicable - term prevalent in Catholic doctrine. After returning the family car with a flat tire, I received a humorous email from him (he is famous for humorous emails) titled: "a felix culpa." Felix Culpa literally translates as something like "a fortunate fall." Its meaning is something akin to a blessing in disguise, though it tends to lean more on the side of a-shitstorm-that-brought-something-fortuitous. When my dad had brought the car in to replace the tire, the trusted mechanic informed him that the remaining three tires were the original tires from this inherited 2002 Buick, and were "blowouts waiting to happen." The email was signed, "Dad- the owner of 4 new tires." The blowout-on-hold became the blowout-that-never-was, all thanks to a flat. Hence, a felix culpa.

Back to the reservoir. As we coasted into the scenic area, I released my clutch - but the handle didn't move. I thought at first, "it's stuck, damn." I looked down, and to the left of my gauges was a broken clutch line, poised in the air like a cobra in attack posture. The cable had snapped. I popped the bike in neutral as fast as possible, and rolled into the turnoff. As Snake pulled up along side of me, I let him in on it. "Problem. Big problem."

Very fortunately, we were only 15 minutes outside Cody's city limits. More fortunately, right on the border of the city limits was a motorcycle repair shop. Even more fortunately, my new friend James immediately responded to my call by hitching a trailer to his truck to come rescue me. Most fortunately, of all the locations for something to go awry on the excellent adventure, this was one of the loveliest and most convenient. We walked down to the reservoir while we awaited James' arrival, and I sighed with a smile as I ran the water through my hair. Malleability - the great Noun of the excellent adventure.

James arrived. They had nothing in stock like the cable on this 33-year-old beauty. They would have to order one, and it was too late in the day for overnight. We strapped the bike in, I hopped in his truck, and Snake followed us back to town.

Time for plan B. We had already booked a room in Yellowstone (smack dab in front of Old Faithful - the only room they had left en route), as the few campgrounds that had not yet been closed would mean freezing nightly temperatures and unpredictable weather. In preparation for the trip, we had come across more than once the advice that Yellowstone weather can change frequently, and to be prepared for just about anything. Being New Englanders, we though "Ah hell, just another day." Anticipating the foul weather, and to justify bumming around a national treasure for an extra day rain or shine, we reserved the last available room for a price double what we had paid anywhere else. The question now loomed - how to get there. The folks at the shop were wonderful and let us leave our gear in their office while we resolved the current situation. We unloaded Snake's bike, and I hopped on the back. We high-tailed it to the airport (a tiny airport for Yellowstone-goers) in search of a rental car, as phone calls had yielded no results (two answering machines with the same woman's voice uttering the same message with a different company name). The rental was a success - a blue Subaru Imprezza. Snake took the opportunity for an oil change, and while loading our gear into the rental, James pointed out to me the condition of my rear tire. Status - bald. Change it. Yellowstone or bust.

Being back in a car was a bit of an adjustment. To ease the transition, we put the windows down and opened the sunroof, so as not to forget the sound of wind at high speed. Few words were spoken for the duration of the voyage, as we stared in awe at the passing surroundings. Nearing the park entrance, we noticed a large brown unidentified object in the middle of the road ahead. I slowed down to a stop. We could hardly believe our eyes. 5 feet away from us was a buffalo - an American emblem, and one of the most peaceful and majestic creatures I have ever set eyes upon. We scrambled to break the cameras out, and slowly followed it, the bison as unphased with our presence as the cluster of flies swarming its face and torso. I looked in my rear view for oncoming traffic, and noticed two cars stopped about 100 yards away, observing the two other bison in tow crossing the road. At the Badlands, we would have had to traverse an unpaved route for miles just to catch a (most likely) distant glimpse of these amazing animals. Now we were close enough to slap its behind. Not that we would.

We entered Yellowstone shortly before sunset. In the distance were visible flashes of lightning bolts. Rounding mountain passes, the smell of wet pavement wafting ahead, we noticed the dampness of the road. The temperature, in just 2o minutes or so, had dropped from 70 to 47 on our dashboard. Further ahead, patches of snow were still stuck to the road. Had we been on our course on two wheels several hours ago, nightmares would have been reality - bearing a snowy thunderstorm on a mountain pass. Now, we were witnessing the aftermath hours later, mostly from a distance except for the residual wetness, and with a roof and twice the wheel stability. A 30% chance of showers never looked like this in New England. Hence, a felix culpa.

We rounded Lake Butte right at sunset. Yellowstone. We made it. Many of the trees not far from the entrance were stripped bar, some charred to the core. Forest fires are frequent, particularly in dry periods (the fire danger indications next to Smoky the Bear were listed as "Very High" during our stay), and to allow the Great Mother to run her course, they are not deterred or extinguished except when nearing contact with park buildings or roadways. It was an eerily fascinating sight - especially after seeing flashes streak the sky minutes before.

Our accommodations for the night: Old Faithful Inn. Built during the winter of 1903-1904 from indigenous wood and stone, it was an amazing relic from a lost historic period. A gorgeous lodge, it conjured daydreams of the upper echelon of society visiting the park around the beginning of the 20th century, warming themselves and enjoying cocktails by the fire blazing in the enormous stone fireplace within the largest log hotel in the world. Atop the multiple log balconies stands a structure resembling a treehouse. Named "the Crow's Nest," it was thought to be the young architect's realization of a childhood fantasy. During the first years of the hotel, a small string orchestra would assemble there, nearly 80 feet above the ground level, and perform for the crowds dancing below. I imagine the acoustics must have been fantastic. After a 7.3 earthquake rocked the Inn, it was closed due to concerns with its condition being structurally unsound. The grandfather clock built onto the stone fireplace is colossal. It never went off, but its presence was awesome.

The Inn was packed. There were very unusual abundance of late-season tourists this year. Last year at this time, the temperatures were already at subzero digits, and the Inn was nearly deserted. This year, we booked one of the last available rooms. I speculate it has something to do with the current weakness of the dollar - foreign tourists abounded, from French to British to Japanese. And from all across the US as well, indicating that many who sought a vacation destination this year opted against traveling abroad.

After check-in, Snake stayed in the room to do some reading, and before too long I found myself amidst my writing fantasy: a wallflower in the balcony, sipping a delectable beer never before tasted (1554 - a black ale from CO brewers New Belgium), and jotting down the day's recap while an elderly gentleman named George Sanborn continued his now 19-year residence on piano; while people came and went, checked in, snapped pictures, sat and chatted over drinks, warmed themselves by the fire, and absorbed the surroundings. I was elated.

The bartender, eager to engage in conversation, informed me about the tourism boom this year, and the "warm" streak of weather, as well as his experience working in the national treasure. He was reading a book recommended by a fellow employee, who apparently was the source for good reads. They had a lot of downtime, so books circulated frequently. I inquired about the book, the title of which now escapes me. Something involving a plane's descent. "It's about a writer, struggling to be a writer, and continuously failing." I silently envisioned a work of mine someday circulating amongst bored folks surrounded by inspiration. Hopefully not about failing.

After his clock had struck gig's-end, George paused for a moment of repose, closed the keyboard cover on the baby grand, and approached me. We had a pleasant chat with each other which ended with sincere thanks on both parts - ostensibly, for playing and for listening, but below the surface, for our own reasons that amounted to much more than just entertainment.

I went outside to observe the stars before calling it a night. As I exited the Inn, I heard a splashing sound that didn't immediately register among the low hum of entrance conversation. It crashed into consciousness as I overheard a girl smoking a cigarette remark, "God, it sounds like a waterpark." I became immediately aware of the sound, and jogged into the darkness following its trail. In front of a canopy of starlight, a huge white cloud of steam and water emerged. Old Faithful had just erupted. I stood in awe until it was through. Soon, the sound of splashing gave way to mountain winds grazing the trees. If I could ever display to someone what enlightenment was, I would enmesh my fingers in theirs, and with hands held, walk with him or her in silent unison to this moment.