Too Wild for Comfort

Every spectator in Yellowstone hopes for comfortably close encounters with wildlife. Three bears, a fox, a heard of buffalo, some deer and countless chipmunks graced us with their presence during our day in the gorgeously preserved park. The fox was too quick for a photo op. and the grizzly bear was so far away that in pictures he looks remarkably similar to a ball of fluff masquerading as a bear. The deer would’ve remained unfazed if I stuck my lens in their ears. Maybe they’re not so wild, after all. The following morning I drove back into the park, intending to see more wildlife and to enjoy a long run through the wild backcountry (and to avoid the wailing that accompanies dressing a toddler each morning).

I chose a trail surrounded by gorgeous mountains on either side, which supposedly ran along a sparkling stream in a five-mile loop. I should’ve learned two days prior to be wary of supposed five-mile loops. I jogged jauntily down the side of the hill, barely aware of how far I was going, the Prius becoming invisible as I descended. The dew was still clinging to the grass, a mist not yet burned off the stream as I approached. Momentarily forgetting Yellowstone’s complimentary pamphlets about how wild animals are—duh—rather dangerous, and hikers hike at their own risk, my imagination ran wild. How cool would it be if I saw a bear or a buffalo down here?

Then I almost tripped. Over a pile of bones. I tried to convince myself that they probably washed up from the river, but they were pretty far up. Then I looked up and realized I couldn’t see outside the valley. I also swear I saw a coyote standing on a rock shelf 100 yards away, licking his lips and thanking his lucky stars that two meals stumbled upon his lair this morning. But maybe it was just a rock.

A long run had sounded so wonderful, I just couldn’t give it up. I jogged a few more paces into knee-high grass beside the water. Then Chris Farley’s voice came to me from a classic SNL skit, and I decided to turn around. No one’s going to care how many miles you ran when you’re a pile of BONES down by the RIVER.*

*If you’re too young, too old, or too boring to get this joke, watch the video here.

Is That Digital?

My body temperature hovers somewhere below ninety-eight degrees, at least a half-degree below the average human’s. My friends are used to it. My boyfriend dutifully, if grudgingly, holds my hands when they’re especially frigid.  I’m cold, in the same way that I am 5’6” and Caucasian. It’s my natural state. Yet every time I go out, without fail, a man will saunter up to me and deliver his smoothest line from what I assume is an infinite reservoir of clever come-ons. “You look cold.” Thank you, I am cold. You look stupid.

On the boardwalk across from Old Faithful last week, I learned that technology is the key to averting this stating-the-obvious flirtation. Set a camera up on a tripod, look like you know what you’re doing, and men on either side of you, even the ones with 7-year-old daughters vying for their attention, want to talk about your camera. What kind of camera is that? How’s the image quality? Yes, honey, I know the geyser is erupting but I’m trying to talk to this girl about her Canon XSi. Don’t interrupt.

Two lessons to take away from this: Gold-digging ladies, get yourself a nice camera. Guys who inevitably will have nothing clever to say to the next interesting girl you see, “Is that digital?” trumps “You look cold.”

In the Rodeo Capital of the World, Stupid Decisions are Contagious

Most people who know my brother and I would, I hope, describe us as generally responsible people. As we walked up a mountain at dusk with nothing but a Labrador, a camera, and Wall Drug’s finest walking stick, I had to concede that most people would be wrong.  In our defense, our hotel’s front desk clerk said the trail was five miles up and back. He also gave us bad directions to the trail entrance, which should have been our first clue that, friendly as he was, he probably didn’t know much of anything.

In addition to a late start and poor preparation, my brother glanced at a steep portion of mountain near the top and declared, “I think I’ll climb this part and meet you at the top.” Jazz thought it was a terrible idea, as evidenced by her unwillingness to follow me on the road while her owner risked his life on a hill, which was presumably fenced in for no trivial reason. When he emerged again on the road he described his climb something like this: “That was cool, but probably not the best decision I’ve ever made.” Apparently it involved sticking his hands into caves while plotting how he would use the WallStick to fend off any wild cats that emerged. I’m not sure if this makes Wall Drug’s merchandise more or less ridiculous. Neither is Jazz.

What happens next, Matt will call luck. I’d go with unfortunately convenient. We made it to the almost-top, where a couple had (conveniently) driven up to watch the sunset. We could hear the cats calling, it was after 10 p.m., and Matt was worried about losing his dog or his sister to the creatures of the night. He interrupted their romantic moment to inquire if we could perhaps hitch a ride—down a mountain, on steep, windy gravel—in the back of their truck. Not backseat. Back. With the spare tire. The man stuttered a, “Uh, well, it’s kinda bumpy but uh…” and we jumped in.

For the first 36 seconds I stared down at the spare tire and counted, reminding myself that it was only 5 miles (which is, I must point out, twice as much as 2.5. If you’re reading this, deceitful receptionist.) I did eventually look up, because riding backward and looking down are two sure causes of motion sickness for me. If I’m ever commissioned to write a travel book for Cody, Wyoming (The Rodeo Capital of the World!), I’ll certainly recommend watching the rodeo from the back of a pick-up on a mountain two miles away. You know, just to say you did it.

Later, as we’re cruising into town in the safety of a 5-star safety-rated Toyota mini van on a dangerously flat, 35 mph speed-limited, paved road, my brother says (quite seriously, lest you think he intended this to be funny), “Oh! I better buckle up!” 

On Monuments

Anyone who has ever driven within 300 miles of Wall, SD on I-90 has seen a sign for Wall Drug. Free Ice Water. America’s Favorite Roadside Attraction. Animated Life Sized T-Rex. This-Sign-Is-A-Not-So-Subliminal-Message-Ordering-You-To-Stop-At-Wall-Drug-If-You-Call-Yourself-An-American. It’s nuts. And it honestly wasn’t even on our route at the beginning of the day. But somewhere between Matt setting my camera up on a tripod in the middle of the highway beside the entrance sign to the Badlands, and our wonderfully panoramic hikes within, mystical forces conspired to land us, starving and thirsty, in the shadeless town of Wall right at lunchtime. 

Interestingly, every tourist at Wall Drug looked like they had suffered a similar fate. Every face—especially those of the women in line for the two-stall bathroom—read, “The signs told me to come, but I’m honestly not sure what I’m doing here, surrounded by South Dakota key chains and generic native art, trying to enjoy a buffalo burger before taking numerous photos of my child next to the large dinosaur and the six-foot-tall bunny out back. I guess I just wanted some free ice water.” (According to Wall Drug lore, the initial success of the place was due to a “free ice water” sign put up late in the Depression era, when tourists were beginning to accumulate on their way to see Yellowstone or the recently completed Mount Rushmore.)

Looking around at the mayhem, which our toddler certainly contributed to, I dubbed Wall Drug a “Monument to Ridiculousness.” Which is nice, I guess. Ridiculousness is one of the pillars of American civilization (reality TV, anyone?) and thus just as deserving of an adequate monument as anything or anyone else (veterans, presidents, natural beauty, long-suffering Native Americans, et cetera). Kelly almost modified my classification to “Monument to White Ridiculousness.” But just as we walked out the door, a lone, formally dressed black man came in. Somehow his attire made the whole scene even more ridiculous. But we did get a nice walking stick.

Our second monument of the day, Mt. Rushmore, was the site of a Greenpeace protest just hours after we left. The most exciting things that occurred during our visit:

1) We met another Coast Guard officer who was moving from Seattle to Virginia. This confirmed my growing suspicion that the U.S. Military’s policy of moving its employees every few years is actually an elaborate scheme established in conjunction with the U.S. Tourism Industry to ensure that the inherently patriotic must hit the road every summer.

2) One of the original drillers of the sculpture was in the gift shop signing books.

3) Matt squished George Washington’s head. 

Where I've Been

On July 6, I set off with my brother Matt, his wife, Kelly, and their 17-month-old son, Jimmy, along with a lick-addicted Labrador and a skittish Italian Greyhound, on a six-day, seven-state drive from Des Moines to Seattle. As we cruised out of Iowa into the Black Hills of South Dakota Matt asked, “Does this landscape remind you a little bit of Ireland?” It did, somewhat, but that wasn’t the remarkable part of his inquiry. What’s remarkable, I mused, is that I’ve spent more of my days in places like Ireland and Germany than I have in states so closely bordering my own. I decided this trip was the perfect opportunity to experience more of my own country before I depart for another international tour. I present for you a short series on the things I learned along the way. If you’ve no time for anecdotal entertainment, here’s the summary: America is a beautiful, terrifying, ridiculous nation.