Seeing Everything in a National Park the Size of Rhode Island and Delaware With Only a Few Fights

Our tamblerambles through Yellowstone

Friday, June 30, 1988 Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

Fresh morning air and cheerful chirping provided a soothing alarm clock. I didn’t hit the snooze. I faked sleeping — listening and smelling the world as if my only senses.

Mom and Dave were up, and I heard my sister Noelle say something about a dream she had, but I didn’t really listen. My mind wandered — thinking of the last week — the trip from Southern New Jersey — and all the Encountered Beauty. Inside my comfy sleeping quarters — the part of the Pop-Up that extends out, secured underneath with two poles in a V-shape, all worries dissipated.

Women problems? No worries. College major? No worries.

The last week moved in slow motion. The week felt like two weeks. Although I missed friends at home, traveling was becoming a way of life. It was great to be away from work and college responsibilities.

I had Lucky Charms for breakfast — always leaving the charms for last — eating only the oats, first — along with a danish and orange juice. It seemed foreign waking so early and eating breakfast. Before the trip, my day commenced at noon and ended an hour after David Letterman. During that hour, I wrote.

I will enjoy going back to those night owl hours. Ben Franklin is full of shit with his ‘early bed and early to rise,’ nonsense. What did Melville say about Franklin? “He was everything but a poet.” And poets write at night — when the night drives deep into the soul, which Melville implied that Franklin had not.

The Plan of the Day — or as the French say, ‘Le programme du jour’ — was nothing new — drive, see, walk, photo, drive, drive, walk, see, more photos.

The Plan was a Le Grand Tour of the Parc — circumnavigating both Loops of Yellowstone would cost 150 miles — round-trip.

Our journey began at 9:30 sharp — rather late for Les deBowns de Voorhees, New Jersey. The first stop was only a few miles away — West Thumb Geyser Basin. Two rangers, male and female, mâle et femelle, enacted a skit. It was cute. Mom and Noelle thought the guy was cute, too.

No comments about his “tush” though. As a side note: objectifying women is wrong, but as a man, I have no problem as an object of raw, physical desire. I am, after all, Wally Chapstick.

A boardwalk allowed visitors to walk along the basin. The stench of rotten eggs still permeated the air. This one was situated on the shore of Yellowstone Lake. The craters were actually in the water, well — at least three.

Time, as always, was dear. We could not spend too much time (and money) in any one area. That is — if you wanted to see l’ensemble du parc — the size of Rhode Island and Delaware smashed together.

We headed north along Yellowstone Lake

The next stop was further along the Loop Road — Mud Volcano and The Dragon’s Mouth — one had a much better name than the other. These thermal areas were strange and unusual: heated water came crashing in waves against the sides of caves, and then roared out — like a dragon, I guess — and pounded violently against rocks. Le résultat, if you pardon my French, was a spray shot high in the air.

Faint rumblings of the journey water inside the cave echoed long before a tambleramble towards the exit. Mud volcano was different. Mud had accumulated underneath the spring. When compressed air rose to the top, huge bubbles burst forth at the opening — making loud burping sounds.

“Ah, excuse me?” Steam and air were released — which, like humans, Mud Volcano probably appreciated.

Le Grand Tour moved — north. We arrived at the très scenic Upper and Lower Falls of the beautiful Yellowstone River. The river meandered swiftly through Hayden Valley. At Artist Point Overlook, visitors had a full frontal of the Upper Falls.

Could my feeble words do justice, dear reader? Nay, words could never translate such feelings and beauty!

But here I try:

So majestic and endless — for so many thousands of years, — millions of years — tons of water fell hopelessly over the cliff and then within seconds, came crashing down upon the rocks, creating a mystic veil of mist. When the wind was right, that mist carried aloft to the face. Nature touching Man. I focused my camera. But pictures, like words so feeble, are a mere aid for memory, rarely, if ever, telling the story — or the real story of how the photographer or writer felt.

(Such power and force humble me — and that’s tough with the Ego of Wally Chapstick — a “rogue white male” like my friend Alec Mento said, with no hint of sarcasm.)

This eternal beauty that blankets the world before me will long remain after we have all passed into the Shades. Or until Yellowstone explodes and wipes out all Creation. It is, after all, the entire park, one ginormous cone of a volcano.

Nature humbles the human spirit. One tends to feel lonely, not as important as he may believe. The ego must be relinquished — and yet, after a time of silence and contemplation, the human soul renews itself — and rebirth is on hand — a rebirth in human awareness and inner tranquility.

We are, after all, each a small part of the much wider universe. Our atoms still connect with the Oversoul.

A trail led to the side of the cliff

Wally Chapstick, the trailblazer, le douchebag extraordinaire, went first. The family followed close behind. The switchback trail was deep and steep but trotted well by beaucoup de touristes. No one had much trouble. At one vantage point, a full rainbow shot out of the falls. The fine mist rose from the river. The rainbow swayed in rhythmic waves, a dance of light and vapor.

We soon could see the gorge, meticulously carved, the river roaring through the steep canyon, sparsely populated with rugged evergreens, clinging for dear life on the canyon walls — hoping for a secure root system. Families, like trees, are like this, I believe.

Was a photo even needed? What would it really capture, after all?

Dave saw two baby marmots playing together on the edge of a cliff. They were adorable — one rolling on top of the other, and then one on the bottom would spring forward and nip the other in the ear. This play — critters at play and a stage play for us, all performed on the edge of a precipice. But did they worry? This entertainment for all continued for a few minutes. Then they had enough and moved on.

The Lower Falls was only a few miles away. I heard they were larger. At Inspiration Point, where the teens from Happy Days “found their thrill,” the second set of falls was even more impressive.

The river plummeted 308 feet — pounding against the rocks. The Lower Falls are not wide, but slender, graceful, and powerful. The beauty of the Upper and Lower Falls was complemented by the ideal surroundings — various colors of the gorge rocks and lines of evergreens.

It was as if fragments of heaven fell down and settled within the park.

We wanted to spend more time at the falls, but Le Grand Tour waits for no one

The drive continued — wild animals roamed freely at will — bison grazed in grassy fields. Some even came to the roads: these giant beasts with heads like hairy gargoyles were only a few feet away. It was good to know so many roam the park.

At one time, their numbers hovered around 50. Now they’re more than 1,000. (In 2021, there are now 5,000 — a number too high, says park officials. “Nine hundred of these bison will be culled — hunted or caught and slaughtered. A small number will be relocated this winter as part of an agreement reached by wildlife officials and tribal entities.”)

Scores of mule deer and wild elk munched and mulled in the fields, but also by streams — creatures with long antlers, beady black eyes, and muscular legs.

Was Wally Chapstick jealous? Aye, dear reader.

Further down, a coyote — much like a dog, but with eyes colder and darker, and his teeth fiercer and more menacing — crossed our path. Can humans relate to such a hunter?

The land leveled off as we headed north towards Mammoth Springs and Montana

The fields were more rolling and the Yellowstone River, more tame and tranquil.

At Mammoth Springs Visitor Center, with Le Grand Tour now halfway over, we watched a film about Yellowstone in the winter months and the special wonders of that time of year.

The Hot Springs were different: hot running water cascaded slowly down the side of the hill, carving terraces in the rock. Algae had grown, adding spectacular color. A steep walkway led down to the side of the springs. Mom and Noelle elected not to walk. It was strenuous. They were tired. When Dave and I reached the bottom, we glanced up. Steam rose from the multicolored terraces — and that all abiding smell of death and Mordor— sulfur.

Heading south, we made a pitstop at Lava Creek

Le menu du jour: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Pringles, and Little Debbie snack cakes. I explored the stream and crossed over on a large log. But la famille deBowne was ready to depart, so Wally Chapstick had to curtail his Lewis and Clark activities and cross back to the red family truckster.

Le Grand Tour possessed more geyser basins. We stopped briefly. I possessed an interest to witness another geyser erupt, but ma maman declared “we didn’t have enough time and the others were getting tired.”

“We were probably only going to be here once in our lifetime,” I said. “And we should see everything we can.”

I showed that ‘Chapstick hardheaded and stubborn’ streak, but I finally acquiesced to ma maman, agreeing to disagree.

I was an adult, but still not an adult in charge.

We spotted the Firehole Falls Region

We followed the narrow drive back to the falls: the entire area encased in dense growth and shade. The air was cooler. A slight breeze blew through the canyon. The afternoon sun dipped below the horizon. Thick evergreens blocked all the remaining rays. The falls were small by les normes de Yellowstone, but what it lacked in grandeur made up for in precise, integrated patterns of water — surging water pounded hard against the rocks — and cold as mountain snow.

The water reached its climax and cascaded ever so gently. The river resumed its course, the cascading water appeared like listening silver fingers, softly caressing the smooth, glossy rocks, rooted deeply, for now, in the bed of the river. Various shadows cast upon the scene only enhanced Nature’s symphony.

Further up the road, a few were swinging from a rope into a swimming hole. These fine fellows splashed in the river, seemingly oblivious to the cold water. But how refreshing! I, too, longed to take the plunge! And live up to the name, Wally Chapstick. But, alas, dear reader, I had no swim trunks — no towel — and no time.

La mère was tired — fatigued — exhausted —

Our last stop was — oui— mes gentils amis — another geyser basin. The billowing clouds of steam drifted across the grassy plains and into the forest. The water was a deep blue, the foul odor increased by the factor of X to the Tenth Power.

It was late in the afternoon. Back at Grant Village, la mère treat to dinner. No camper meal tonight. I had offered to prepare the meal, but she insisted. I feasted upon the fine cuisine of the region — a Mexican beef burrito — and Dave and Noelle ordered hamburgers réguliers, or in English, for those troubled by cognates, regular hamburgers.

Real original, guys!

The place was pleasant. I felt great sitting and relaxing without having to clean up.

The sky turned gray as we arrived back. Just before the sun went down, we strolled around the lake. I talked to a nice kid from Minnesota — a polite boy with many interests and hobbies. I admire that. A definite Dude Disciple prospect. I collected wood for a campfire.

Dave and I constructed one of our infamous fires. Mom and Noelle soon joined us. With the fire raging, I brought out my guitar that “KILLS FASCISTS” for a sing-along, but we couldn’t be too noisy. Noelle kept complaining that it was “after hours.”

(It wasn’t).

Why not a singing game? I would play three chords — C, D, and then G in the same order. And count. Each person would sing a verse. The next person would add a second verse. And so on. Some of the lyrics were odd and very funny — as in most improvisation. I wished I recorded this.

The fire was indeed enjoyable. Dave and I stayed up late, talked, and slowly watched the fire dwindle. It lasted longer than anticipated. It was late. Tomorrow, like so many yesterdays, was another day of driving, only thirty miles this time — south to Le Grand Tetons.

Dave and I exterminated the fire in Dude fashion. Nature’s Way. It’s gross and sick, and a public display of male genitalia, but hey — it’s the Dude way.

And most of all —la tradition des mecs — the Tradition of the Dudes!

More adventures coming! Look for these stories on The Masterpiece:

• Day 1: Travels with Wally Chapstick and Company
• Day 2: The Traveling Blues Ends with Talentless Bums
• Day 3: The Magicless Normalcy of The Corn Palace, and Other Notables from Iowa
• Day 4: Thousands of Stars Interrupt ‘Rocky’ in The Black Hills of South Dakota
• Day 5: The Wonders of Childhood Rediscovered on a Mountain Hike
• Day 6: When Storm Clouds Turn Into The Big Horn Mountains
• Day 7: Savory Sulfur — the Armpit Incense of an Earth Intense