When in Wyoming

Even though it was the beginning of the end for me with Disney [their cartoons stopped being good just around the time I became too cool for them, what are the odds?], I could not stop the refrain [or what little I remembered of it] of Pocahontas' "Colors of the Wind" from saturating my subconscious last week in Wyoming.

Between that and the actual use of an ad-lib acapella "Bear Necessities" as a bear deterrent on a hike [fact: we never did see that Grizzly] there was little else to soundtrack the vacation save the occasional firefighting helicopter and episodic throng of tourist babble.

Grand Teton National Park

A week in a one-room cabin-like hotel room with my parents. No television. No computer. No books [I incorrectly assumed that if not LAX, the Jackson Hole Airport would be a treasure trove of reading materials]. Just a black and white photograph of some early 20th century explorers in the Grand Tetons intent on capturing and confounding our imaginations each night [I mean, if these people weren't somehow famous, why would they be on the wall?].  I may not have completely withdrawn from the wifi-verse, but ever closer to the unplugged life.

Even now I draw only on my retreating memories while awaiting a flash-disk of photographic proof to be compiled and corresponded to me [reminiscent of kodak film's prolonged tease] since I foolishly thought I could empty out my iPhone in preparation for a entire week of vacation [those purple sky dots have become my signature]. It maxed out in two and a half days. And no, no one sells disposable cameras anymore.

The animals! I had no idea what to expect from Yellowstone, and knew even less about the Grand Tetons, but both National Parks seemed like they were famous for a reason and I was game to find out. I never anticipated an American safari, where hundreds of animals you had assumed were extinct [or existed only in captivity] would saunter about beside a highway, oblivious and indifferent, programmed only to migrate. Embarrassing also to note that most of my personal memories related to said noble beasts were born of the cruel and wasteful hunting episodes of that pioneering and popular black-and-green two-floppy-disk New World Odyssey, The Oregon Trail. Yes, I even feel guilty for those pixelated bison.

Moose and Squirrel

Less than a bottle of wine into our first happy hour at the Jackson Lake Lodge overlook did we spot a mother moose and her baby, and less than two bottles of wine later someone spooked Mrs. Moose back into hiding for almost the rest of the week. Two days and a multi-state detour later [notoriously lacking in stereotypical potatoes] around the innocuous-sounding but irritatingly-situated Berry Fire that blocked the only road connecting the two Parks, we entered Yellowstone through the thick smoke of yet another wildfire. With heavy eyelids and heavier hearts it seemed the air would never clear [though my mother is not impressed by airborne particulates until they begin to obscure the vision of one's own extremities]. After sitting in a mile-long traffic-jam simply to enter the park, spirits at an all-time-low, I kid-you-not the clouds parted and there was a family [more harem, less nuclear] of elk lounging on an idyllic river bank. Energetic calves exploring the shallow waters, never far from the sunbathing momma elk, all under the watchful eye of the distant solemn patriarch. You wanted to roll down the grassy hill and forget that sharp antlers and defensive kicks awaited any unwelcome visitors. Bright sun, crisp smell of pine; it was a perfect moment, just as quickly and perfectly soiled by busloads of boisterous bourgeoisie. But I hate crowds.

For every new species encountered, I fleetingly envied all the other National Geographic wannabe photographers with their telezooms and tripods, camped out at known whereabouts, breath-holding, willing the animal into their frames. Most of my pictures will be too muddy to do the creatures justice. Pronghorn antelope butts, bounding away. A tiny black dot that sans digital zoom represents a black bear in a tree, adorable because it was out of bearspray range. The just-missed eagle divebombing a fish next to a famous geyser/hot-spring waterfall. Maybe someday I'll come back with real equipment, or allow organic embellishments of the tales with each re-telling.

Forgetting for a moment the menagerie, the backdrop alone was worth the travel. I didn't know what the Grand Tetons were before [and yes, that is what you think it means in French] but they so dominated the surrounding flats from all sides that I can't un-see their characteristic ragged edges, much more a Swiss Alp than any domestic affair [I'm talking to you, Great Smokey Mountains]. Legit glaciers. Crystal clear mountain lakes. The hints of light yellows and reds in the tiny bushes and trees dotting the endless monochromatic sagebrush made my cries for "fall color!" both a running vacation joke and a silent vow to not let this autumn pass without an attempt to find where it hides in the crevices of California.

Grand Prismatic Spring (steam) at Yellowstone

And then there's Yellowstone, another world in itself. The mouth of a super-volcano [yep, a new fear] with exotic acts of thermodynamics at every turn. Tantalizing and dangerous pools have lured at least 22 souls to their untimely ends [one earlier this year] tempt the most cautious treads to leave the rickety boardwalk. Noxious gases rising from the earth seem convincing evidence of hellfire [wiki-fact: the word brimstone is literally an archaic term for sulfur, of which this steam reeked]. The punctual performing geyser that my mother belittled on camera ["come on! you can do better!"]. A mini-Grand Canyon was far less insignificant after descending the 328 see-through-stairs of Uncle Tom's Trail and almost unbearable on the 500 ft vertical ascent when considering the very real possibility of sudden jarring seismic activity. And that was in two days, on the most circled loop, barely scratching the surface.

The food ranged from standard pic-a-nic basket fare, to full on fancy-pants cuisine and I dabbled carnivorously for the sake of adventure. The bite I had of elk loin was surprisingly [I-hate-to-say-it] velvety, and though I don't know what "gamey" tastes like, I assumed it meant bad/sour/chewy with hints of soil, and this was far from it. Pheasant is just fancy chicken, obviously. And the buffalo carpaccio, mocked for the "What the hell is that? Sawdust?!" appearance of its scattered cheese and nut topping, could have been any carpaccio, but I felt a modicum less guilty knowing the wild bison are never hunted in the parks and only sacrificed in times of overpopulation. We sampled all things [mostly liquid libations] huckleberry and managed to toast the day in the most exotic locals [in the middle of a lake or at the top of a mountain, my parents are strict about cocktail hour]. On our second tour of Idaho we finally found the elusive "big" potato [on Route 33 outside Spud's Drive-In Theatre].

I was thoroughly impressed at how large and relatively untouched it all seemed. The idea that the amount of protected land required for mass migrations of wild animals exists in this modern era seems unheard of, especially to this child of the sprawl.  Naively hope it lasts forever, or until the mega-volcano blows and we become extinct. But maybe I should just pick out a retirement plan instead of counting on that contingency.