Outside Yellowstone
“We are the Gentlemen who say… ‘Du-boyz!’”
– (with apologies to) Monty Python and the Holy Grail
ohld Faithful Village gave us crows, but the real countryside hid its wildlife somewhere we never found. He gave us a mysterious bag that looked like a dead hiker’s loot.
The fun NOBO experience was behind us, the rest of the park was ahead. We parted ways with Animal Cracker with love and now walk and talk about the story of The Lord of the Rings. Ice Cream the Uncultured™ was just reading it and had countless questions that sent my inner nerd into ecstasy: Were Gandalf and Sauron the same species? How were Aragorn and Elrond related? Are hobbits simply people with achondroplasia and hairy feet, or something else entirely?
We crossed a muddy swamp full of water lilies and lotus flowers. Sometimes it was up to the knees, but the mud was magical: it didn’t stick to the shoes or the skin. We came out clean on the other side like Andy Dufresne from Shawshank.
«And that’s where the backcountry begins,» Ice Cream declared. He hates wet feet as much as Gandalf.
Now in the countryside, we enjoyed the minor hydrothermal areas, and I was finally able to indulge my inner child and tentatively dip a toe into one of the bubbling vents. I did this from the safety of the trail and was very careful in case the water was hundreds of degrees. It didn’t and my finger remained unharmed.
Hiking is not strict in Yellowstone. The ranger who issued our permits told us that hunting is allowed in the forests except in hydrothermal areas: it’s easy to fall through the thin crusts that form near vents, and temperatures range from mild to bone-dissolving. One hiker, code name Hotdog, went off the trail and fell on one of them, only up to the ankle of one foot, but was severely burned. I would spend the next few hundred miles walking with blistered skin. Kudos to him for not giving up right then and there.
One night we came across an improvised sign made of sticks on the ground. It spelled my name and had an arrow pointing towards a camp. We followed him and there we found Hemingway and Huckleberry, two strong hikers who were now only in our bubble because they hadn’t taken Big Sky and we had. We had seen them in Looking Glass and they had been there for the drama Llama. It was a pleasant surprise to see them again: they were moving more slowly through Yellowstone with one of their friends, now away for a week-long stretch. We ate together and talked about our camp stoves, which served as a campfire. Then, trying to behave at the park, I hung my food in the designated spot and hid the bear’s can of Ice Cream. The others slept with their food. To each his own.
Ice Cream and I had been taking precautions against bears at all times. In black bear country we sleep with our food, but we don’t know grizzly bears like we know black bears, so we’d rather be safe than sorry. Ice Cream, which carries heavy loads with ease, had opted for a full seven-day BearVault, the ultimate in heavy food protection. I used an Ursack, a perfect compromise between weight and protection and the most popular CDT option for bear safety. If a bear finds it, its food will be ground to a pulp and soaked in bear slime, but the animal probably won’t get through the Kevlar (bears lack carnassials and have molars like us, so they can’t get through it). This prevents the bear from developing a taste for human food and meat-man.
Part of my nightly chores had been to hang and hide the food while Ice Cream set up the tent. We never saw a bear, let alone had problems with our food, so maybe all the hikers acting like grizzly bears were the same as black bears were ultralight 3D chess players with big brains. But grizzly bears aren’t hunted in the continental U.S.
Populations are stable, growing 2% to 4% annually for decades, and states like Montana and Idaho have attempted to issue some annual permits, but grizzly bear conservation groups lock them up in litigation. The fact is that they don’t want bears to be hunted at all, stable populations or not, so they fight tooth and nail to keep them intact. One result is that grizzly bears do not have the same fear of humans as black bears. Personally, I’m grateful to bear hunters because every time I see a black bear in the wild, it takes off like a bat out of hell. Except once, when I was called bluffing, but that’s not a story for today.
Today’s story is the red line through Yellowstone. Not only did we see no bears, we saw almost no wildlife. No bison, no moose, no wolves, no beavers. Just a handful of mule deer and a squirrel or bird here and there. The land seemed deserted, arid and calm. I began to suspect that the red line through the park might be the dumbest and least desirable way for hikers. Another point, in my opinion, for not doing it.
During this time we met a lot of NOBOs. This was the thickness of his bubble. Many were dead tired and had finished walking, when they had almost a thousand miles left to travel. Some asked us about Big Sky and we were happy to bring it to life. Others simply told us they were done but didn’t give up. Ice Cream and I were determined to avoid trail burnout and our strategy from the beginning was designed to maximize daily enjoyment. Really slow BOs. BO slow forever.
For me, the highlight of the park was Witch Creek, a volcanic stream that runs horizontally from a hole in a nearby hill. When the CDT crosses it on a bridge, the temperatures are perfect at jacuzzi level and the water is clear without a hint of sulfur smell. I took a literal bath there. Hemingway, Huckleberry, and their friend were there when we arrived, and we had the pleasure of their company again before they left Witch Creek for us.
I stripped down to my underwear and lay down up to my neck. I was in seventh heaven, scratching and rubbing my dirty legs with exfoliating volcanic sand. Ice Cream was already warm enough and only her feet were dangling in the water.
Then we left the park. I walked waist deep through a beaver pond while Ice Cream-Dryfoot tried to cross the dam. To my surprise it worked. Beavers are very good builders and the dam supported their weight without barely moving. Although I think his feet got wet anyway.
After the park, the trail climbs into the alpine areas. Once there, hikers are rewarded with a view of the Teton Mountain Range in all its glory. They are some of the most picturesque mountains in the world and the view from the CDT does them all the justice they deserve. The rolling hills are complete with herds of elk and the majesty of purple mountains. Cue the call of the American eagle (the clip is from a red-tailed hawk, but whatever). MERICA! Eeee-yaaahhh!
We passed many weekend tourists on foot and on horseback, saw huge dog tracks that must have belonged to wolves, lots of bear and grizzly scat tracks, and met an elderly hiker in her 70s. She had her border collie with her, but was otherwise alone. I was doing ten miles a day and doing the CDT in sections. Ice Cream declared her heroin and OG.
Then came the 12 disciples. A monster group of church teens exploring the inside of God. One, like Jesus under the weight of his cross, had to carry a monolithic tarp large enough for everyone to sit under. The leader, a middle-aged man with a look tired from decades of doubts swept under the rug, led the troops, preaching. That’s why in the Psalms it says…
We then met a Japanese NOBO with a sick WWII style titanium canteen who implored us to tell ‘Biggry Birr’ to meet him at a camp up ahead. We promised we would if we saw Biggly Bill.
Finally, to top off the day, we found something strange. Imagine if life were a video game and if your character died, they would leave a small pile of all your stuff in a bag as loot. We found this bag. It was a white trash bag that contained all the hiking gear. Backpack, sleeping bag, kitchen kit, inflatable, whatever. On top was a sun hat, obviously well worn and loved, and a pair of trekking poles. Maybe the owner was digging a well? I screamed for its owner to no avail, but I wouldn’t call again in the middle of the shit either. We left the bag there and took its mystery to the Brooks Lake campground. In the morning we would arrive at the town of Dubois. It’s pronounced Du-boyz, thank you very much. This is not France. This is God’s country.
Unless I am given express permission to use them, all names and path names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. If you like my writing, feel free to subscribe or buy me a coffee using the Suggest the Author button below.
