The Continental Divide Trail: Yellowstone Permits

We’re almost back to the red line, baby!

“Buffalos were not made to be groomed.”
The pavement covers where you used to wander
The wild is not the wild, your homes are not your home.
“I just don’t think buffalo were meant to be groomed.”

— Fenced Buffaloes, by Good Zen

northNothing says “gateway to Yellowstone” like a town full of “Don’t Pet the Hairy Cows” T-shirts depicting a bison looking down on a tourist.

After Big Sky comes West Yellowstone and a reunion with the red line. There are Big Sky alternatives that enter Yellowstone National Park from the north and only join the red line after the park, but we didn’t go that route. I had to pick up my medications in Rexburg, ID, and we planned to hitchhike from West Yellowstone.

The small town of West Yellowstone, with a population of about 1,200 but welcoming more than four million visitors a year, lies in the strip of the park that Montana claims as its own. If you’ve ever been to a national park gateway town, you know what it’s like. Tourist shops sell things that you’ll buy in the frenzy of vacation, store in your garage for a decade or two, and then send them to a landfill for future archaeologists to find and ponder. Wildlife statues and murals abound. As in college towns, there is an abundance of yoga pants, heads of broccoli, perfumes and colognes. Nature is beautiful but it smells bad, so dew-dew.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. To see West Yellowstone as only a hiker can, you have to walk there, and we were still walking. The night before we had slept on a paved road that joins Highway 191 heading south into town. The night had arrived with all its makeup, the sky stained with reds and oranges that faded into blue. But every rose has its thorns, and Mother Nature is, as my sweet grandmother says, a total bitch, so we had to enjoy the splendor of the night while being bitten by hordes of mosquitoes that buzzed from the river valley in the cool of the evening. Being the spot finder, I found a spot to pitch the tent in a small alcove off the road. It was on state forest land and hidden from the eyes of curious drivers. We sleep like babies and keep our blood to ourselves.

In the morning we began the real trip to the city. There is a jeep track right next to and parallel to the highway that allows easy walking. The road itself is very busy and lacks a large shoulder. Long and monotonous but safe and sound, we found this jeep road perfect for a fix of marijuana gummies and before we knew it, we were on the outskirts of town. There’s a ranger station there and a gray-haired guy in dusty work clothes greeted us as we passed. The munchies and hiker hunger were rumbling in my stomach. “Any good places nearby to eat?” I asked.

The man beckoned: «Come in!» He didn’t wait for us to start following him before heading towards the door.

Ice Cream and I shared a very baked look full of questions. Was there a restaurant inside? Baked goods? Was the man just going to eat us? We followed him, unable to avoid our curiosity.

There was no food inside. We only caught a glimpse of Mr. Beckon as he walked through an open door into a back room, presumably to leave with some sort of treat. Meanwhile, an old woman dressed in a ranger outfit greeted us from behind a counter. We waved back and hoped our eyes weren’t too glassy. Play the sobriety game. Play to win. Looking for something to talk about, I pointed to a wolf skull adorning the counter. «Is this a wolf skull?» I asked.

Ranger Gray shrugged. «No one has volunteered that information yet.»

«Well, it’s your lucky day. I inform you that it is.» I picked up the skullOh, poor Yorick!—and pointed out several fragments while he explained. «Larger than most dogs and all coyotes, narrow snout, large ridge on top of skull for attachment of jaw muscles. Carnassial teeth at back of jaw indicate an obligate carnivore. Definitely a wolf. Future visitors can be told there are many packs in the park.»

Ice Cream chuckled and Ranger Gray said, «Packs? Of wolves? It’s called a pack.»

«Well,» I said. «No one has volunteered that information so far.»

Our dad joke laughs and moans were a segway for Mr. Beckon to return. With him was another boy; the two could have been brothers. “Here’s the local food expert,” Beckon pointed to Brotherman, who then began a litany of every restaurant, fast food joint, food truck and coffee shop in the city. We selected the Slippery Otter Pub and thought it was perfect. We had a small window seat where we could look out at the street while we ate. The food was good, the coffee was better, the waitress was Estonian and she taught us how to say good morning in her native language. Good day!

Already full and getting off the gummies, we explored the town. I bought a new shirt. My Jolly Gear hoodie, which had so far served me faithfully on the French Way and Europacking, as well as the CDT, was finally dying. Jolly had thinned the material in newer versions, making it more breathable and quick-drying, but also more susceptible to degradation. My shoulder was now poking out of a fist-sized hole, and there were smaller tears and worn holes everywhere. But I haven’t seen any trailside stores selling Jollies, and I had to settle for a Columbia fishing shirt. Perfect, except it didn’t have a hood. «Do you have a pair of scissors?» I asked the cashier. They handed me a pair and I ceremoniously cut the hood off my Jolly and threw the rest in the trash. Later, I sewed the hood on the Columbia for sentimentality and practicality.

Next was the permit office. We still had mild trauma stress disorder coming from the Glacier National Park system. Front desk workers welcomed us and led us to a small back room filled with maps with just enough space for a four-person table and a computer desk. At the desk was a handsome young ranger with black hair and a name tag that said something like T. Vanderhoppinblokenstein. We talked to the ranger quite a bit, but in short, hiker permits in Yellowstone are much better thought out than in Glacier. Campgrounds along the red line have permits per person, not per site, allowing many more people to be allowed each night at each site. In addition to that, these sites are preferably offered to hikers. Of course, the Red Line through Yellowstone is one of the least spectacular or desirable routes, but at least it’s not a nightmarish bottleneck. Additionally, permits in Yellowstone are much cheaper: they cost about five dollars per person instead of ninety dollars for the first hiker on site, then ten dollars for each additional camper.

But we haven’t gotten the permits yet. First we needed to get to Rexburg. We thanked ranger T. Schmorgesbordleson and walked to the outskirts of town, where we camped like cowboys in the pine forest. It was physically comfortable, but there was concern that village bears would stumble upon us and eat us like soft tacos in our sleeping bags. No bears came and we woke up undisturbed. A few trips later we were in Island Park, ID, a small town with a few fishing lodges and a Texaco that would be our home for the next four days. There we would make friends with Cook, the retired Marine, Rope, the hiker, and meet a semi-famous band. But more on that in the next article.

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