Dollywood’s Smoky Mountain Christmas event that takes place every winter is unparalleled to any other Christmas production. The park is trimmed with Christmas lights all over the place, heart-warming tales are brought to life in great musical productions and the smell of warm cinnamon bread from the grist mill is caught in the cool mountain air. These are just a few of the highlights. Along with all these things celebrating the season, Dolly Parton, and her theme park, have even had the ability to change my view of Santa Claus.
It was a few Christmas seasons ago that I decided to check out this place called Dollywood and see what it was all about. I was impressed, mesmerized by the sights and sounds and thrilled that such a place was a mere weekend trip away from my home in Kentucky.
Dolly and Kenny’s I Believe in Santa Claus.
Unsure of where to begin, nearly racing around the park in excitement, taking in all I could, I eventually boarded the Dollywood Express- a real steam locomotive, chugging around the park. As it climbed up one of the foothills of the Smokies, a song was piped into the train, “I Believe in Santa Clause,” by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. I was relatively new to Dolly Parton and hadn’t heard this song before. It was from Dolly and Kenny’s 1984 Christmas album, “Once Upon a Christmas.” Among its lyrics are a string of positive sayings, including:
“I believe when someone hurts us we should forgive and forget”
“I believe in family, in country and in smiles”
“I believe in saying what you mean and meaning what you say” ‘
“I believe a better attitude can make a better way”
“I believe love should prevail at any cost”
“I believe I am so therefore I should do all that I can
To be a better piece in the puzzle of God’s plan.”
Along with all these statements, repeated in the main chorus, is added “And I believe in Santa Claus.” I was attentive to the song. It was catchy and festive, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the lyrics. Were they simply sugar coated and frosted feel good words for the holidays, or did they have more meaning? And if they did hold meaning, how exactly would Santa Claus equate to love prevailing at any cost and forgiving and forgetting. The Santa Claus we know of gives gifts to children on Christmas and has a naughty and nice list, but Dolly has associated him with much more. As a Christian, I honor the fun and cultural tradition of Santa Claus, but I don’t oversaturate my Christmas with this character, when to me Christmas has a much deeper meaning in Christ’s birth. Is there a way to reconcile Santa Claus with my religious belief of Christmas?
Now it is true, whom we consider Santa Claus is a historic figure. Only his story and attributes have been fictionalized greatly over time. What we do know is that the original Saint Nicholas, from whom we have derived the modern Santa Claus, was a third century Christian bishop in Asia Minor known for his good will and secret gift giving, but think about who he has become today. Who is Santa Claus to you?
Twas the Night Before Christmas
In Dollywood, there is a stage production every Christmas season called “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” It’s largely about Santa Claus, not the historic saint, but the jolly man of today. The mother in the stage production says, “Santa Claus is generosity personified.” She sings, “You find him anywhere you find unselfish love,” and “If there is kindness in this world, there is a Santa Claus.” This is when the Christmas light came on in my mind.
Believing in Santa Claus, as Dolly has put in her songs, is not simply believing in the magical man in the red suit. It is believing in a spirit of kindness, of giving and goodness. Dolly expounded further on this concept by explaining her song, “I Believe in Santa Claus,” in the audiobook version of “Songteller: My Life in Lyrics.” The man we know as Santa Claus is the personification of those good things Dolly sings about. Santa Claus is all the good will of Christmas wrapped up and materialized as a person, from God Reaching down with the greatest gift of all in a manger, to the hope that brings and the love that it displays. He also personifies the excitement in our hearts this time of year, the joy in our celebrations and the love and generosity which has been shown to us, which we extend to others. Santa Claus is the spirit of all of this. He’s all of it wrapped up in a character, or at least that’s what Dolly and her theme park have convinced me.
Be More Santa Claus
It’s easy in the gloom of winter to become pessimistic and let coldness creep in our hearts, but pause, do you see Santa Claus? Look for him in the acts of kindness this season. You’ll find him in the selfless acts of love, in kindness between strangers, and the care of a neighbor. Be encouraged as you seek out the good around you this Christmas, but also be reminded not to just look for and recognize the good things around you, but remember to encompass that spirit in your own life. The Christmas season is a great time to bring generosity and kindness to the forefront, and bring light to others in the dark of winter. It could be time for us all to be just a little more Santa Claus.
Insider Tips
– You can catch Santa Claus in person at work in his cabin in the Smokies at Dollywood during Dollywood’s Smoky Mountain Christmas event.
– Seeing the “Twas the Night Before Christmas” stage production is well worth your time and a great way to celebrate the spirit of Christmas.
– Take a train ride on the Dollywood Express. Plan to get there ahead of time to secure a spot and enjoy the Christmas lights from the train.
– A Dollywood season pass can make a great Christmas gift.
Listen to Dolly and Kenny’s “I Believe In Santa Claus”
My new book is here! What is it about and why should you read it? I want to address this questions and more, so you really know what’s up with this book and why I’m so excited.
What is this book about?
This book chronicles a month-long adventure of camping and hiking in the U.S. National Parks in the summer of 2017. It features humorous and adventurous accounts, and descriptions, of the natural world, and it explores the inspiration gleaned from such experiences. It also explores the question of, what should be our response to natural beauty and the craftsmanship of God? It is not only an account of the physical adventure, and the things learned along the way, but also a look into my mind and the thoughts I have as a solo adventurer.
Why did you write this book?
Back in 2016, after another summer of adventure and being so inspired by my experiences, I started blogging. I realized I had a lot I wanted to share from my past adventure. As a writer, I used to write more fiction, but I realized my real life adventures provide all the engagement and entertainment one seeks in a good story. I came to find an audience online that appreciated and was inspired by my writing. I also had things I learned that I really thought others could benefit from, and not only that, but I wanted to inspire people to get out and come to realizations on their own. I decided to refine and compile what I had written, as well as include additional pieces, to create my book, Canyonlands: My adventures in the National Parks and the beautiful wild. I knew from the very start this would not be a stand-alone work. Still Calm, and Quiet: More Adventures in the National parks and the beautiful wild is the second installment in this series.
Should I read Canyonlands: My adventures in the National parks and the beautiful wild first?
I would love it if you read Canyonlands, but you don’t have to read it to enjoy Still, Calm, and Quiet. In its intro and opening chapters, Canyonlands gives a little bit more background and provides more of the logistical details of my travels.
Who published this book?
I am my own independent publisher and own all rights to my work. I design and format my publications. By meeting publishing standards, I am able to work with Amazon for printing and distribution.
How long did it take to write this book?
I began writing this book in 2019, before Canyonlands was published. It has taken me about three years. I had some journal entries and writings written during the 2017 travels that were incorporated into chapters of the book.
What makes this book unique?
This is very much a variety book. In addition to my adventurous accounts and exposé of inspiration, this book includes two biographical works, a fictional piece, a couple poems, over 100 black and white photos, and dozens of vintage illustrations. It has some great stories of me passing out, encountering a mountain lion, getting caught in a lightning storm, having my camp attacked by squirrels, being stuck in a buffalo jam, getting lost on a mountain, and much more!
Where can I buy this book?
Currently this book is only available on Amazon and is eligible for regular and Prime 2 day shipping. In a few months it should be available from walmart.com and other online retailers. Buy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093RMBNCP
Is this book the same collection of stories found on your blog?
Some of the stories are the same as the ones found on my blog, but they have been refined, reedited, and augmented. A number of them are not and are only found in the context of this book. As one of my blog readers, you will find this new and fresh.
What are the parks featured in this book?
Chiricahua National Monument (AZ)
Fort Davis State Park (TX)
Big Bend National Park (TX)
Rio Grande National Scenic River (TX)
Chamizal National Memorial (TX)
White Sands National Park (NM)
Guadalupe Mountains National Park (TX)
Carlsbad Caverns National Park (NM)
Dinosaur National Monument (UT/CO)
Grand Teton National Park (WY)
Yellowstone National Park (WY/MT)
Bruneau Dunes State Park (ID)
Craters of the Moon National Monument (ID)
Wild Horse State Recreation Area (NV)
Rye Patch State Recreation Area (NV)
Lassen Volcanic National Park (CA)
Shasta State Historic Site (CA)
Whiskeytown National Recreation Area (CA)
John Muir National Historic Site (CA)
Is this book content appropriate for all readers?
Yes
What other books have you written?
Wild Christmas (2006)
Dakota Broken (2015)
Among Blue Smoke and Bluegrass (2018)
Canyonlands: My adventures in the National Parks and the beautiful wild (2019)
Señor Hodge’s Casa de Mascotas (2020)
Theodore Roosevelt for the Holidays: Christmas and Thanksgiving with the Bull Moose(2020)
Consider these three commands: Be still. Be calm. Be quiet. Do they have merit and meaning in our spiritual lives? These directives were put on my heart so poignantly, that I wanted to explore them further and test them against scripture to unpack their meaning and find if they had merit.
“Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations. I will be exalted in the earth” – Psalm 46:10. This is the verse that first comes to mind when I consider the instructions, “Be still. Be calm. Be quiet.” But what does this instruction “be still,” really entail? It has to be more than an instruction to stop physically moving. I think we often interpret it to be a verse of comfort, a phrase to cast out fear, but as I look into it, it’s really more about honor and worship. It’s about submitting to God. The Hebrew term is “raphah,” which is translated as “cast down,” “drop,” “weaken,” even “to fail.” We see it translated as “to fail” in Deuteronomy 31:6 “Be strong and of good courage, fear not, nor be afraid; for the Lord thy God goes with thee, he will not fail (raphah) thee nor forsake thee.” So with “raphan” meaning “to fail,” how can it be that God is calling us to fail? I believe it is a call of surrender, to heel to His will, to lay our own will down before Him. It is to recognize His awesomeness, humble oneself and “fail” and “fall,” if you will, before Him. It is knowing that He is God. He is exalted. It is not about you. Take whatever plans you have and selfish motives and lay them before the Lord, for He is good.
Everything that churns in your mind or that concerns you, belongs to Him and His lordship. 1 Peter 5:7 says, “Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares for you.” But also Psalm 46:10 when it says “be still,” can apply to your whole being, not just your will. It can be a complete whole-being surrender, knowing that you are man and He is God. He in in charge. This command may seen harsh and demanding. Well, I think it is. There is the authority of the almighty God in these words. He is deserving and justified in his command.
Although these words may be direct, authoritative, and could even be seen as a raising of the voice, we are also instructed to “be calm.” God is love. Love casts out fear. In Exodus 14:14 Moses instructed the Israelites: “The Lord Himself will fight for you, just stay calm.” or in other translations, “hold your peace.” This was commanded when the Israelites were being chased down by the Egyptians and approaching the Red Sea, a seemingly impassable barrier. Can you imagine the stress? If the Israelites were supposed to be calm and “hold peace” while cornered by the Egyptians at the Red Sea, how much more can we be calm in the situations of our lives?
More than any other command in the Bible we are told to “hold our peace” or not worry. In the NIV translation we are instructed to “not be afraid” seventy times, and in the KJV “fear not” is commanded over 500 times. Could God be any more clear, “be calm”.
In the gospels we read of the disciples on a boat with Jesus, afraid of the storm stirring. We read of Jesus sleeping but then getting up when the disciples expressed distress. He rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Peace, be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely “calm.” He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
When the angel Gabriel appeared to both Mary and Joseph he instructed them not to be afraid. One reason could be that the heavenly being was so different to behold that it struck up fear, but also it is our human nature to fear. How many different fears can we label with a “phobia”? How often is our stress rooted in fear? There is a reason we are instructed so many times to calm our fear in the Bible. To live in this fear is our default human setting, but whether acute or chronic fear, God is here to deliver us from it, and He commands us to “heel” and “be still.” The battle belongs to him. Our fear has no merit. It has no credit in the presence of God.
To behold this type of peace, as commanded, is to know you are complete, you lack nothing. The origins of the word peace is the Hebrew word ”shalom,” literally translated to “completeness.” How often is our lack of peace caused by a notion that we are not equipped or complete? Our stresses are caused by lack of finances, inability to change circumstances, fear that we will not have what we need, that things will not turn out the way we imagine, that we are not enough. Heal, before Him. “Be still,” “Be calm,” for you are complete in Him. Fear is but frivolity. If we could only truly adopt that would we be so better off.
“Be quiet” I think is quite synonymous with the others. It reinforces and compliments them, but also it has its own subtle notions. In James 1:10 we read “Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” This is often taken in an interpersonal regard, but what if we apply it also in our relationship with God? How mindful are we of the voice of God, versus how much are we distracted by our feelings and are too busy listing our grievances in prayer or lifting up verbal praise that we forget to silence ourselves before the Lord? In Psalm 37:7 we are instructed “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.” Hearing from God may often involve quietude and patience.
I know there is a time and place for celebration, for exalting God with words and songs in community or in private, to teach and instruct from the written word of God, to pour out our hearts in words to God in prayer, to write, reflect, and read from others inspired by His word, but could it be that sometimes our words are but ornaments, or adornments, on our religion? In 1 Peter 3:3 it is said, “Do not let your adorning be external—the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear— but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.” Can sometimes our words be external adornments? Is what’s more valuable a “quiet spirit”? We have to be careful. Proverbs 10:8 says, “The wise of heart will receive commandments, but a babbling fool will come to ruin.” It implies that wisdom involves silence and listening.
Can you find a place to embrace the silence, to simply acknowledge your presence before God and rest in his peace? Can you set all your words aside for a moment. Perhaps you’ll find this place in a walk in the park, a hike in nature, a drive in the car, taking in the sunset, looking out the window, or sitting in a pew of a church or cathedral.
While the world may run around self-absorbed and laser-focused on selfish plans, being esteemed as “empowered”; the media may manipulate us with fear saying “do this to stay safe and healthy,” or “buy this to not miss out and to fit in,” or “vote this way to prevent imminent doom,” and then praise us as being “prepared” and “responsible”; and while babble, chater, heartless words, noise, distractions, and slander boil up all around; Heel. “Be still. Be calm. Be quiet.” Recognize your completeness in Him, your security in Him, and your place in the awesome presence of God. He cares for you.
Be Still (Heel!)
– What plans do you have, immediate or long-term, that you need to place before the Lord, to set in His hands.
– What are some attributes of God character that you can praise Him for as you surrender and humble yourself before Him.
Be Calm.
– What worries do you have that you can give up to God? What attributes of God’s character directly address these fears?
– In what ways has God delivered you or His people from troubles in the past?
Be Quiet.
– Just be quiet. Acknowledge your presence in the almighty God and rest in His care and His peace.
I was at the home of John Muir, one of my favorite modern historical figures whom I would file right next to Theodore Roosevelt. I was excited. Before me stood his Italiante Victorian mansion in the Alhambra Valley of Martinez, California. It was a tall boxy white house with palm trees in front. Behind it lay orchards and a giant sequoia. I thought I was coming to this National Park site the summer before, but I found myself at Muir Woods National Monument, a pocket of forest named after John Muir, instead. I was confused, for I couldn’t find his house, but now I was here. I made it!
I first came across the name John Muir on a small leather pocket-sized journal that had the overused quote on it, “The mountains are calling, and I must go.” I went on to learn a lot about him through the Ken Burns documentary: The National Parks. Later I couldn’t help but learn more about him at Yosemite National Park. My intrigue was sparked. I bought his book “A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf,” at the visitor center of the Big South Fork in East Tennessee, and then listened to a number of his books in audio. His eloquent descriptions of nature and his ability to engulf the reader (or listener in this case) in his words, removed me from my troubles and lulled me to sleep pleasantly many nights.
Upon reflection, I have found I esteem and value John Muir for primarily four reasons: his perspective, his contribution to conservation, his writings, and his simple intrigue. I thought before describing his home, it is worthwhile to explore what John Muir means to me, so I will unpack each of these reasons.
In regard to perspective, John Muir viewed nature in such a meaningful and profound way. No other person has been able to influence my view of nature and add such unique meaningful perspective as John Muir. He beheld great wonders of nature as “cathedrals,” spiritual, soul enriching places crafted by God, direct artistry by Him. The Yosemite Valley was perhaps his favorite of cathedrals and he advocated tirelessly for its preservation. “No temple made with hands can compare to the Yosemite,” he’d write. He believed these sacred places were means of healing and restoration for man. “They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy, set you free…” His sacred view of nature has helped me to approach nature in such a manner as to silence myself, step lightly with wonder, and appreciate the brushstrokes of the Creator.
In addition to his perspective on large areas as sacred temples and cathedrals, he also gave a great deal of thought to the small minor details in nature. He studied plants meticulously out of sheer joy and interest. He saw consistencies in design elements among even the most diverse of things, what he found to be trademarks of a common designer. He believed everything in nature was connected by this craftsmanship. His thrill of a small flower or treasure in a droplet of dew, has influenced my ability to find beauty, appreciate the small details, and look for those signatures of God even in the commonplace occurrences of nature. “Nowhere will you see the majestic operations of Nature more clearly revealed beside the frailest, most gentle and peaceful things.”
These perspectives of course are evident through his writing, and I value his writing beyond even these unique perspectives, for he writes intriguing and daring tales of adventure in all climates and terrains. He tells us about his thousand-mile walk from northern Kentucky to the Gulf of Mexico on foot, his days of pasturing in the Sierra Nevada, his trekking up glaciers in Alaska, and so much more. His writing is eloquent, clear, and descriptive. He is an excellent writer, a fine craftsman with his words. I also delight in his personification of the elements of nature. In a storm he once described trees as “excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship… No wonder the hills and groves were God’s first temples.” And when describing the winds, they were “singing in wild accord playing on every tree and rock, surging against the huge brows and domes and outstanding battlements.”
It was largely through his writing he was able to persuade efforts toward conservation. Whether through direct plea or exhibiting the value of nature through his wondrous descriptions, his goal was to get people out in nature and discover its value for themselves. Although not founded until two years after his death, John Muir is considered the father of the National Park Service because the principals of the park service were so profoundly rooted in Muir’s ideals and advocacy. Although his legacy runs through the whole National Park Service, Muir is most largely connected with California and with Yosemite National Park. He once guided Theodore Roosevelt on a famous camping trip in Yosemite. Camping beneath a giant sequoia, he convinced Roosevelt to preserve this national treasure as federal land. Without Muir, many of our national park treasures may have been lost to industry and manufacturing. Muir set the stage and started the conversation for the conservation of our public lands. He did so with such fervent passion, often most exhibited behind the pen.
Aside from his perspective, his writings, and his contributions to conservationism, I also am a fan of John Muir, because he is simply an intriguing individual. He once climbed up a tree in the middle of a storm to feel what the trees feel and write about it. He peered over Yosemite Falls to see what the waters see when they are about to fall. He camped in a graveyard on the moss, for there was nowhere else to go, and he tells us about it. I do not aspire to be like him in this regard. He is a little too much for my liking to model after. Even he himself advised people not to follow in his daring ways. He was self-aware and knew he was on the fringes of sanity, but this makes him all the more interesting to follow in writing. He takes people to places no one else will go.
So here I was at his home in California. How did such an eccentric man live at home? I thought. John Muir wasn’t always from California. His family was from Scotland. He immigrated with his family at age eleven and settled on a lot of land in northern Wisconsin. They toiled and formed that land into a farm. As a young man he moved to Indianapolis and was working in a factory until a metal blade punctured his cornea. Per doctor’s order, he remained blind-folded in a dark room for four weeks, dreaming and longing to see the beauty of the natural world. He thought his sight was gone, but it recovered, and Muir was a changed man. He adopted as he would call it, the life of a “tramp” traveling the nation from one pocket of wilderness to another. He wound up in California, and after extensive exploration, he married Luisa Strentzel. Together they started a family and inherited the house here in Martinez from her parents.
At this home he’d fully engage in agriculture, planting and harvesting in his orchards. Here he’d also write many books and articles and embark on more explorations, and here he would live up until his death on Christmas eve 1914.
Given that Muir was such a nature loving, versatile man, who often was found camping out in the wild, it is peculiar to imagine him in such a fine Victorian style mansion. But the inside was not overly lavish nor pompous. The well-versed park ranger led a small group of us on a tour. On the main floor in the dining-room he explained how Muir would often tell whimsical and colorful stories to children at the dinner table. One in particular, remembered by his children, was about a kangaroo who would carry a leprechaun around in her pouch. Oh how I wish that story was written down! Muir did not write down his childrens stories, except one about their dog Stickeen in Alaska.
When we proceeded to the second floor, there I saw the “Scribble Den,” his study, his desk where he penned all his famous works, and reached out to politicians and publishers and the public to save America’s wild lands. I nearly got goosebumps- knowing from this room came such influential writings.
Despite how satisfying it was to see the “Scribble Den,” perhaps the highlight of my visit was the plum orchard out back. The park ranger said, feel free to pick any of the fruit off the trees.”
What?! These trees were planted by John Muir himself! I can eat an actual John Muir Plum?! As I walked around the orchard, I read little placards about the plants. John Muir introduced us to new variations of fruit, cross bread and cultivated. I picked three plums and revelled in the novelty of such an experience.
Upon leaving the yard I examined the sequoia tree. Muir planted it over a hundred years from a sapling of the Sierra Nevada. To this day it still stands. From there I returned to the visitor center where I browsed the John Muir books for sale. I bought “The Story of My Boyhood and Youth,” which is a great and surprisingly at times, comical read; and a copy of his children’s story “Stickeen.” I also bought two post cards, the ones featuring Muir and Roosevelt standing at heights in front of Yosemite Falls. I’d write my parents and older brother and sister-in-law about my experience.
I often wish more people knew about John Muir and could approach nature and wild places with his perspective. I despise obnoxious music being blasted by fellow hikers or camping in a park amongst loud and rowdy drunkards, or seeing people littering our forests and defacing our rocks. If more people would approach nature like Muir, with reverence, curiosity, and sacred wonder, I think it would do them and everyone an immeasurable good. I certainly owe a debt of gratitude to Muir for the way he has shaped my view and appreciation of nature.
My weathered clothes spun in the washing machine as my mind spun with thoughts. I was at the KOA campground outside Lassen Volcanic National Park in Northern California. It had been a very full day, but I wasn’t reflecting on what the day had been. Instead, I was planning and looking forward to the next and final leg of my summer adventure. I had gone as south as I could and was now as north as I would go.
The day had taken me to many points of interest. Leaving the proper boundary of Lassen Volcanic National Park, I traveled about an hour over to Shasta State Historic Site on my way to Whiskeytown National Recreation Area. The historic site contained the preserved remains of one of California’s once busiest gold mining towns, “Shasta City.” Along with ruins and the facades of old buildings, there was a rustic blacksmith shop, a bakery (which was unfortunately closed), and the old restored town hall which featured the site’s museum and historic jail. I paid $3 to go in the museum. It was well put together and informative about the Gold Rush in Shasta City. Here I learned about the influx of Chinese immigrants that came to California searching for gold. I’d later come to find that this type of immigration was common in many California mining towns in the era. The Chinese immigrants, however, got second dibs to the earth, sifting through rock already mined by the American miners, searching for whatever may have been missed and remained. Here in the museum I also saw artifacts from this old Western town, including vintage gambling machines from one of the town’s past saloons. In the basement of the museum was the jail, the highlight of the site. Down in the cells, holographic prisoners appeared to tell their stories of what landed them in jail. It was pretty high-tech for a state park. Between the information presented, the artifacts shared, and the holograms in the basement, this little museum captivated my mind and took me back to the California Gold Rush. If in the area, I would not pass this site up. It is worth a stop.
After my visit at Shasta State Historic Site, I visited another National Park unit: Whiskeytown National Recreation Area. Approaching, I tuned into an AM radio station giving general advisory warnings for tourists. I stopped at the Visitor Center to get a park map, inquire about hikes, and purchase a sticker. The main attraction of the area, and center of the park, was the Whiskeytown Lake- not nature’s lake, but one created by a dam in 1962 which flooded and covered over most of the once mining town. Water sport and lake recreation is big in the area, but I also found there to be quite a few waterfalls on short hikes. I was going to have a full experience, so I needed to get on the water and see some waterfalls.
I drove on the park road, which wound around the deep blue lake, scooting into mixed forests of conifers and deciduous trees, then revealing, occasionally, short mountains. Along the water’s edge and the road’s side were beige rocks. Despite trees, there seemed to be little shade. The trees were young, short, and the bright day’s sun reached every angle in the park.
My first stop was at Oak Bottom Marina. Here I rented a kayak and got out on the lake. I asked the attendant in the marina where to paddle. She told me about a sunken road in the middle of the lake that’s close enough to the top of the lake that I could get out and stand atop the underwater road. I thought that sounded interesting, but when I started paddling, the water seemed choppier than what I expected and motorboats went zooming by, creating jolting waves. The water didn’t look inviting either. It was dark, appeared quite deep, and had a mysterious essence. I did not want to end up tipped over in the water, so I stayed a bit closer to the water’s edge and paddled over into the lagoon-like area of Grizzly Gulch. Here the water was green, shallow, and warm. Trees grew right alongside the water and even leaned over the water’s edge- giving it a more of a Floridian Jungle Cruise feel.
After an hour on the water, I proceeded on the park road to my first waterfall: Crystal Creek Falls. Here I noted the temperature. My car displayed 114 degrees. This would be the hottest temperature I had experienced thus far in all my journeys. I liked it, for it was dry and comforting.
This first waterfall was named correctly for the water flowing from it was crystal clear. It was a short, stubby, rocky cascade but pleasantly attractive despite its stature. I kicked off my shoes to get down into the clear swimming hole at the foot of the cascade. It was very cold, surprising so for such a hot day, but then not surprising considering the snow-covered volcanic peaks not far off. As I was taking pictures of the waterfall my toes grew numb. Then I decided to immerse my whole body into the water for a fraction of a second. It felt so refreshing. A family made its way down to the water, and I decided to leave it all to them.
I drove just a little way further to the trailhead for Whiskeytown Falls. This 1.7 mile one-way James K Carr Trail was a heavily wooded and shaded area, unexpectedly reminiscent of some of the Big South Fork trails in Tennessee. Whiskeytown Falls was a taller series of cascades. It was reported to be 220 feet tall, but I can confirm that only a portion of that footage was visible from the trail.
Before leaving Whiskeytown I stopped by East Beach. I had all intentions of relaxing on the beach, but it was crowded with both people and ducks, and the humans were blasting their ranchera music as they disregarded the serene qualities of nature. I decided to continue on.
I headed into downtown Redding specifically to see its modern Sundial Bridge. It was a sleek and pleasant spectacle with its enormous sundial reaching into the sky above the Sacramento River. I hadn’t been in an urban environment since Albuquerque, and so it felt strange. I drove around downtown Redding a bit, but nothing else caught my attention. I was excited at the time for the amenities of urbanization, and thus before I made my way back into the mountains to the KOA, I visited a rather large grocery store. I bought some Greek yogurt to have right away and some milk and cereal to enjoy at my cabin.
It was here in the KOA I finally made the decision to alter the remaining route of my adventure. The itinerary had me going to Yosemite. Although it would have been a fine destination, as I have been to Yosemite before, the California coast with its sand and beaches was calling my name. I wanted to reach the ocean. I could make this work. I knew I would lose money on my camping reservations at Yosemite, but I was willing to let that go. Given that cell phone service did not reach this KOA, I asked to borrow the phone in the campground office to call the KOA in Visilia. Success! They could reserve me a campsite. This would just be a stop on the road on my way to the Los Angeles area. I thought perhaps I could stay with my friend Ricky in Huntington Beach, just outside of LA, but I had no means of reaching him. I figured if I didn’t get a hold of him, or visiting so last minute didn’t work out, I could always camp up in the bluffs by Laguna Beach at Crystal Cove State Park. I had camped there two summers prior. The uncertainty and the veering off the itinerary were exciting. I had been on the road long enough now, and had worked through so many situations already, that I had grown accustomed to figuring things out as they arise and making my way around. I would make it work.
The kind people at the office in this Lassen KOA, after letting me borrow their phone, informed me they were getting ready to close their office, but they rang out a pack of laundry detergent for me, and guided me to their washing machines. “Just turn the lights off when you are done.” I love the friendly mom and pop nature of KOA campground (or “Kampground”) hosts.
As I waited for my laundry, I studied the maps. On my way tomorrow I could swing over by the outskirts of San Francisco and visit the John Muir National Historic Site- the once home of the famous man! I had intended to go there the summer before but accidently ended up at Muir Woods. Yes, I decided. I would pencil that in.
When I had all my clean clothes in hand, I made my way back to my camper cabin. This KOA was small and compact, but the owners took pride in it and paid attention to detail, and it was quaint, all nestled in the pine forest among volcanic peaks. In freshly laundered pajamas, I enjoyed a cup of cereal and milk. I turned off all the lights except the small reading lamp attached to the cabin wall behind the bed. I was warm and cozy. My tummy was happy and full of sugared grains. I had a full day and was excited for the final few days that remained of my summer adventure.
I was lost on the mountainside on my way to Prospect Peak, and the prospect of finding the trail again seemed bleak. It had disappeared entirely right before my eyes. I tried to trace my steps to find the trail, but it was no use. The term “trail,” to begin with, was very gracious for I questioned about a dozen times which direction the trail led. I convinced myself for a while that I was on a trail, but it may have been my imagination more than anything.
I was in Lassen Volcanic National Park in Northern California, along picturesque lakes, beautiful groves of pines, and volcanic peaks laden with snow. I had just descended from Cinder Cone volcano. Going up was strenuous, coming down, a breeze. Back at the trailhead I realized I still had quite a bit of sunlight to spare and thought I’d attempt a hike to a mountain peak. There was a trail for Prospect Peak. Not much was labeled, so I didn’t know how long it would take to reach the summit, but I thought I’d give it a try. If it became too much I could always turn around.
As I ascended I was noting how barren the forest was. There were pine trees, the ground was covered in an endless bed of pine needles, and there were tree stubs and the remains of fallen trees scattered about, but aside from that, the forest was very bare. Unlike the forests of the East in which low growth crowds the forest into a rich jungle, here the forest was quite barren and open. As I ascended, mounds of snow laid here and there, but despite these piles of moisture, the place was dry and the air was hot and hollow.
I was enjoying my hike up the mountain, but since the forest was naturally quite bare it contributed to the difficulty of not knowing where the trail led. Occasionally I would see where feet had trampled upon pine needles before, but the higher I got the more snow there was, and it looked like the snow had partially melted and refrozen, wiping away any footprints that might have been. I checked here, there, and everywhere. The trail cut me loose.
I figured there was no use turning around and giving up on reaching the mountaintop because I had no trail to lead me back. Afterall, in order to make it to the mountaintop, all I needed to do was travel upward, and so I did.
Now that I was just trudging through snow, apart from a trail, on my own, the forest became a little daunting, and I was becoming a bit concerned. The trail provided me company and security, but now I was alone. What’s that dark spot over there? Is that a bear? No, just a stump. It was like I felt the bears would know I was lost, and therefore I would become an easy target.
Through the trudge of uncertainty, I reached the top. Snow, about a foot deep, spread all across the mountaintop. A few pines stood around, but for the most part it was bald. The view of Lassen Peak was unobstructed. I had never seen a mountain so snow-capped before. I found it so novel at the time to be amongst such snow in June. Later in my summers working in Montana, I learned that snow and the summer just coexist. Apart from the prominent Lassen Peak were other short mountains behind and around it, each with a sharp peak, not rounded like what I’m accustomed to seeing in Appalachia. One stood behind another, and the pattern continued until it faded into the blue sky. And then, there, where the mountains faded into the blue sky I lifted my eyes and to my utter amazement stood the fantastic, magnificent, incredible, Mount Shasta. Its majestic snow peak appeared sticking out in the blue of the sky. It diminished the grandeur of all the other mountains in the area. I had never beheld a mountain so towering and dominating, and here I was standing before it, still about sixty miles away.
When I first arrived at this point I was held in marvel by Lassen Peak, with all it’s snow, thinking it was quite a spectacle. I couldn’t have imagined a finer mountain in the moment, but once my eyes caught sight of Mount Shasta, I was humbled, and Lassen Peak was humbled, and Prospect Peak was humbled. We were all humbled. The beauty and magnitude of Shasta was beyond our comparison.
A similar sentiment was delivered the following day in the park. I had rented a kayak and was making my way around Manzanita Lake. I was noticing the trees tightly packed together reaching and competing for the highest stance in the forest, to get the most of the sun giving light. Although beautiful and stately in their own being, the pine trees were nothing compared to the mountain just behind them. As my eyes were drawn up to the mountain, my view proceeded to the sky, and I observed the clouds, and how the clouds themselves create enormous rotundities, They formed heavenly mountains of their own, as well as canyons and valleys, with such depth and beauty. Suddenly the grandeur of the mountain was diminished by the wonder of the sky.
This had me thinking that the beauty of nature has no end. It’s a path and always precursor to that which is more beautiful and closer to perfection. If we follow the pathway of beauty, it ultimately leads us to the Creator, whom none of us have seen. We only see His craftsmanship. Just like the majesty of Mount Shasta was unimaginable before it caught me off guard, so the perfected beauty of God is beyond our comprehension. When we see these marvels of nature, they are just fragments of God’s craftsmanship. His perfected beauty, unrevealed to us on earth, transcends all our minds can fathom.
It is great to ponder the depths of beauty, but also there is the practical to take into account when pressing. At the moment, apart from knowing I was on a mountaintop, I was practically lost. I had to find my way back without a trail. I knew I could get down the mountain, but I needed more than just to get down the mountain. I needed to find my car. I needed to be pointed in the right direction. I was torn between whether I needed to bear more to the left or right. I had lost all sight of where I had come from. How symbolic: If we lose sight of where we come from, if we disregard our past, we end up lost.
Focus!
Is that a bear?! No, just another stump.
Evening was upon me. Tonight the temperature will probably drop below freezing in these high reaches, I thought. I am unprepared to be lost in Lassen Volcanic National Park. My mind went right to the worst case scenario in which I couldn’t find my way back.
I had my hiker GPS on me. It was turned on, but I made the classic mistake of not creating a waypoint. This is an error I have made over and over again. I guess I start off my treks full of confidence and excitement, that I lack to even consider marking a coordinate on my GPS. This would have been helpful in a number of instances.
I grasped the GPS in hand, and browsed through its features. Could there be anything to help me? I opened up the map feature. This was the bottom of the line model, and by maps, it only provided black and white outlines of state borders, nothing to be of any real use. But then I noticed lines all over the map of the U.S.. Could it be? Has this device been tracking my every movement since I purchased it?! Sure enough it had! Perhaps that’s a little creepy and invasive, but at the moment I was excited. I zoomed in as close as I could to a singular line on the screen which was my pathway. I could follow this line all the way back to my whereabouts in 2016, but all I needed was to get to the parking lot I was at a few hours ago.
Sure enough the technology delivered!
Back at my tent I heated some canned goods over the fire for dinner and settled in my tent for a rejuvenating night’s rest. Here I was in the dry and cool forest, under the canopy of tall pines, beneath the star filled sky, with the company of the sleeping volcanoes. I was no longer lost but comforted in the luxuries of nature. I was so satisfied.
“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…” I found myself singing into a volcanic crater in the high reaches of California. “…What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming…” What was it about this volcano that spurred on my patriotism and brought forth the anthem? I was in Lassen Volcanic National Park in Northern California. This active volcanic area is asleep, but it was only about a hundred years ago it experienced hundreds of volcanic eruptions in a three year span. In 1907 Theodore Roosevelt, noting the exceptional beauty of the area, designated it as two National Monuments: Lassen Peak National Monument and Cinder Cone National Monument. Nine years later in 1916 these monuments were established as one National Park.
Lassen Volcanic is quite a wonder. Although “asleep,” it’s clearly alive. In the park museum I learned that early pioneers and homesteaders making their way across California noted the “fire in the sky” from the volcanos. Although this fire in the sky hasn’t been seen for a hundred years, there are still areas of the park with thermal springs and fumaroles boiling up from the earth’s fiery depths, reminding the visitor that beneath the earth’s thin crust much is in motion. Here all four types of volcanoes are present: cinder cone, composite, shield, and plug dome. The park features the world’s largest plug dome volcano: Lassen Peak and the last volcano in the Cascades mountain range. Although now monitored for seismic activity, Lassen Peak will not be asleep forever and will erupt again, they say. It’s all in a matter of time. Comforting.
I was very much looking forward to visiting this park. The pictures I had seen of it were just beautiful with pine forests, picturesque lakes, towering volcanic peaks, rich blue skies. It was even more beautiful than photographs could depict. It is certainly one of the underrated National Parks in my opinion. It is quite astounding and unique and doesn’t get the attention it deserves. It’s just so scenic, straight from magazines, and its volcanic landscape is so young and fascinating.
When I first arrived, I visited the Loomis Museum which also doubled as a visitor center. It was constructed in 1927 by Benjamin Franklin Loomis who was a homesteader and photographer instrumental in incorporating the area into a National Park. His museum displayed his photographs of the 1915 eruption, and he eventually donated the museum to the National Park Service. Here I soaked up some history and geology and to my dismay learned that the majority of the park was closed due to impassible snow. I was quite disappointed initially. I particularly wanted to see Bumpass Hell, the section of the park with the fumaroles and thermal springs, a mini Yellowstone-like area. Despite this closure, I’d still find plenty to explore and enjoy. I started off with a stroll along Reflection Lake, which was beside the museum. It was so tranquil. The ground was carpeted in large golden pine needles, beneath aromatic pines, and I beheld some pinecones as large as my head. This park reminded me in some aspects of Great Basin National Park in that it was this hidden little wonderland up in the mountains.
I decided I’d spend the afternoon and evening going for a hike. One of the most popular hikes of the park was still accessible. That was the trail to Cinder Cone. The trail started into the sparse forest, proceeded to black sand, and spiraled up the cone to the crater atop. I trudged. It was quite challenging. Going uphill in sand took extra effort and strain on the leg muscles. I naturally tried to push myself up with each step but ended up partially digging my feet into the sand. My rate of progress was not adequate for the effort I was exerting, but this was the only way. This cone I was ascending was completely barren and I was so curious as to see what the crater way up there would look like.
The air was hot, dry and thin, and there was a calm stillness to it. I was out here alone. At least I thought so, until a man started coming down the trail as I rounded a turn. I asked him something like “Is it worth it?” or “Am I almost there?” and then we got to talking. I told him I was from Kentucky. He told me he was from a city in California.
The question of “What brings you all the way out here from Kentucky?” led to me explaining how I was a teacher on a National Park road trip, and then we went right into talking about teaching. I came to find out he was also a teacher, a 5th grade math teacher.
“You’re a Spanish teacher? In elementary school?” he questioned in surprise. “We don’t even have Spanish in elementary school here in California.”
I wanted so badly to say: “Well, we’re just a bit more progressive in Kentucky,” but I bit my tongue. I thought it was a funny statement, but wasn’t sure if he would find it so. “Progressivism” is a hijacked political term, but California as a whole prides itself on being “progressive.” Kentucky isn’t often regarded as cutting edge, but in education, and particularly in the district in which I teach, I’d say it is- in a more classical sense of the term. Secretly, inside, I was proud Kentucky one-upped California in this regard.
When I got to the top of the volcano, a large crater was on display, uniform in appearance, of dark brown sand; and at the rim were fragments of red rock, so bright they almost looked bloody. I trailed a worn path padded into the malleable terrain around the rim of the crater. I was in awe of its size and magnitude. I found myself standing there at the rim singing the National Anthem into the crater. Maybe it was a ripple from the patriotism I felt at Roosevelt Arch in Yellowstone; maybe it was because I felt like I had really achieved something by climbing up to the top of this crater, like America has achieved so much in its young life through so much toil and effort; or maybe it was just simple appreciation for the marvelous natural wonders of my nation. Maybe it was the line “And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” conjuring up images of a volcano erupting. I was sincere, but I also laughed at myself afterward. Who sings the National Anthem into a crater? Well, I do. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time out in the wild alone. Perhaps I’ve lost it. If I’ve lost it, I quite enjoy it. It’s not everyday I get to sing the National Anthem into a volcanic crater.
On the opposite side of the crater from where I arrived at the time, I could look out and see the marvelous lava beds stretching across the landscape. Apparently marvelous is not the formal word for the lava beds. The official name is the “Fantastic Lava Beds”. And they certainly were fantastic! Unlike Craters of the Moon, where the entire landscape seems to be some volcanic wonderland, here, from up on the crater looking down, one can certainly see precisely where lava had once flowed alongside the forest, for the forest grove is still complete by the beds. Petrified waves of lava sprawled across the land, dark and ominous, and eventually spilled into a rich blue lake nestled at the foot of another volcano laden with snow. Aside this lava bed, and closer to the volcano I was upon, were pumice fields. These “fields” were very bumpy and rolled like waves frozen in time. On the tops of some of these mounds were spots of red, orange, and pink rock appearing almost like welts or blisters on the earth’s skin- a certainly unique natural wonder to behold.
O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Lost it? Not yet, but soon I was about to become genuinely lost as a mountain trail would disappear on me.
“Where ya goin’?” asked the young man at the Wendy’s who approached my table. I had my road atlas spread out, planning my route to Bruneau Dunes State Park in Idaho. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything along the way. I had my hiking boots on, had my backpack with me from which I pulled out my tablet to check the route, and was so intently focused on the task at hand. I certainly must have appeared as a character on a mission.
“I’ve been on a National Park road trip,” I replied. “I came from Yellowstone and Craters of the Moon and I’m headed towards Bruneau Dunes State Park.” At the time I wasn’t sure how to pronounce Bruneau. I think I said something more like “Broo nay ah oo”
“Oh, ‘Bruno’ Dunes,” he corrected my pronunciation. “That’s a sick spot. You’ll like it.” His lanky arms accentuated his speech. “Where are you from? From here?”
“No, Kentucky,” I replied.
“Sick…”
He bid me safe travels and I was soon on my way. I was pleased to receive the stamp of approval from someone who had been there before. Traveling between National Parks, if there is a large distance, I try to find state parks to visit and stay at to split up the travel. This looked like it would be an interesting one on the way: giant sand dunes in Idaho, who would have thought?” The next National Park stop would be Lassen Volcanic, but I was certainly breaking up this 697 mile drive.
Before my arrival at Bruneau Dunes State Park, I made a stop at a Walmart to restock the supply, and, as planned, buy a skateboard, skrewdriver and candle? Why? I was going to go sand boarding! I would use the screwdriver to take off the wheels and the candle to wax the board. Then I’d be good to go. I thought it was a genius plan. I’d been sandboarding in Huacachina, Peru in the summer of 2015 when I visited Peru with my older brother Nathan, the chocolatier, and my sister-in-law, Catherine. It was so much fun! I was going to recreate the thrills. At Walmart I found a stylish Kryptonic skateboard, back before plastic degraded their value and style.
When I arrived at Bruneau Dunes, I seemed to be in a deserted place. The park office was closed, and the parking lots and campsites were empty. My arrival was through some pretty rural areas with sparse population and wide-open plains of dry, mostly brown, grass with the occasional patches of green. It was a very hot summer day in the nineties, pushing on a hundred. My guess was that I was visiting this park off season. I pulled from my glove box the printed sheet I had of my reservation. I was going to live it up tonight in a camper cabin! Quite luxurious, given I’d been camping in my tent all thus far. My assigned cabin was called Andromeda. It was a one room log cabin with a green tin roof, very similar in nature to a KOA camper cabin. It was situated at the end of the campground nestled with a few pine trees. It had a small porch with an overhang and swing facing flat plains and some sand dunes in the distance. Inside a key was on the table. I brought in my things from the car and got prepared for the dunes. I carefully disassembled the wheels and bearings from the skateboard, tied a wet bandana around my forehead to keep me from drying-up out in the sun, and headed out to the dunes. A short pullout from the park road yielded access to an enormous sand dune. I raced up. The sand was hot, soft, and malleable beneath my feet! I would not have expected to find this bonafide desert in Idaho. Astounding!
When I reached the top, my heart was beating heavily from the swift trudge and the intensity of the heat. Here I feasted my eyes upon the landscape. A small lake sprawled out on the other side where deciduous trees hugged close to the water’s edge. On the other side of the lake more dunes laid across the land, and large plains of grass and shrubs blanketed the landscape. It was a place where the prairie and the desert collided.
Here we go. I positioned my makeshift sandboard and took off, surfing down the sand dunes with great delight and thrill! Just kidding. My board didn’t go anywhere except dig into the sand. I tried again. Nope. This wasn’t going to work. That’s okay. I got a cool skateboard for $25. I did however pose for a picture with the board, which I must confess falsely portrays that my sandboarding attempt was a success.
With board in hand, I walked along the spine of the sand dune, and it was quite a fascinating and usually scenic place. After so many days in the cool brisk Yellowstone, and camping in misty near-freezing nights, it felt comforting to be in the embracing heat of the dunes beneath the sun. The sun’s heat is always reassuring to me and I always enjoy intense dry heat. I descended the sand down to the body of water below. I’d later learn that these sand dunes are believed to have formed about 15,000 years ago in a giant flood. I didn’t stay down by the water long, because pestering flies were all up in my face. I followed the footprints of others in the sand back over to the road where I parked by car.
Time for dinner! I decided to go into town, an eighteen mile drive into Mountain Home, Idaho. My GPS device told me there was a Taco John’s. I’d never been to one before. I’ve seen them here out West. I’d check it out. It was pretty much a straight shot into town on a flat road, but not an open road. It was extremely busy, but not with cars nor with average pedestrians, but rather with rodents. What were they exactly? I wasn’t sure. Mice? Chipmunks? Come to find out they were kangaroo rats. The word “rat” has a rather repulsive connotation, but these little guys were cute. Problem is they were dumb little kamikazes, running out in the road as I approached and then freezing and waiting to be flattened. I tried the best I could to evade their peril, steering in all directions, driving like a drunkard, but there were hundreds of them. I even laid on my horn and slowed down. They had surrounded me. There was no choice but to proceed one way or the other. Sadly a number of them reached their fate that hot evening in June. I wish it wasn’t so, but so it was.
I was fully aware that Napoleon Dynamite was from Idaho. The fictional character from the movie lived in rural idaho. I remember exclaiming “sweet” in my best Napoleon voice as I crossed the Wyoming/Idaho border the day before. When I was driving into Mountain Home, the layout and rural vibes of the area reminded me of the setting of that movie. There is a scene when Napoleon’s Grandma is out four-wheeling on the sand dunes! I had not made the connection until after I had left the area that Bruneau Sand Dunes was where his grandma was! Not far off was Preston, Idaho where the rest of the movie was filmed. If I would have known this, this leg of my trip to Idaho would have been very much Napoleon themed.
In Mountain Home the Taco John’s was downtown. Inside I ordered my food, and sat down to eat. I noticed another customer, a lady, with tight yoga pants on, in which part of her posterior spilled out above the waistline. Her upper body had a few tacky, stale, and distastefully placed tattoos. Her hair was stained drug-addict black. A few more colorful characters came in. I was just simply making observations. I did not draw any conclusions, but was only observing the wildlife as I always do on my adventures. What I do know, is that once my tacos were devoured, I was ready to get back to the state park.
It was dark by the time I got back. In my cozy little cabin, my oasis in the dunes, I had brought in my pillows and sleeping bag and had set them up on the bed. I studied my road atlas and reviewed the photos in my camera. Tomorrow I would dip down and travel West, covering a substantial portion of Nevada. I’d been to Nevada before, one of the most underrated states, full of hidden gems. I was ready to visit her again.
Bears, they’re gonna get me! I have to keep making noise. “Hey bear!” I occasionally called out as a warning. I had learned you never want to surprise a bear. As I hiked up this mountain I intentionally made loud obnoxious steps, kicking the rocks beneath my feet when I had the opportunity. I was hiking solo up Mount Washburn in Yellowstone National Park, along a wide open gravel trail.
It’s all quite ridiculous in retrospect, but this was my first substantial hike alone in grizzly bear country. I had no way to gage the threat of a bear attack other than by all the worrisome warnings from the National Park Service through all the trailhead signs and in the park newspaper. Also, just days prior in Grand Teton National Park, bear spray was selling like it was the latest craze. I thought I would buy bear spray, but when I found out it was $50, I guess my thrifty self decided my life wasn’t worth that much. But there also was a bit of doubt that bears were a viable threat to my safety. I once thought rattlesnakes would be much more of a problem in the Southwest than what they are, and then there were the mountain lions. I never had any trouble with these animals. Maybe bears were just one more to add to the list. And bear spray? Really? It sounded like quite a gimmick to me. Fear is a great way to make a buck. I wouldn’t put it past the greedy and sly to overhype the threat of bears and scare people into buying bear spray. Then again I’m prone to entertain conspiracy theories as distrust seems to be my default in what’s new. If bears were a really serious and substantial threat I was thinking the park service would provide bear spray with the price of admission into the park or require people to purchase it.
Now, don’t take advice from me about your approach to such a situation. This was my very first solo hike in bear country, but in subsequent years, especially during my stays in Montana, I’d hike many times solo in bear country. Have I had bear encounters? Yes, quite a few. Have they ended ugly? No. Most bears just seem to loaf around without a care, but I’ve heard stories. I’ve met people who have been attacked. It’s real, but to what degree is this threat? I still have a hard time gaging it. I now do carry bear spray with me when I’m out hiking in Montana, but after dozens of hikes, I’ve never had to deploy it.
But here in Yellowstone I was a newby, and although I convinced myself not to buy bear spray by holding onto my conspiracy theory and my $50, I still was cautious, and I became a bit paranoid on my way up Mount Washburn, thinking that the bears could be just about anywhere and were ripe and ready for attack at any moment. In retrospect, I don’t think this particular mountainscape in Yellowstone was prime bear habitat, but at the time, what did I know? I’ve told myself quite a few times when I’m out hiking and taking certain precautions, “better safe than dead.” I use that phrase to justify taking the extra safety measures I sometimes take, but I certainly don’t live by it always. Way too many people are held back by fear, and in being so, they miss out on the richness of life. We must face fears to truly live, but we need to do so with intelligence. Preparedness, strength, and knowhow are great, but the greatest of survival skills is intelligence along with some sense.
Back to the hike at hand, Mount Washburn was named after Henry D. Washburn who led the Washburn Expedition in 1870 to explore Yellowstone and make detailed maps and observations which would eventually be used in designating it a National Park. The expedition is described in Nathaniel P. Langford’s book, “The Discovery of Yellowstone Park.” I chose this hike because I was craving a mountain top view, a manageable day hike, and the guide book I was following had it in the itinerary. At six miles round trip it was quite manageable. It was three miles up, reaching 10,243 feet and a quick three miles down. The hike was very much out in the open and trailed what looked like, at times, a road. It probably served so for the fire lookout at the top. The mountainside was mostly rock and grass, but there were also large stretches of dead trees, mostly light grey and barren like driftwood, others charred dark from forest fire. Across the landscape in the distance were many valleys, rolling hills, and wild planes with pockets of trees tucked in here and there. Further up the hike, large snow drifts spilled onto the trail. Then snow was everywhere. Alongside me a thick pine forest stretched out in the great expanse and climbed up other mountains ladened with snow. Fluffy rounded clouds contrasted the rich blue of the sky and cast shadows all over the wide landscape. Purple fringed gentian bloomed along the way, seeming to delight in the cold but sunny mountainside.
At the top a firetower stood and a sign marked the elevation. The view atop was nothing outstanding from the views all along the way up: rolling hill after rolling hill, pine forest, dark shadows cast by the clouds, and mountain peaks of snow in the distance. Most everything was painted a shade of blue from the sky’s reflection on the terrain. I satisfied my mountaintop craving, but realized Yellowstone is perhaps better explored by means of its geothermal features, rivers, and lakes below.
Once back at the car, and safe from all bear encounters, I’d drive over to the Grand Canyon Village once again for dinner, then I’d pass by Yellowstone Lake at sunset on the way back to my campground. On the side of the road opposite the lake, water flowed into a little pond. I pulled over as I observed the most stunning display of colors. Vibrant deep blue and orange, cast in the sky by the sunset, reflected into the pond with the dark silhouettes of trees. It was the most beautiful deep and rich display of colors. I really savored this view and the moment.
This was not the only time I made a spontaneous pull off to the side of the road because beauty caught my eye. I had done it quite a few times throughout my stay in the park. Usually if one sees another car pulled over at a seemingly random spot, it’s because someone spotted some wildlife, and soon cars began to pile up. In this fashion, on a later trip to Yellowstone, I’d see my first wolf. At one point this day I pulled over because I noticed some beautiful flowers, and I wanted to take their picture. Then a number of cars slowed down, some pulled over. “What do you see? What do you see? Is there a bear, a buffalo?”
“No, I’m just taking a picture of some flowers,” I responded. They seemed disappointed, dismissed me and drove on. Oftentimes, in a quest to find the biggest or most shocking feature on the land, some people miss out on the exquisite detail of the smaller, finer things, like the flowers along the way, or the colors of the sunset reflected in the waters.
When I reached my campground I had completed a full day. Hiking up Mount Washburn was one of the final things I did. I had also visited the Mammoth Hot Springs area earlier and took in the unique stacks of thermal springs. I took a self guided tour of Fort Yellowstone at Mammoth Hot Springs where the U.S. Army was stationed to patrol the park in early days. Now the buildings which constitute the fort are ranger residences. My mind was captivated with the thought, and I daydreamed, of what it would be like to call this place home. These buildings were homes. People lived here, had families here, had cookouts in the backyard as children played. Inside was their furniture, their things. This was their home, and it was in Yellowstone! How incredible! On a side note- something that rightfully needs to be documented, for it changed my life- here in the Mammoth Village I discovered huckleberry licorice, which would go on to become my favorite candy.
After visiting Mammoth Hot Springs, I visited Roosevelt Arch, and stepped foot into Montana for the first time. I then took Blacktail Drive, a scenic park drive on a gravel road. It was quite serene and I saw quite a number of buffalo there. I also took in the Calcite Springs Overlook. Midday I found myself sitting on a rocking chair on the porch at Roosevelt Lodge. This lodge and cabin complex was built in the 1920s at the site where Theodore Roosevelt once camped by llamar valley. It is rustic and has a lot of warm charm. I had already eaten and was not hungry, but I looked at the menu at the lodge. I saw a cozy dining room while a fireplace crackled. The buffalo burger on a corn bread roll really jumped out at me, and I kicked myself for not waiting to eat here. Someday on one of my journeys between Kentucky and Montana, I want to stop here and have the full Roosevelt Lodge experience.
After my third full day in Yellowstone, I felt like I got to know the park, but knew there was much more to see and discover. I would come back and visit again. Next on my summer adventure plan was a stop at Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho, but before I left Yellowstone in the morning, I would find myself in a “buffalo jam,” as they call it. At least fifty buffalo overtook the road I was on. I came to a complete stop in my vehicle as buffalo of all sizes crowded around. They walked slowly around my vehicle. It was incredible. I saw buffalo calves for the first time. They look like strange deformed ponies, I thought. At one point a large buffalo stopped right in front of my car. He stared at me through the windshield. He nodded his head toward the right and then the left, and then looked back at me. It was as if he didn’t know he had to walk around the car. Oh No! I then became a bit concerned that the buffalo might try pushing my car or walking up upon it. After a few minutes it figured out the solution was to walk around. I could have lowered down my window and pet it’s back, it was so close. I was thrilled. This buffalo jam was perhaps the most unique and marvelous wildlife encounter I had ever had thus far. More kept coming and coming. I felt so fortunate to be here at just the right moment. I couldn’t have imagined a better crowd to wish me farewell on my journey.
It was day two in Yellowstone National Park. I slept soundly in my tent, despite the campground being full, crowded, and not having much privacy at all.
On my morning stroll to the bathroom I saw a buffalo walking between two campsites right alongside the picnic table and a RV. I hadn’t expected it. I suppose he wanted to wish all us visitors a “good morning.” It reminded me of one morning in Rocky Mountain National Park when an elk was grazing right alongside a camper’s tent.
It was a cold and overcast morning. Wet clouds hung low overhead. I quickly disassembled my tent and threw it into the backseat of the car. I could only reserve this campsite for one night. Yellowstone in the summer is an extremely busy place. The next two nights I’d camp at the Grant Village Campground. Once in my car, I had some breakfast from my stash of dried foods and began my day’s itinerary as spelled out in my book. My first stop was at the Fishing Bridge. This long century-old log pole bridge stretched over the Yellowstone River just as it forms and flows northward from Yellowstone Lake. Pine trees stand snug at the water’s edge and some inlets give way to marsh. It was a quiet and peaceful place, especially at this time in the morning. I strolled quietly and contemplatively. Then a big bus came to a stop, hissed, opened its doors and a swarm of Chinese tourists poured onto the bridge, equipped for the misty weather with transparent ponchos and ready to take photograph selfies, nearly each one carrying a selfie-stick.
More so than any other park, Yellowstone seems to be a favorite among Asian tourists. Tour busses full of these well-equipped tourists are found all over the park. In addition, signs in the bathrooms and outhouses instruct foreign visitors on how to use toilets in the United States; the general store at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone has an Asian food isle with a variety of noodles; and restaurants in the park seemingly cater to a certain tourist- namely with the noodle wok. Days prior in Grand Teton National Park, on my guided hike around Swan Lake, the Ranger brought this up, explaining how the influx of Chinese tourists is because of the current strong middle class in China. I also think it just must be in particular fashion in China to visit U.S. National Parks. Tour companies are designed for and are catering to this demographic, probably making quite a wealth for themselves.
When I left the Fishing Bridge I proceeded Northward and drove a short distance to the Mud Volcano. On my way I saw another buffalo trailing the road. At the Mud Volcano area there was a short boardwalk around gurgling and burping mud pots of highly acidic water that erodes the volcanic rock and turns it into a sludgy thick ooze. The landscape here was very soupy with water sitting, boiling, slowly flowing, and burping up from the ground all around. The most impressive feature here was the Dragon’s Mouth. A hole in an embankment by a thermal pool hissed and gurgled as it constantly let out steam, resembling just what it’s title suggests.
After making another couple brief stops I arrived at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone at Artist’s Point. There were crowds of Mandrian speaking tourists, posing in front of the viewspots once again with their selfie sticks. Behind them was one of the most magnificent views in the National Park Service: Lower Falls at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. It is incredibly picturesque. A platform juts out at the edge of the canyon, where crumbling yellowstone is on display traveling down to the focal point of the perfectly flowing immensity of the Lower Falls which is so entirely uninhibited. This is one of those marvels of nature which is hard to take in and gain perspective of. The beauty before you is just astounding. You feel almost as if you are trapped in a painting trying to gain your bearings. Although I was surrounded by people, I tuned them out, and my mind and eyes became fixated at the wonder before me. Captivated would be the most appropriate word. All the sounds and clutter around me dispersed, and I was still, calm, and quiet to my perception. What a wonderful piece of artistry- truly striking- not happenstance but designed.
Then… “Take photo?” asked the tourist in broken English. “Sure,” I replied. When I was done taking the photo I turned behind me to look off the other side of the observation platform to the peculiar display of the canyon walls which slid diagonally down towards the river from a definite abrupt edge of pine treeline. Colors were on strange display here in nature’s own pink and yellow drooping down in rock formation like melted crayons.
While in the area I escaped onto a trail that followed the ridgeline. At one point it veered into a dark and moist forest, and at the time I thought this might have been a prime bear habitat. All alone with not much experience in bear country, I decided to head back towards the crowds. I drove over to the trailhead for Uncle Tom’s Trail, where I descended 328 stairs to the base of the Lower Falls. It was cold and wet, and my stay was brief.
My next stop was at the commercial area of the Canyon Village. Sharing a parking-lot was a general store, an outdoor gear shop, a souvenir shop, and the Canyon Lodge, which is not exactly a lodge but a cafeteria. The cafeteria was very nice and newly renovated in a 1960s style. Something also about the design made me think of a lodge. It seemed like I was at a high elevation ski lodge, not that I had ever been to one before, but it gave off that vibe to me. Here there were two lanes, two sections: One they called “American food” and the other “Asian food.” I was surprised no one had thrown a fit about their terminology in this “woke” era. For me it was just fine. I thought most fitting for my visit to Yellowstone was some classic American cuisine. I had a pot roast with smashed potatoes and gravy with mixed vegetables and garlic sauce. I was surprised by the quality of the food- top notch for a National Park- so much so that I’d come back here to eat the following day.
My first trip to a National Park in my adult life was in the fall of 2014 to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. This was the fall after my summer trip to Disney World. Being a classic Disney fan, the trip was everything I hoped it could be, or “magical” I guess is what they say. I enjoyed hopping from one park to another, moving about from one attraction to another, and taking the buses around to visit the different resorts. The Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with all it’s different parts, whether the high reaches of Newfound Gap, the scenic valley of Cades Cove, or the hub of the Sugarland, it’s variety is similar to the different parks in Disney World; and all its different features like Alum Cave, Clingmans Dome, Laurel Falls, Charles Bunion, etc. are like all the rides and attractions in Disney World. I remember thinking the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is the Disney World for the nature lover. Not every park is like this. Not all parks have different sections and a plethora of varying attractions, but Yellowstone most certainly does more so than any other park. Yellowstone has an abundance of “attractions”, numerous villages, lodges, and restaurants. It is an enormous theme park. I’d say The Great Smoky Mountains is more like a Disneyland and Yellowstone is Disney World. It’s at a whole different level- or “a whole new world” as they say.
After having lunch in the Canyon Lodge I proceeded on my journey. I stopped at the Museum of the National Park Ranger between the Canyon Village and Madison by the Gibbon River and Gibbon Falls, which I also admired. I tell my students back in Kentucky jokingly that when I grow up I am going to be a park ranger. I so admire park rangers and think it would be a most intriguing profession. So, without a doubt, a stop at this museum was necessary. The Museum of the National Park Ranger was located in an old building that used to house soldiers back when Yellowstone was patrolled by the U.S. Army in its early days. This museum gave a brief history of the National Park Ranger; showed a re-creation of an early ranger residential quarters; displayed old newspaper articles and photographs; showcased badges which signify different rankings and classifications within the ranger system; and most fascinating to me at the time, displayed a map from 1916 of the United States with all the National Parks labeled. Something on this map jumped right out at me: a number of the National Parks on the map were no more. What happened to them? There was a retired park ranger volunteering to answer questions in the museum. So naturally…
“What happened to these parks on this map that don’t exist anymore.”
He seemed pleased to have a question to answer. His grey mustache bounced up and down as he spoke. His passion for the National Parks was evident. “Well, some were given back to state and local supervision, and others were defaced so much that they lost their cultural value.” I found this to be quite an interesting bit of information. Later, in my days working in Montana, I’d get an original publication of the book Oh Ranger by Horace Albright. In this book there is a map with a number of National Parks and Monuments that also are no more. At Seven Islands State Birding Park in East Tennessee an exhibit on Tennessee State Parks explains how a number of National Park units in Tennessee were redesignated as state parks.
When media outlets complain of a politician downsizing federal lands, I’ve come to find that really, in many instances, the public land is put back into the hands of state and local municipalities. This detail is left out in reporting as it doesn’t always fit the narrative. Mackinac National Park became Mackinac Island State Park. Lewis and Clark Cavern National Monument became Montana’s first state park, Father Millet Cross National Monument became Old Fort Niagara State Historic Site, and the proposed Pioneer National Monument became a series of state parks in Kentucky including Fort Boonesborough State Park, to name a few.
Once done at the museum and with my pleasant chat with the retired ranger, I continued on my journey and down the left side of my day’s loop. The main parkway is like a number “8.” I was on the left side of the lower loop. The upper loop of the “8” I had not seen at all yet and would be reserved for the following day. On my journey on the lower loop I stopped at the Artist’s Paintpots where a number of mudpots, fumaroles, and springs painted lavalike colors across the broken and soupy landscape of delicate earth. A boardwalk guided the tourists among the features. I had plans to stop at the Midway Geyser Basin to see the famous Grand Prismatic Spring. But the traffic was backed up to the road. I decided I’d come back early in the morning.
I proceeded to the bottom of the number “8” on the West Thumb of Lake Yellowstone where I had a campsite reserved at the Grant Village Campground. I checked in and set up my tent in the cold misty forest. It was very similar to the campground I stayed in at Grand Teton National Park. The Grant Village Campground provides visitors campsites within little nooks in the forest. It’s a quiet, recommended campground in the park. After setting up camp I went to the general store, which had a small cafe attached to it selling sandwiches and ice cream. I ordered a sandwich. When I held out my debit card to pay, the employee asked to see an ID.
“Kentucky! We are from Kentucky!” the cashier exclaimed. “My wife and I are from Louisville. We are teachers. We just work the summer here in Yellowstone.”
This is an important moment in my life. My mind flashed back to the waitress in Jackson Lake Lodge talking about how she got a summer job online, and I remembered she wrote me the web address to find summer jobs in National Parks on a napkin. I briefly thought about pursuing it, but I had doubts as a teacher if I would have enough time and the capability to escape from my normal life for such a adventurous summer job. But then this couple were teachers here from my state! They were able to work around the education system in Kentucky to get away for the summer. If they could do it, I could do it! I would do it! They had inspired me.
Trying to follow in their footsteps, a year later, in the winter, I applied and pursued vigorously the opportunity to work in Yellowstone. I was shot down. They wanted more of a time commitment than what I could offer as a teacher. This didn’t stop me. There had to be a way, for this couple did it. I tried other parks. I tried Big Bend National Park in Texas and Glacier National Park in Montana. I received job offers from both! A privately owned mercantile just outside of Glacier National Park won out. In the summer of 2019 I’d find myself working my first summer in what would become my most favorite place on earth. My heart would get lost in Montana, and my experiences in Montana would be some of the fondest and most meaningful in my life. The people I’d meet in Montana would become some of my most treasured. It was this moment in Yellowstone- this teacher couple from Kentucky- who would put all of this in motion. Coincidence? I think not. Coordinated? Definitely.
“I’m going to need a venti latte with an extra shot and almond milk,” the lady spoke.
Where do you think you are? I’m asking quietly in my own mind with no anticipation of response. I knew exactly where I was, in Grand Teton National Park in northwestern Wyoming, a place where dramatic peaks of the Rocky Mountains strike up among pine forest and once cattle ranches are among mountain lakes, pristine rivers, and sprawling wild flowers. Specifically I was in the Coulter Bay Village in the general store. Apparently the lady had mistaken the canisters of drip coffee as a bonafide Starbucks establishment. She must not get out of the city very often, my thoughts proceeded. As they say in the South, “bless her heart.” After she resolved her order I got myself a nice cup of hot tea, perfect to thaw me out this cold morning. Although the temperature most likely dropped below freezing, layering up on clothes and burrowing under three layers of sleeping bags kept me warm and comfortable for the past two nights. I can’t think of a finer night’s sleep in my life than these nights in Grand Teton National Park.
I was up rather early, eager to make my way to neighboring Yellowstone National Park. The previous morning I was also up early to make it to a ranger guided hike to Taggert Lake. I had given myself plenty of time to arrive, and I sat at the trailhead on a bench cold, wishing the sun would rise and warm up quickly. When the ranger arrived she led the small group of about twelve of us on a short 1.5 mile hike to the lake. Along the way she explained how one of the unique features of the Teton range is that there are no foothills, You can see the mountains begin at the valley floor and dramatically rise seven thousand feet. This is due to the sudden violent seismic activity that led to their creation. The Tetons are also unique in that they are believed to be the youngest mountains in the Rocky Mountain chain. Along with geology tidbits the ranger shared about plant life. She invited us to all rub our fingers on some sagebrush to smell its pleasant aroma. “This is what used to be called ‘cowboy cologne.’ Cowboys would spend long days, sweaty and dirty out on the range, sometimes without the resources to clean up, so if they were headed into town, maybe to a saloon, and wanted to smell nice for the ladies, they would rub sagebrush over their bodies, especially up around their necks.”
A large section of the trail went through sagebrush and wildflower meadow, then swayed into the forest. We crossed the small rushing Taggert Creek on a bridge and ended at the small Taggert Lake. It looked rather dismal this morning, with a mostly cloudy sky up above, but surrounding it were narrow pines and the dramatic mountains with snow all up and down their sides adding quiet beauty.
The ranger gave us the option of following her the same way back or continuing another 2.4 miles to complete the loop. I decided to complete the loop and took off solo. Although I really should have been enjoying the scenery around me and being present in the moment, I was troubled by the fact my camera was broken. It was a Sony Cybershot point-and-shoot camera. I had bought it brand new just before the trip. I did think it felt very light and cheap, and I came to find my questioning of its durability justified. This was my second Sony Cybershot. Prior I was using an older sturdier model. I thought for a small camera it really delivered and I became, if I do say, quite skilled at using the camera and all its features to their full potential, but dust, or some sort of particles, had gotten inside the camera and on the lens casting dark spots over my pictures, so that’s when I bought the newer, more expensive, but overall cheaper model.
Days prior after I arrived at Dinosaur National Monument, I took the advice of Gzeivieur, the frenchman I met at Curecanti, to check out Fantasy Canyon. The name alone was intriguing but the road to this site was not the most inviting. I drove at least an hour and on at least twenty miles of dirt road into very remote stretches of desolate and dry Utah desert. I passed by no signs of life except the occasional oil fields and related small industrial complexes. The sun was also setting. The farther I drove into nowhere, the darker it became, not very comforting. When I arrived I was surprised at how miniature the landscape was. Despite being small, I will admit it is very unique. The Bureau of Land Management on it’s website claims it holds “some of the most unique geological features in the world.” It also warns of the features being very fragile and calls it “nature’s china shop.” They describe it as “the east shore of what was once Lake Uinta, where the sediments eroded from the surrounding high lands. Sediments were deposited and the once loose sands, silts, and clays were forged into sandstone and shale. Because of different rates of weathering, the more durable sandstone remained while the more easily weathered siltstone and shale washed away, yielding this spectacular scenery.” Today it’s a collection of drooping, haphazard, fungal-looking rock hoodoos and shelves. I think I would perhaps best describe it as sharing the variety and visual make up of a coral reef, but it looks all petrified and painted in a pale clay beige.
Here I screwed my camera to my trekking pole. I tried to drive that trekking pole into the ground, but when I set the timer to scurry into the picture, the trekking pole fell, smacking the camera on the ground. Since that moment the lens would not open nor adjust. I would only be faced with an error message. I eventually resorted back to my older camera which I still had in hand, and I would purposely try to frame my pictures in such a way that the dark spots on the lens would not show up in plain sight in the pictures.
Now in Grand Teton National Park, after fretting over my camera situation for much of the morning, I came to terms with it and realized this could be a wake up call to really take in the scenery in the present moment and not live my life behind the camera, preoccupied with capturing the best shots. I also resolved to write more and draw. I could capture the beautiful scenery through my own pen and it would be uniquely mine. I could share the beautiful scenery but share it through my own perception. I was inspired in part by my Uncle Joe who while traveling routinely takes time to make his own postcard sized sketches of notable places of interest on his travels. Although he does take photographs too, his pictures I would say are more valuable because they capture the way he sees things.
After completing the loop at Taggert Lake I went back to the Coulter Bay Village and went on another short ranger led hike which ended at the marshy Swan Lake with wispy grass and lily pads sticking up out of the water and the mountains towering in the back between and above the opening of pines. This looked like prime moose habitat but none were spotted during this visit. I recognized immediately the ranger leading this hike. He was the friendly guy from Chicago in the visitor center from the day before, the first person I met here in the park, the one who instructed me to sit in front of a fireplace in Jackson Lake Lodge, look at the park materials, and plan my visit from there. He had served me well.
“I may not look like a park ranger,” he began his talk. “I am new here and am still waiting on my hat and uniform.” I give him points for effort. He had a green shirt and pants, trying to imitate the classic ranger look. He also remembered me. I am always impressed when people remember me. It happens quite frequently. After short, casual interactions, people are often able to recall me. I feel honored.
This ranger conducted himself in a manner which made him very approachable, so in between his moments of interpretation I walked alongside him and asked some questions. I wanted to know the difference between a National Park and National Monument. Both are entities in the National Park Service and although Monuments get less publicity than the Parks, some Monuments, like Dinosaur National Monument for example are quite spectacular. He explained how Monuments are declared by presidents. A National Park is established by an act of Congress. He explained that many Monuments eventually become National Parks. Even Grand Teton National Park originated as Jackson Hole National Monument.
“Do National Parks get more federal funding? I asked.
“No. It doesn’t have to do with funding. It mostly has to do with the name.”
“Well, why change the name to a National Park if there is already a National Monument.”
“Tourism,” he replied. “A National Park status brings in more tourists. Take Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado for example. In recent years it transitioned from a monument to a park, as a result it increased visitation and tourism. It’s great for the local economy.”
I’d later see the reason why Jefferson National Expansion Memorial and Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore acquired name change and status to National Parks.
This ranger also spoke a lot about John D. Rockefeller, Jr., the son of the Standard Oil founder and one of the richest men in America at his time. He fell in love with the area after being escorted around by Horace Albright, the first director of the National Park Service. Albright persuaded Rockefeller to purchase the land and donate it to the federal government as Roosevelt would put it, “for the benefit and enjoyment of the people.” To acquire this land at fair price, Rockefeller created the Snake River Co. and used this name to purchase 33,000 acres to donate to the federal government, When news broke out that Rockefeller was behind the purchasing of all this land, there was such an uproar that the government wouldn’t accept the donation for fear of scandal. When president Theodore Roosevelt eventually accepted the donation and created Jackson Hole National Monument he was compared to Hitler annexing Austria. Name calling and scandal aside, I am grateful that Rockefeller used his wealth built up from capitalism to give this incredible area to the people of the United States and the world. I am glad that Horace Albright and Theodore Roosevelt shared the same vision. Without Rockefeller’s wealth and without his charity, the Tetons may have been leveled and mined to dust, the forest completely lumbered, and the valley may have become an industrial cattle farm. This is not to demean the value of these industries, but the beauty of Grand Teton National Park is truly a treasure worth preserving and sharing.
In the evening I made my way over to the Snake River and then to Morman Row Historic District. This part of the park preserves a late Morman settlement and features perhaps the most iconic view in the park and in Wyoming, the view of the Reed Mouton Barn on the open grassland and the Tetons rising up in the distance.
I stood here initially with the desire to capture the perfect photo, but then I paused. No, let me just take it in. I gazed at the beauty of the mountains. What does this mean? I asked, for beauty is never wasted. My mind began to race. But then I stopped. Be still. Be Calm. Be quiet. As always, I was in the presence of the almighty God, and the beauty reminded me of that. I thought back to what God taught me out in the desert of Dinosaur National Monument. This was the first time apart from then, I really put this learning to practice. I felt relief knowing there was nothing I needed to do with this beauty, and there was nothing that needed to be said. All I was called to in this moment was to enjoy it and be present and mindful in the moment with God. He again was calling on me to be still, calm, and quiet, and it was quite refreshing for the soul. I became aware that ultimately it’s not my actions that bring about healing and restoration, it’s God in these moments of stillness and quietude.
After pausing, breathing, and mindfully resting in God’s presence I sat down. I did open my journal and created a sketch of the mountains before me. I also accompanied it with a poem. I did not overthink my writing. I did not overanalyze it for meaning or plan it precisely. I looked at the mountains and was taken away by the strength and might they reflected, and I let it flow free and meander from me, just like the waters of the Snake River.
Jagged diagonals form peaks stretching to touch the clouds
Boldly rising, unreserved, coated in blue and fostered with snow, mimicking the sky above
Sprawling across the canvas among wandering streams, pristine lakes, log pines, and wilderness
The voraciousness of the bear and the chase of the wolf below is only child’s play to your grandeur
You are old and display generations lined together for a family portrait, dominating the view with Grandfather in the center.
Quiet, not a sound from you, but your stance tells everything and in you I see the reflection of strength and Might.
I wasn’t supposed to hear that. This much I knew. A middle-aged woman leaned over to another and whispered, “I feel like such a cougar.” I was sitting next to her here in the Pioneer Grill in Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. This was a 1950s style diner on the lower level of the Jackson Lake Lodge. According to the Grand Teton Lodge Company’s website, “The Pioneer Grill at Jackson Lake Lodge is one of the oldest and rumored to be the longest continual counters at 200 ft. One counter snakes through the room, creating a friendly atmosphere where guests interact with travelers.” Yep, most certainly. I was seated at one of the corners of the counter. Adjacent to me sat my fellow conversationalists for the evening, two middle-aged women. One of them had blondish grey hair and the other had black. It was the lady with the black hair closest to me who had spoken these words to the waitress: “I’m going to pay for that young man’s dinner.” I also wasn’t supposed to hear that.
I hid behind my menu. This was mildly awkward. Was I supposed to react to what I overheard or pretend I didn’t hear it? I decided to play the latter. When the waitress took my order she also took my menu, and there I was. The cougars, if you will, were looking right at me.
“So where are you visiting from?” the black-haired lady asked with a pleasant smile and inquisitive eyes.
“I’m from Kentucky,” I claimed. “What about you?”
“We are visiting from Washington. I’m Judy and this is my sister Cheryl. We are visiting on a sisters get-away for the weekend. What brings you here all the way from Kentucky?” First off, I was surprised her sister’s name was Cheryl as her appearance reminded me of my aunt Cheryl.
“I’m on a National Park adventure. I flew into Phoenix, got a rental car, and have been camping and visiting National Parks all month,” I explained.
“Oh, you’re a teacher! What do you teach?”
“I teach Spanish in elementary school.”
“Well, good for you. Good for you,” she repeated.
“What do you do?” I inquired unaware of how much information this simple question would unpack.
“I am a retired police officer. Worked thirty years.” She then proceeded to tell me all about her retirement benefits, how much money she was getting in retirement, how much money she was making before retirement, how she decided to retire. I was surprised. She was making nearly a six figure salary in retirement or so she claimed.
Given the fact I heard her say she felt like a “cougar,” and now she was talking about money, one could be suspicious of her intentions. But at the moment I thought nothing of this. I really thought she was just being friendly. She may have provided way too much information in her conversation, for talking so in depth about her retirement finances to a stranger is just rather odd. But I also sensed she may have had a few drinks at the bar before coming to the diner.
When she mentioned being a police officer I could definitely picture her in uniform. She was the type and had the demeanor to be an officer: forward and assertive in conversation, bold, not the least bit hesitant. I think she was speaking very honestly about her life and retirement and although she may have been trying to impress me, I’m just not impressed with how much money a person makes unless it’s out of sheer ingenuity. I think she was just excited about her retirement as it was all new to her. Not impressed with her money, I was appreciative of her many years of service as an officer, and showed her attentiveness as a good listener.
The waitress came back and delivered my meal. The ladies had already finished theirs. I just got a chicken wrap, but now that I knew a rich lady in retirement was paying for my meal, I thought I’d order a cup of tea, some Tazo Zen. I usually would be very economical if someone was buying my meal, but first off, I wasn’t supposed to know she was buying my meal, and she was bragging about her income. I thought about ordering tea earlier but was being somewhat stingy with my finances.
It did cross my mind more than once the thought that this lady really was singling me out and had other intentions as a “cougar,” but then she started engaging in conversation with the waitress. “So where are you from?” the retired officer turned to the waitress.
“I’m from Michigan,” the young lady said. “I’m in college. This is just a summer job.” She then proceeded to give some details about how she lives for the summer in the park in an employee village in dormitory style housing. She was very easy going and down to earth. I could tell she was genuine in conversation and had a good head on her shoulders.
“How did you end up finding a job way out here?” Judy asked.
“You know, there’s a website.” She then proceeded to tell us all about this website of listings of summer jobs in and around National Parks.” I asked her a few questions about it myself. “I’ll write it down for you. She grabbed a napkin and wrote the website address. “You’ll get a job and you’ll remember it was all because a girl in Grand Teton wrote a website down on a napkin in a diner for you,” she joked. She was absolutely right. This is a very pivotal moment, for it was because of this waitress I ultimately ended up finding my subsequent summers’ job in Montana along the border of Glacier National Park. These summers in Montana would greatly enrich my life. I kept that napkin, for the remainder of the trip. She planted the idea in my mind and that website was the key to make this a reality.
I cusped the white ceramic mug in my hand. The hot tea on this cold wintry night in June was perfect.
“So are you camping tonight?” Judy asked me.
“Yes.” I gave a look of uncertainty. Uncertain of how the situation would play out. There was a winter storm warning for the night. I had already seen snow and the wintry mix. “I had three sleeping bags. I’m going to just really bundle up.” I purposely adjusted my tone in an attempt to draw out pity for my situation. In my mind I was hoping the ladies would feel bad for me and offer to buy me a room in the lodge. That was an extravagant wish, I know, and rather unrealistic, but one can dream. Plus she had all that retirement money! But as expected, neither offered.
When I was done eating, and our conversations had come to a close, I acted so surprised when Judy paid for my dinner. I thanked her. It was a very nice thing to do, and I sincerely appreciated it. I told them to follow my adventures in the National Parks on my blog, and wrote down the web address in a little booklet Cheryl had fished from her purse.
Leaving the lodge it was completely dark. The wintery sky had blocked out any sign of the moon. I left the heat of the tall fireplaces, the welcome of the warm glowing lamps in the lobby, and the assurance of the hot cup of tea in my hand into the cold small droplets of piercing rain in the foreboding darkness of the great outdoors.
Driving back to my campground, a number of cars got really close behind me with their high beams on. I was obeying the speed limit and was being extra cautious. It was dark and the roads were wet. I didn’t want to hit a deer or an elk, or bison, or slide right off the road. Then the cars would rev up their engines and in a display of perceived superiority and frustration, zoom around me reaching speeds of seventy in this forty-five miles per hour zone. I did not like this one bit. I put on my flashing emergency lights. This is what I have learned to do in Kentucky. When you’re stuck behind a piece of farm equipment, or driving slow in the rain or snow, it seems to be customary in Kentucky to put your emergency lights on. It sends a signal that you can’t or won’t be going any faster.
Then behind me red and blue lights started to flash. I was being pulled over.
“Do you realize your emergency lights were on?” the male law enforcement ranger asked.
“Yes. There have been so many cars getting right up behind me and speeding around me, I put them on to let others know I’m not going any faster and will be following the speed limit.”
“You know it’s unlawful to have your emergency lights on if there is no emergency?”
“In Kentucky we put them on to let others know we aren’t going any faster.”
“I didn’t know that. I learned something new. May I see your license.” I obliged. Inside I was flustered. Out of all the people pulled over it was me when it should have been the careless drivers speeding in the park. He came back shortly to reiterate what he already told me about emergency lights. “Have a good night.” he concluded. “Stay safe.”
Phew! I had been nervous I would be getting some sort of ticket. I didn’t receive one, just the overwhelming feeling of an outlaw which beset me.
Back at camp these events left my mind as I focused on the most important task at hand: surviving a night of camping in the freezing cold. I put on my full set of long underwear, followed by sweat pants, a long sleeve shirt, and two hoodies. I doubled up on socks and even put a pair over my hands. I shimmied my legs and the core of my body within two layers of sleeping bag. I unzipped the third sleeping bag and laid it over my head and upper body. I felt pretty good, decent, like I’d survive. When I woke up in the morning, I remember saying to myself, “ I think that’s the best I’ve ever slept.” I was ready to explore Grand Teton National Park.
Josh Hodge blog 