national parks – Page 2 – Josh Hodge blog

Monoliths and Stars: Wonders of the Mojave

January 23, 2022Posted in UncategorizedTagged california, hole in the wall campground, mojave desert, mojave national preserve, monoliths, national parks, night sky, rings trailsLeave a comment

I thought I had seen it all, that there was no type of landscape which I had not become accustomed to throughout my travels. It was quite a disheartening feeling to consider, what could possibly be left? The good news, though, is that I had not been completely spoiled; that I was far from it. Only ignorance had pervaded my thoughts, for I stood before something entirely new- a landscape previously uncataloged in my mind- a monolithic wonder in the Mojave National Preserve. The very thought in my mind was, Wow, I couldn’t have imagined something like this.

This moment was near the end of my day. I had started about 295 miles away in Phoenix, Arizona, where the first night of my trip had been spent at the house of my cousin Matthew and his wife Robin. By the time I traveled across the remainder of Arizona and into California to the Mojave National Preserve, it was late evening. My plan had been to visit the Kelso Dunes and hike a short three miles to a mountain peak, but this would have to wait until the following day.

Although sandwiched between interstate 40 and Interstate 15, and a mere sixty miles from Las Vegas, this park has yet preserved its remote feel. When I turned to enter the park, I was greeted with the official National Park Service sign. Visitors had tatted up the corners of the sign with stickers and a few bullet holes punctured the middle, telling me that this area was not as well supervised as some of the other parks. I entered from the south on my way to the Hole-In-The-Wall campground. It was first come- first serve, and I wasn’t concerned about finding a site, for I read that visitation was low in the summer. The Mojave desert is just not a place most people want to be in the summer with the sweltering temperatures, but my only concern was the drive, for a number of roads in the park were marked unpaved, including the one to this campground. Before I hit the dusty sand roads, I was cruising along the pavement among grand stretches of desert. Dry shrubs nearly covered the terrain, and every once in a while a cactus, yucca, or Joshua tree would stick up. Around me I saw crumbly mountains and mesas in the distance. I hadn’t expected the expanse of this area to be so enormous.

When I reached the bumpy dirt road, before me crawled an animal I had never seen before. Its fur was dark, and its appearance was prominent. Although nor particularly large in the grand scheme of things, it was larger than anything I was expecting to see. I got out my cell phone and texted my friend Zack in Kentucky, who would be joining me on the adventure in a few days. “I just saw a wolverine,” I typed. I was wrong, so embarrassingly wrong. I did not know. Wolverines do not live in the American Southwest. They are mammals of the far North. We can file this next to the instance on my first adventure, when I thought I saw a wolf, but it was really just a coyote. What I had just experienced was my first sighting of a badger. When I neared the campground I witnessed a pair of black tailed jack rabbits situated in the middle of the drive, jumping further down the road and then off into the shrubbery as I neared .

Finding a campsite was not hard. I was alone, except for one other occupied site. I quickly pitched my tent at a site far from the others, on the opposite side of the campground. I was distracted at times by a nosy little desert cottontail, whom I pursued to capture a photo of, and who surprisingly let me get closer than I expected. Back to work, I got my tent set up swiftly, as I was planning to get at least one hike in before the day’s end. Once I had everything set up, I drove over to the Hole-In-The-Wall visitor center. It was an old Western style wooden ranch building with a wrap-around porch. There was a clear place for a sign to identify the ranch, but it had been removed, and the flag pole out front was also bare- a sure sign that this was definitely off season. It would have been the perfect time for a tumbleweed to tumble on by or a vulture cry to sound off in the distance, for I was very much alone and very much in the desert. I checked around the perimeter of the abandoned visitor center for any maps or trail guides, but nothing. I was on my own.

However, I found my trail head next to the visitor center. I then geared up. First off, I was certain to have water in my camelbak backpack. I brought a light hoodie, expecting that soon the temperature may drop, and I brought my headlamp, for I knew sunset was not far away. I made sure I had my car key securely in my backpack. I was not going to face the panic of last summer when I locked my key in the car at Chiricahua. To help avoid repeating that situation, I bought a short lanyard keychain at a gas station earlier in the day. Then, all ready to go, I hit the trail. It began with a stroll among the shrubbery and quiet meandering around some teddy bear cholla cacti. Then the path slithered between some boulders, and up to some rocks adorned with native American petroglyphs. At this point, the sun was just resting above the horizon, casting dark long shadows behind every protrusion in the desert, but laying gold upon anything its light touched. The path then led around some big rocks to a picturesque Southwest view. There were two large mesas, one laying in front of the other and the top of a mountain peeking up behind them. The air was warm and incredibly still. All around me was silence. I climbed up a rock, not taller than myself, and stood upon it, gazing out into the distant stretches of evening desert. I closed my eyes and quietly reveled in the moment, in my being, in the presence of God, in my arrival to a new adventure. I felt as if I had come back to an old friend. The desert: I know you. We have been separated for a while, by time and space. So much has happened. So much has changed, but yet you are the same, quiet and reserved, a library of adventures past, calling me to be grateful of the years gone by. The desert knows years gone by. It has been through them. The desert is well weathered by the ages, but yet calm and knows its place.

As I pondered the desert, I thought about how in the desert, you don’t have to be up high, or in any particular overlook, to look out among the immensity of the land. In the desert there are no tall trees nor overgrowth hindering your view. Here it’s all laid open. One stands above and can see the great immensity of the land. And the desert here, in the Mojave, is not a barren plain, but it does have features: mesas, rocks, and distant mountains. The view just stretches on seemingly forever. It derives a similar feeling of a mountain top experience, when your life is sort of put into perspective, as you observe the immensity of that which is around you and are surrendered to a humbling comfort. Your problems seem diminished and are put in their place.

The warmth of the desert also has a comforting feel to me, especially in the evening, when the sun isn’t harsh, but a dry warmth still blankets and comforts you. If the sun were to set, if I were to be lost for the night. I would be fine. The desert may cool some, but won’t freeze. The air is still. Bugs are absent. Any perils of the night are gone. Yes, some may find the desert to be harsh and univiting in the day, but in the night I find it very welcoming and suitable for the lone traveler.

When I jumped down from the rock I was observing from, I turned around to a giant monolith in the desert: a massive rock feature just protruding solo and drastically from the desert floor. The trail wound around into a wide slot canyon that was somewhat narrow but then opened up in the middle of the monolith to a canyon wonder. Here I paused. Wow I could have never imagined something like this. I was taken away by the uniqueness of the scene. This was a new terrain, a new landscape I hadn’t experienced before. Here giant groupings of hoodoo-esque spires huddled together, right up against each other. They were together, yet individual, like you could pull or peel them apart. They stood as if flaunting their curvatures. And all of them were missing circular chunks, as if shot by enormous canyons, mimicking swiss cheese, or as if they had sunken eyes looking out at me. I had never seen any rock formations quite like this. It was unexpected. The desert just outside this canyon was not drastically different than what I’d seen before, but this short walk into the slot canyon displayed a whole hidden world, so unique. It was so nearly enclosed too, like it’s own hidden fortress. I paused and just looked around in amazement. It completely wiped away from me the thought that nothing I could see would be terribly new. This affirmed there was much more to see, and things can, and would, exceed what I could imagine.

This was only the first of two surprises on this short hike. The canyon grew narrower with each step until there was no canyon left at all, and it seemed I had been walled in, but upon observation I found a passageway of sorts. There were cracks in the jumbles of rock, just enough space to fit a body through, and they were steep, ony presenting a passage that went vertical. Affixed to the sides of the rocks were a series of steel rings. This was called the Rings Trail and I had read about it, but seeing it, I was well surprised. The rings portioned looked more challenging and more extensive than what I had imagined. This would be fun. Like a puzzle to solve. I had to figure out where to establish footing on the rock wall, and which rings to grab onto, as to establish grip which was conducive to a trip upward. The passage grew narrower, then curved. I was really immersed in this rock world all around me and the task at hand.

I appreciate a trail that presents a challenge, a unique skill, or problem solving. There is one trail back home in the Big South Fork that requires one to rapel him or herself down a boulder’s face. In the Rocky Mountains I’ve hiked up a waterfall. Even a mere swinging bridge can add some fun and variety. This Rings Trail presented something new, and it was definitely one of a kind.

When I finished making my way through the narrow rock passageways, I found the rock terrain to open up. I found myself not completely out of the canyon, for walls still surrounded me, but I was well above the portion I had just traversed. Now I was at an established viewpoint where I could look back down in the rock world beneath me. Up around me I noticed the curvatures of the rocks. They were not jagged nor harsh points, but rather the rocks seemed to flow and lump, as though melting chocolate. The rocks were plain gray although lumped into the mix were orange colored rocks as well. If I was handed five stars, I would rate this trail 5 out of 5. “Unique” is the most justifiable term to use to describe it.

When I made it back to my campsite, a mere maybe quarter mile away, the sun was setting. I was walking around the campground, tracing its perimeters, trying to see if there were any trailheads from the campground. I had the intention of going on a nighttime hike. I would rest in my tent, and, when it got much darker and the stars came out, I would go for a night hike by flashlight.

When I did get to resting in my tent, I was out. I slept long and deeply. At one point I did wake up, as a different aspect of nature was calling. Inside my tent it was very dark, as I reached for the side of the tent to unzip my way out. When I pulled the flap of my tent backward, I unwrapped the most beautiful night sky. Millions of stars decorated a huge desert sky. The milky way ran prominently and astonishingly through the middle of the expanse above. I was amazed. This was all visible with simply my glasses on, which I don’t see very well with. Right here, right now, in the middle of the night, well…after answering nature’s call, I put on my contacts so I could really see and take in the beauty above me.

Looking out upon the desert alone is enough to make one feel small and shift one’s life into perspective. But take on top the desert the profundity and awesomeness of the night sky, and then one is really put into place. One of my favorite song writers, Matthew Parker, in his song Shadowlands writes “The moon and stars are the only light to tell us that we’re lost in the endless darkness of night.” This moment illustrated this perfectly. Observing the stars in such a glorious display in a remote area, does initially evoke a feeling of lostness. The universe becomes so immense. You seem so small. What you witness is so immense that you feel but nothing, lost in the great immensity of what is. But Matthew Parker, as well as myself, know that we don’t remain lost. What’s most reassuring and comforting is that, amidst feeling lost in the great order of things that exist in the universe, we are found! We have been sought out, we are accounted for, by the great Almighty God and Creator of the immensity before us.

It is no wonder early peoples and cultures, whether it be Native Americans or any group of people across the sea on this earth, spent such a great amount of time pondering the sky and trying to derive meaning from it. It is just so astounding when it is untouched by the light of civilization. It is no wonder early people and societies were so spiritual. I would find it a challenge to the human psyche to observe such wonder and not believe in a spiritual realm or a creator. Can you imagine living out in the desert and this being your view every night, or living out on the Great Plains and this being a constant entertainment for the mind? Think of the men out at sea, nothing but the ocean and these great heavens above you.

Sadly, most of human society has lost reverence for the night sky. If you live in a city, you can’t see its wonders at all. It becomes easy to be consumed by you, yourself, and your own immediate surroundings. You fault the opportunity to put yourself into perspective. And you lack the beauty which calls you back to the Creator. Even those who live rurally may miss out on the powerful impact of the full night sky. Instead, people find themselves inside in front of their television sets, seeking entertainment, when really the night sky is the more noble form of entertainment, for it engages not only the senses, but the mind, and the spirit.

But you know people are afraid of the dark. I don’t say this because of what we playfully think: of monsters, and bears, and things that go bump in the night. No, people are scared primarily of their own thoughts, the condition of their own souls, and the night sky is a reminder of the greatness and eternity we are all a part of.

Get outside! Don’t be scared of the dark. Face your thoughts, face the eternity before you, and find your place in the order of things.

This was night one of my camping road trip. Tomorrow I’d explore more of the Mojave National Preserve and return to my favorite National Park- Death Valley!

Read my previous entry here: All My Friends: Reflections from the Desert

Check out my book Still, Calm, and Quiet, here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093RMBNCP

All My Friends: Reflections from the Desert

January 19, 2022Posted in UncategorizedTagged adventure, free will, mojave, national parksLeave a comment

I had this dream; in it I was at a summer camp. I found myself in my assigned cabin full of bunks. I never went to summer camp as a child, so this was something new. I got out of my bunk bed and looked in a mirror. I was definitely myself- that’s good, but I looked different, younger. I had been gifted back some years in life.

I left the cabin and went to the dining hall. Somehow, I knew everyone would be there. It was time for dinner. I walked over the well-worn path between the various cabins and buildings here in the wooded camp. When I arrived at the dining hall, I found it to be very much like a school cafeteria, except of a more rustic nature, in tune with its natural surroundings. As I scanned the hall, considering which table I might sit down at, I noticed something strikingly surreal and exciting. The characters from my first novel and series of short stories were there: Dan, Linzy, and Sarah!

At this point I realized I was in a dream, and thus I was excited I would get to personally meet the characters I had invented, materialized in this dream. They came over to me with looks of accusation and immediately they made their concerns known.

Linzy, the red headed, usually bubbly, outspoken teenager, pointed her finger at me, “Why didn’t you finish our story?” Her friends spilled out their similar concerns. I knew what she was referring to. My first novel, Wild Christmas, ends rather suddenly. Some readers have said that the book should have had a more well-rounded conclusion. The trio of high school friends were in the midst of assisting Santa in completing his Christmas Eve present run, but the reader is never brought to see the completion of that.

I did not know how to respond to Linzy’s concern. It is true I wrote her story, and it was intentional that I ended the story that way. I had nothing else to say in the matter. I had entertained a sequel for a while, but never pursued it in writing.

As I looked away from the trio to collect my thoughts, I noticed another familiar character. His name was Mark, a lifeguard from a series of comic strips I wrote and drew when I was much younger. In his story, extraterrestrials invade his beach and throw the touristy beach town into chaos. Mark’s lifeguarding duties greatly expand as he has to save the townspeople from not only high tide but the destructive aliens. The problem was I never finished that story. I left the townspeople dangling in chaos and danger and Mark in utter distress. When my eyes made contact with Mark’s, I could tell he was upset with me. He came over.

“How could you leave me, abandoned with the alien invasion?” he both accused and questioned.

“I don’t kn—” Before I could finish my sentence, I was silenced as I was struck with the realization that this dining hall was filled with characters of unfinished stories I had written over many years. There they all were, just as I had described them in writing. I looked out and I knew the backstories of everyone here. These were all my friends, but they were all upset with me, coming over with complaints of how I didn’t finish their stories.

Most profoundly of all, I noticed one of my most developed and personally explored characters, Dakota from my novel, Dakota Broken. He sat alone at a table. I took my tray of food and sat next to him. His head hung low, his black hair drooping down, nearly covering his eyes. With no introduction or acknowledgement, he simply asked, “What happened?” In the novel, Dakota was taken away from his abusive parents and was about to be adopted by a new family, but the novel doesn’t take us to meet the new family. “I was ripped from my parents and was going to be adopted? What are they like? Do I ever get to meet them? Will I ever overcome my insecurities?

I was left speechless. Then characters from all over the cafeteria began to crowd around me in angry accusation. I’ve left many a story unfinished and others have conclusions that may not answer all the questions the reader has. I’ve wanted the reader to speculate and think and have just said, “like in life, we never have all the answers.”

This definitely did not sit well with all my characters crowding around me. I couldn’t distinguish one accusation from another. Too much was coming at me that it all blended into chaos.

Over the commotion I defended myself, “Listen, I don’t write your stories anymore. You live your own lives.”

“But you’re the author,” one voice broke out above the others.

And I awoke.

What a peculiar dream, I thought. It must mean something. I sat with this dream for a while, and as I was driving my way through the desert on my way to Mojave National Preserve, I thought deeply about it. The words, “But you’re the author,” really stuck out to me. Here lay the deepest meaning. Before we unpack that statement, let’s peer into some fundamental beliefs I have about life.

I believe we are gifted life by God. Life is not a happenstance or an independent state. Life is dependent on God. He is the author and giver of it. A component of life is free will, which is also a gift from God. This is the ability to make our own choices and not be controlled. Thus, as humans, we make good and bad choices. The ability to make choices, to have freewill, is in essence to have the pen in hand to author the story of your own life. You can write for yourself misery by poor choices. You can write for yourself a tale of adventure through travel. You can pursue romance or enterprise, family, or solitude. Modern philosophy teaches that society is the author of your life; that society holds the pen and determines the projection of your life; that as an individual you have no choice but to be the outcome of societal factors. To think otherwise is to be the spoiled product of privilege. Society sure has influence, but society is not the author. YOU are the author! You have been given life and handed a pen by the almighty God. You are writing YOUR story.

Christians, and people of faith, strive to have God guide that pen, just as a young child learning to write, we desire God to help move the pen and show us the way. Thus God intervenes and guides our pen, becoming a coauthor and authority in our lives. As humans, we are made in the image of God, and a part of that image is having that ability to be able to have influence and write into the stories of others as well. Life is a book, or story, being written, and we intentionally, or not, write in the stories of everyone we come in contact with. Think about it. When you compliment or insult someone, you are grabbing the pen and writing or scribbling into the story of another. Your words have an impact on the lives of others. When you are generous with your resources, time, and wisdom, you are writing influence upon the life of another. When you teach people, insult people, hurt people, fight people, love people, care for people, you are writing into the story of another person. You are a coauthor of many stories.

So when the characters in my dream cried out, “But you are the author,” what a challenging reminder that is. You hold a pen, and you can open the story of another at any time and write into his or her story. What will that look like? Will you write in encouragement, experience, wisdom, love?

Reflect upon your life. If you are a parent, think about the influence you have had on writing the life story of your children’s lives. If you are a teacher, in its many forms, your influence is so broad and expansive. If you have been a good friend, a loyal companion, a good listener, an encourager, you may never know until eternity, the extent to which you have helped author the stories of others. On the contrary, have you been a complainer? Selfish? One who seeks power, or a seeker of revenger? Have you stepped on, trampled on the lives of others in authoring your own story? Have you intentionally scribbled into the story of another, creating the ugliest of pages in his or her life?

This is quite challenging, and although as beneficial as it may be to look backward and reflect, think about each day as it comes. You begin each day with a pen in hand- there are books all around you- you have been given the power to write into their lives.

One day when I was out jogging, thinking about such matters, Dolly Parton’s song, Dear God, came to mind. I had been listening to it in the car. Crying out to God, she sings, “The freewill you have given we have made a mockery of.” That really stuck with me. I was thinking of all the selfish and immoral choices made with our freewill, and I was thinking about how free will is not simply gifted out of love, but it has been gifted out of love with purpose, which is the part often overlooked. We are not to simply be thankful for our free will, but we are to use it as well for intended purposes. To live a life pleasing to God by serving others and writing into their lives goodness, hope, and love.

At this point you may be wondering, what has happened? Let’s talk more about National Parks and the great outdoors. Why has Joshua become so preachy? Maybe before I cared too much about what others thought of my writing. I wanted it to appeal to a broad audience. I have always been very introspective in my writing, relating matters to faith, but this time it may seem just a little bit more in your face. I don’t apologize. There are things we need to talk about.

I have debated and struggled over sharing this adventure, not over matters of faith and inspiration, but in another regard. This adventure, which I am just beginning to share, very much involves other people and not just the introspection which is mine. There are some moments here when I could have authored good things into others’ lives, but rather I surrendered those opportunities to neglect. I have thought, Do I only want to share those good moments of inspiration and leave out that which bears shame? Do I do so out of courtesy to others? I’ve concluded, no; that nothing grows without rain, healing does not come without pain, and learning does not come without failure. So, in my typical fashion, I lay it all out before you, so that you can learn from my life that’s lived. It is intentional that I follow the noun, “life” with the past participle “lived,” for a life that’s not lived does not have hardship. To truly live your life, you must face the hardships and let the hardships produce beauty.

I know that when my life is said and done, and my own sun sets. I don’t want my sunset to be dull and boring, or covered up by the clouds. A life that’s lived is the one that also produces color. I want what I’ve stood for, what I’ve accomplished, what I’ve lived, to be bright and vibrant- an orange on fire, a luminous pink, a deep reflective blue. May these be the Colors of My Sunset and may they touch upon the lives of others.

Check out my book Still, Calm, and Quiet, here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093RMBNCP

The Booming Sands of the Mojave

January 7, 2022January 7, 2022Posted in UncategorizedTagged booming sand, california, desert, kelso dunes, mojave, mojave national preserve, national parks, sand dunes, singing dunesLeave a comment

With each elongated step of sliding down the enormous sand dune, a reverberating booming sound escaped the sands from beneath me. This was remarkable! I had never met such a phenomenon before. I felt as though I was the one instigating such a feat, thus giving me feelings of a supernatural essence.

I was at Mojave National Preserve in southern California. This preserve was the first noted point of interest on my fourth great National Park adventure. The park features the largest Joshua tree forest in the world, canyons, mesas, volcanos, abandoned homesteads, military outposts, and “singing sand dunes.” During the entirety of my visit to the Kelso Dunes section of the park, I was the only one there. It was early morning, and the desert sun was just starting to become quite fiery. I was excited to take on the sand dunes. As I looked out upon them, I determined, then and there, I had to make it to the top of the tallest dune. Learning from my mistakes in the past, and after having burnt my feet at the Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado, I made sure my footwear was solid. I filled up a water bottle, threw a Clif Bar in my backpack, lathered up and worked in my sunscreen, and took off running into the dunes.

My fourth great National Park adventure was really starting to take off! I had embarked on such trips the past three summers, in which I’d camp and travel from National Park to National Park for the large majority of my summer break hiking and exploring the great outdoors. This trip, although starting in the Southwest, would eventually take me far up into the Northwest, an area I had yet to explore. This was my second day in the Mojave National Preserve, but the first one waking up in it. Already the park had impressed me. My expectations for it were quite low. I had been to other parks in the Mojave Desert before, such as Death Valley and Joshua Tree, how different could this be? And it was a “preserve,” such a title to me suggested less opportunity for recreation. However, I was surprised. This place was by far underrated in the National Park Service and filled with many hidden gems. I was in the midst of discovering one of said gems in this moment: the Kelso Dunes. They gave justice to the term sand dunes. But perhaps would be more justified by a term “sand mountains.” Enormous mounds of sand rose above the rest of the desert. On the lower sides of the dunes, desert grasses poked up sparsely from the wind combed sand and Mojave fringe-toed lizards scurried about. The creatures were quite nervous and incredibly fast, but stealthily, as if sneaking up upon my prey, I was able to approach one to capture a quite satisfying photograph. I also had to capture photos of myself in such an area. The shock value of such a contrasting landscape, from that which I was accustomed to in Kentucky, was striking upon me.

As I looked at that enormous sand dune in the distance, the one I resolved to climb to the top of, doubt began to creep in. It was hard to gauge exactly how tall the sand dune was. I wanted to be done in an hour or two, for although as exciting as this was, I also had other places to see and other things to do. Looking at the dune, I could not determine if this would fit nicely into my plans or would require a full day expedition, and if it was the latter, I was not prepared and rather ill-equipped. But I determined to press forward. If it proved too much I could always turn around. Then, not only was I considering the time factor, but I started to wonder if it was physically possible, for the rising of the sand looked quite steep. Would I be able to pull myself up that? There was no designated trail. This was a free for all, and quite obviously no one had been out here this morning, and perhaps not for a while, for the traces of any feet in the sand had been well swept away by the wind. The place looked untouched. It was just me and the desert. Graciously enough, this peak in the sand dune expanse, did not present any false summits, however dips and dives in the sandscape did surprise.

I didn’t try to dig my feet in the sand, but as I started to ascend the steepest stretch, my feet naturally sunk into the sand, and pressed further in as I tried to establish footing to push myself upwards. I paused to look around. The landscape was just so enormous. To my one side was the wall of sand, but out below me to the right spread, so immensely, the Mojave desert. The light-colored sand expanse spilled for just a mile or so into the desert, before the long stretches of valley filled with cactus and shrub took over, with the bright morning sun casting shadows, which not noticeable individually, but collectively, gave a dark brown hue to the landscape. Then as the mountains in the distance, bordering the immense valley, rose up, the higher they climbed, the bluer the tone they assumed, until, at their darkest summits, a crescendo of the breaking sky burst in a glorious white only to quickly transition to a spotless blue that covered the rest of the desert sky.

I continued on, elated, feeling as though I had really arrived upon adventure’s doorstep. Then, I reached the top, standing bold and accomplished, I looked over the other side of the dune and saw the same immensity of desert and mountain mimicked. Here at the pointed spine of the sand dune, on the Eastern side, the sand was finely combed into delicate rivets by the wind. On the Western slope the sand had been blown into one smooth, harmonious sheet of sand. The spine snaked up to a higher pinnacle. I crushed the delicate spine as I trampled my way to this final viewpoint. And there I stood in awe. I could assume, a great number of people, especially back East, couldn’t even imagine such a robust desert landscape existed in our country. I felt I was in such an exotic place, a place from fiction, and that I was the Prince of Persia.

I sat down, drank some water, ate my Clif bar, and sucked on a few electrolyte dummies. I reveled in the comforting and consuming sun. I took off my boots and sunk my feet into the soft sand. Here, from this pedestal, I looked down upon the Earth. It was one of those mountain-top experiences that puts life into perspective. The immensity of the view before me, and the diminutive nature of everything from such heights, put life into perspective. The canvas is much bigger than the small concerns we often get caught up in below.

When I was done taking it all in, I began my descent, and the gravity of the Earth pulled me downward, and thus a single step slid well into the sloping sand before me, carrying me quite a distance. It was nothing more than a controlled falling glide into the sand, but it gave quite the superhuman sensation- a similar sensation one might get walking upon those conveyor belt automated walkways at the airport. One stride takes you much farther than humanly possible alone, as the very ground beneath you moves in conjunction. Thus I was descending nothing short of a mountain in mere easily countable strides. The effort was minimal, so I held my head up and looked out upon the other more solid mountains parallel and at times below me. I felt as though I was descending upon the Earth in majestic style. And to top it all off, the sand beneath me boomed! That’s right, the sand beneath me sensationally responded to each of my steps! There’s a scientific explanation behind this. It has to do with the warm layers of sand meeting the cold layers beneath and sound waves getting trapped within the layers, but to me, I imagined as if it was I causing the sound, or as if the earth was shuddering to each of my steps, as if I was Zeus or some Greek god descending from the sky upon Olympus.

As supernatural musings took hold of my thoughts, I began to think of Heaven. How will man interact with the landscapes there? Will such enormous, satisfying, efficient strides be more commonplace? Distance and strenuity have a hold of man’s interaction with wild landscapes, but what if there they will be more easily traversed and enjoyed?

I had a dream, just months prior, that I was in Heaven. I recently had read a book by David Murray titled the “Happy Christian: Ten Ways to Be a Joyful Believer in a Gloomy World.” In it the author talks about how work is not a result of sin, but how work as we know it on Earth has been corrupted by sin. The author discusses how Adam and Eve, before the fall of man, worked in the Garden attending to it and naming the animals. They were designed, in part, for work. Eve was even created to help with said work. Thus work existed before sin, and so the author proposes that work will also exist in Heaven; that we will all have our own duties, but it will be joyous and fulfilling. I think this portion of the book was responsible for my dream, for in my dream I was at work in Heaven. I was a harvester, or scavenger, in the forests and jungles of Heaven. We went collecting exotic Heavenly fruits to bring back to the people in the Kingdom. And it was thrilling! Our feet were always bare, but they were never worn nor scratched. We would jump from mountain peak to mountain peak. We’d race through all the undergrowth of the forest, unscathed. We’d fall with the waterfalls in excitement to take us from one place to another. We were a team, such great comradery, and we were harmonious with the land. Toil was not there. The land never caused us harm. The way we interacted with it served our purpose. There was no strenuity, danger, or fatigue, such things were absent. Nature had no temperament. It agreed with us. Maybe we even had authority over it.

It was just a dream, fun to entertain, but at the end of the day, a creation of my imagination. But here on the sand dunes in Mojave National Preserve, I felt a fragment of what I felt in that dream. The desert had no hold on me. I had power over it. It gave a shuttering boom with every step, and I could traverse it with ease. Thus I became flooded with the thoughts and awe of eternity.

I didn’t know it then, but I know it now, eternity would become a major theme of the summer. I would end up facing questions about life, death, and eternity here after. This would become a heavy but blessed summer. As I descended those sand dunes, along with the weight of gravity came the weightier questions of life: What is my purpose here in life? How do I relate to others in the time I’m given? Would I leave a legacy when I’m gone? Does that even matter? As the sand spilled down the dune, so these questions tumbled down upon me. The timing was orchestrated and perfect, although it wouldn’t be easy. I had traversed the Canyonlands, learned to be Still, Calm, and Quiet, and now it was time to face the prospect of Sunset.

Check out my book Still, Calm, and Quiet, here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093RMBNCP

Visiting John Muir’s Home

February 12, 2021Posted in UncategorizedTagged california, conservation, john muir, john muir house, john muir national historic site, martinez, national parks2 Comments

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.

Read the previous entry “Whiskeytown and Shasta” here: Whiskeytown and Shasta – on the verge (joshthehodge.com)

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

Whiskeytown and Shasta

February 11, 2021Posted in UncategorizedTagged california, national parks, redding, shasta city, shasta state historic site, whiskeytown, whiskeytown national recreation areaLeave a comment

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.

Read the previous entry “Attack of the Squirrels” here: Attack of the Squirrels – on the verge (joshthehodge.com)

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

A Lion on the Moon

January 21, 2021Posted in adveture, national parksTagged backpacking, craters of the moon national monument, craters of the mooon, echo butte, mountain lions, national parks, preserveLeave a comment

Perhaps I was wrong about mountain lions. Maybe they would be more of a problem after all. That growl was unlike anything I had ever heard before. Suddenly I was flooded with goosebumps. The park ranger at the visitor center was not kidding.

I was now at Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve in southern Idaho. At the visitor center a blond female park ranger, with abundant curls that towered upon her head like she was straight out of the 80s, made a child declare the Oath of Service as a Junior Ranger. She spoke with her “r”s quite accentuated. “As a Junior Ranger I promise to teach others about what I learned today, explore other parks…”

Then it was my turn. I wanted to secure a wilderness permit to camp out in the volcanic black sand wilderness of the monument. The ranger was kind and helpful, and she highlighted a place on the map I should camp at: Echo Crater. She proceeded to indicate the route and gave me a permit to hang on my backpack. She said the trail wasn’t always visible, but pointed out some landmarks to guide me on my way. I asked her to repeat them. After all, I didn’t want to end up lost like at White Sands National Monument. I asked her if there was any wildlife I needed to be aware of. “Squirrels,” she said. “We have squirrels.” Okay, I thought, you don’t need to advise me about squirrels. Then, just when I was about to move on, she informed me: “Now, there has been a mountain lion spotted a few times recently out by Echo Crater.”

“Oh?” Perhaps this is more important information than that of the squirrels

“Just be cautious, and you should be fine.”

Do I ask her more about this? I thought. She already issued me a wilderness permit and asked me if I was prepared for safety in the backcountry. I didn’t want her to lose confidence in me or doubt her decision in issuing me a permit. So, “Thank you,” I replied. Plus I was running short on time. I wanted to set up camp before the sunset. It was already evening. The day flew past me as I had driven in from Yellowstone and even experienced my first buffalo jam.

So I quickly got myself together. I was able to pack quite lightly and use my new serious backpacking backpack I had gotten at a Bass Pro Shops at the beginning of the summer. I had my Kelty tent, long underwear, sleeping bag, Vitamin Water, bandana, compact pillow, a Clif Bars, a protein fortified crispy rice bar, electrolyte gummies, miniature toothbrush, flashlight, water, and a book. I was ready, or at least close enough, so I hit the trail. The terrain was quite unique in that it primarily consisted of black and dark brown sand and rocks, which was the lava field remains of a series of underwater volcanoes that defined the area and gave it all its buttes, cones, and craters. As I made my way along volcanic remains there was the occasional shrubbery or pines that adorned the landscape, but it was mostly barren and dry like the surface of the moon. There wasn’t much of a trail other than footprints in the black sand. At one point I passed by some lava flow caves. I’d read about these. These hallowed out tubular caves underground were where lava once flowed. The tops of these caves pressed upon the surface and gave the terrain a rounded, and, at some locations, a cracked surface. I’d read somewhere in the monument you can explore these caves.

Then suddenly I heard an abrupt growl or roar, not any ordinary sound, but a heinous malicious sound, like something had just been attacked violently! It seemed to come from the ground, from the lava tube caves just beside me. I was flooded with goosebumps, a chill went down my spine, and I ran down the trail, but with my oversized backpack, running was not sustainable. The sun was setting beneath the horizon and any remaining shrubbery had taken on a golden hue from the sun, bidding farewell to the day, and here I was alone and vulnerable. Well not exactly alone- with a mountain lion in my midst!

I became extrordinarily vigilant, every few seconds looking behind me, hoping I didn’t find a lion stalking me. My actions express my concern, but at the same time, how cool, I thought. I just heard a mountain lion attack something. It seemed almost unreal. I couldn’t wait to return back to the visitor center in the morning and tell the rangers about my experience.

Eventually the trail of footprints dissipated into nothing. I had been counting buttes, for the ranger told me that after a number of buttes I’d find Echo Crater. I wasn’t sure what the visual difference of butte and crater was. At the time I thought it was pronounced “butts.” I was just counting butts at sunset with a mountain lion. Wait, how am I supposed to know if I’ve been counting “butts” or craters? What about cones? I was uncertain of where I was supposed to be. At one point I backtracked a little bit to reassess the lay of the land. Then I had to assess my situation. I could keep going, or I could call it a night. After all, the daylight would soon be gone. I think it’s probably better to get set up and in my tent, regardless of whether I am in the right location or not, because there is probably a mountain lion on my tail. I concluded that I would consider this big mound of a volcanic feature Echo Butte, whether it really was or not.

I also had another burning question: Am I to camp in the crater or beside the crater? The ranger just said “at the crater.” “At” is a vague term in such a circumstance. I thought I’d try and camp in the crater, so I made my way up the side of the hill leading into the crater. Then it dawned on me: Do I really want to be trapped inside a crater with a mountain lion? I remembered when I was in Death Valley years prior. I ventured down in a crater, and then had a bit of trouble getting back out, and I recalled a coyote down in that crater. Perhaps the mountain lion lives in the crater and I’ll get trapped in there with him. No thank you. I felt better camping out on the lava flow. Aside the mound of the crater was a flat barren field of black rock and sand. While I was setting up my tent there, I tried not to bend or kneel down much, after all, that would put me in such a vulnerable position for the mountain lion to pounce and break my neck. Then I threw my backpack in my tent and hopped in. As I was unpacking my bag and getting situated, some rocks tumbled down from the crater mound and I heard steps. It’s found me! I shrieked in my soul and my heart jumped. What to do? Then I saw out the window of my tent, it was no mountain lion. It was a deer. It walked right past my tent. Phew! That was a close one! I thought.

As daylight left, I had my snacks, brushed my teeth, and pulled out the book I had purchased in the visitor center. It was a middle school mystery reader, one in a series, each one taking place in a National Park. This was the Yellowstone installment called “Wolf Stalker.” More appropriate for the occasion would have been “Lion Stalker.” As I began to read the book, I found no allusion to imminent peril, and it captivated my attention. I had calmed down. I felt fine, at ease, and quite at peace. I found the same great lonely freedom I found when I went backpacking in the wilderness area of the Petrified Forest. I slept quite well, despite brushing waking consciousness a few times from the cold.

In the morning, as I woke with the sun, I began to thaw out. I thought I’d explore more of the area this morning and have a look inside the crater. I tore down my tent and packed my bag. I felt quite alone, but I loved it. As Theodore Roosevelt once said, “The further one gets into the wilderness the greater is the attraction of it’s lonely freedom.” I was removed from the troubles of the world, and my featured accomplishment was surviving the night without being eaten by a mountain lion. The danger of a lion now seemed so distant.

But then…what was that sound? It was something more than the chirping of birds. Voices? People? Around the bend of the crater mound came a couple of beings. I’d learn they were a park biologist, the older man, and his apprentice, a college student doing an internship. I thought I would ask them more specifics on where I was and what I could see. Pleasantly, they introduced themselves and told me they were out here studying birds, particularly taking a bird inventory. They set a timer for five minutes and then counted bird calls they heard in specific areas. It told them what birds were in the area and how healthy the population was. They had finished their work for the morning and were doing just a bit of sightseeing, the older man showing his intern around.

“Come follow me,” the biologist invited. “I’ll show you how to get into the crater. He guided us around to the other side of the mound where vegetation was more abundant. We did quite a bit of bushwhacking. I engaged in conversation with both of them about my trip, about the park, about their lives and where they were from. I felt so fortunate to have my own private biologist to guide and interpret the park for me. Once we reached the edge of the crater we had climbed quite high. I was struck with an awesome view into the crater. It was like its own little biome, its own island. Trees and shrubs grew down in it. How cool it would have been to camp down in that sheltered world, but then again who knows how safe. I looked out upon the expanse of the preserve here and saw snow capped mountains in the distance. The biologist guided us down into the crater. I marveled at the rocks, and the trees, and the crater walls. I saw where other people had camped before, and my question of where I was intended to camp had thus been answered.

When we trekked our way out of the crater we parted ways, and then rejoined by happenstance again. At one point I veered to check out a cave. I poked my head in cautiously. Because of what I heard the evening before, that was quite enough. I thought about telling the biologist about what I heard and my experience the night before, but when I contemplated sharing it, I felt like I sounded crazy. I thought then about telling the ranger back in the visitor center, but when I got there, it was still very early and it was closed. I left my wilderness permit at the door. I didn’t share my experience with anyone at the park, but I treasured it as one of my greatest souvenir experiences of the summer. With that in my pocket, onward I’d proceed to Bruneau Sand Dunes State Park.

Read the previous entry “Why I Cried at Roosevelt Arch- What Theodore Roosevelt and the National Parks Mean to Me” here: Bears and Buffalos – on the verge (joshthehodge.com)

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

Why I Cried at Roosevelt Arch – What Theodore Roosevelt and the National Parks Mean to Me

January 17, 2021Posted in adveture, national parks, natureTagged National Park Service, national parks, Roosevelt Arch, Theodore Roosevelt, yellowstone, yellowstone national park2 Comments

When I saw Roosevelt Arch I cried. It churned up an emotional response in me. This gateway to Yellowstone National Park, situated near the Northwest corner of the park, tugged at my heartstrings. To understand why, I must reflect on it and consider myself in the moment, for the emotions brought up were so deeply entrenched. It’s not something to skim off the surface of my being.

I think to best understand the reason for my emotions I must consider Roosevelt Arch in three aspects. First, I must consider its symbolic meaning, what does Roosevelt Arch mean? Next, I must consider it’s visual appeal, why does this visual provoke this feeling? And thirdly, I must reflect upon the man whose name is inscribed upon it: Theodore Roosevelt.

It is certainly not without evidence the measure of significance the National Parks means to me. I have visited so many and have written extensively about them. The National Parks are places I go to restore my soul. When life is burdensome, and I’m weighed down by the heaviness it entails, when I lose perspective and get caught in the rush and concerns of the moment, the National Parks with their magnitude, beauty, and remoteness have become places I go to step out of my troubles and find perspective. The immensity of the mountains, the richness of the forest, the profoundness of the canyons humble me and diminish the concerns in my own life as I gain perspective of the bigger canvas of life.

As I am inspired by the grandiosity of things I also find such beauty in the smaller things- in the wildlife, in the design of plants, the way water flows and sits, and in the beautiful way the sun filters through the trees or paints across the plains. Everything big or small is so near perfectly balanced, beautiful and unique, reminding me of the awesome expansive creativity of God. And here, as I am surrounded by God’s artwork, I am reassured knowing the same wonderful Maker who crafted these lands and natural wonders is the Architect and Orchestrator of my own life. I see that the fingerprints in nature are the same fingerprints in my own design. It is such a humbling yet reassuring feeling to know the awesome Creator and Coordinator of nature has His hands on my life.

Here in the remoteness and solitude of so many parks I am ushered into a place where I can focus in on this masterful Creator, to pray, to reflect, to enjoy His company in the still, calm, and quiet. Man has constructed temples, churches, and cathedrals, all of which can serve so much good, but God has also gifted us, in his own incredible design, temples in nature that point us back to him in a unique way. Whether it’s the stunning Yosemite Valley, the wide openings of the Rio Grande, the mountain peak in Appalachia, the spread of glaciers in the Rockies, or beneath a giant sequoia, these places of quietude and beauty are here for us to draw us back to the Creator.

In addition to these spiritual aspects, there are other more broadly understood terms in which the parks have been meaningful to me. They have been places that have put me up to challenges, physically and mentally- taking on long strenuous hikes, pulling my weight up cliff sides, overcoming fear in turbulent water, and problem solving when things have gone awry. The experiences in the parks have strengthened me physically and mentally and in return have been good for my soul. In the same regard they have instilled in myself a greater confidence in my own abilities, and have given me a passion to which I identify. My experiences in the parks have molded me into the outdoorsman I am, have spurred in me the desire and necessity to learn new skills, and have kindled the appreciation and thirst for beauty and adventure.

So here I was at Roosevelt Arch, this manmade structure was the first and primary entrance to Yellowstone National Park for many years. Montana was the main means of entry into the park as support for the exploration of Yellowstone primarily came out of the Montana Territory through the Washburn Expedition. When the railroad was brought to Yellowstone it came through Gardiner, Montana, and thus a grand entryway to Yellowstone was constructed in 1903 with the inscription above it “For the benefit and enjoyment of the people.” This phrase comes out of the Organic Act which established Yellowstone as a National Park, but it is unofficially a slogan used throughout the National Park Service. Standing here in front of the arch I see how it greatly contrasts the wild remote landscape around it of mountain and field. And this structure is bold and tall, a mighty gateway to Yellowstone. It was evident to me that this was the entrance not simply to Yellowstone but to the first National Park. Thus this arch, this portal, is where it all began. This is the doorway to all the National Parks and a monument to one of America’s best ideas.

In this moment, before the arch, I was also swept away with patriotism. My country has chosen to preserve such treasures and honor such beauty. The heroes, the fathers of the National Parks- now long gone- made this possible, people such as John Muir, Theodore Roosevelt, Stephen Mather, Nathaniel Langford- all outstanding Americans. Just the fall before, a turbulent election took place. Some people became very vocal about their thoughts on the United States. Some citizens renounced patriotism and attacked the country with boisterous and repetitive rhetoric, and many in higher education proudly slandered our nation. When I was in New York City visiting my brother and sister-in-law, walking down Fifth Avenue, a group of young people chanted and pleaded for the abolishment of the United States. How infuriating that was, but how refreshing and restorative to be here at Roosevelt Arch to celebrate the natural wonders my country has chosen to preserve for the ‘benefit and enjoyment” of all people and recognize the patriots that made this possible. People need to get out of the cities every once and while and enjoy the wonders of nature and the diversity of the country.

It is without question that my knowledge of Theodore Roosevelt himself is part responsible for this emotional response to seeing this arch. Theodore Roosevelt, more so than any modern historical figure, has had the greatest influence upon my character. It is largely due to the difficulties he endured and the principles by which he stood. This man knew pain, physical and emotional, to great profundities. Some may see him as privileged, and although he was in some regards, he also was a man of great misfortune. Life was not nice to him in many ways. He lost his father as a young man and both his mom and wife died soon after on the same day- a day in which in his journal he’d remark solely: “the light has gone out of my life,” with an X. This was a man who felt like he lost everything. Before, he spent much of his younger youth physically Ill. Severe asthma and intestinal issues plagued him. I have not experienced nearly as much hardship as Roosevelt, but I, like so many people, have faced my own hardships in life. I’ve had my own extensive and grave health issues, have lost dreams, and have been in emotional distress. How inspiring it is to see Roosevelt not allow himself to be beaten down by life, not to wallow in self pity, but rather do the most unexpected thing and learn to embrace the difficulties of life, to accept life for what it is, to find value in challenge and hardships. He grabbed difficulty by the horns and called it for what it is: “the strenuous life,” something he preached about. Although his lot in life initially dealt him misfortune, he did not let that hinder him. Roosevelt loved life. He had a passion for it in all regards, and lived it to the fullest, courageously and vigorously.

This wimpy, sickly child, not expected to survive past childhood, would go on to occupy the bully pulpit. He’d clean up sin loving New York City as police commissioner and governor, charge up San Juan Hill as a commander, see that the Panama Canal was constructed under his presidency, attack corruption in Washington, author more than forty-five books, raise six children, and work to preserve more federal land than any other president, creating a culture of natural preservation. Although so accomplished as president, being one was not always in his plans. He once said he never wanted to become president, but he became one by destiny. When president Mckinley was assassinated in 1901, Roosevelt had to assume office. Although, expectedly so, he rose to the occasion and preserved the dignity of the office, he made light of the frivolity among the Washington political elite, for Roosevelt, despite his status, was a common man. He may have been born into the New York elite, but this man was relatable to the ordinary American. He’d camped with them, hunted with them, ate with them. He left the comforts of high-class New York City and became a rough and tumble cowboy and rancheman in the Dakota Territory. He did not simply identify with a class of people, he identified as American.

Along with his firm sense of nationalism, Roosevelt also defined in his own terms what it meant to be a man. Having read many books by and about Roosevelt, this is a motif I’ve found that spans his life and story. Always to some extent he was preoccupied with thoughts of manhood and how to live up to and fulfill his duty as a man. He’d observe characteristics in others, then write about them and speak about them. He would come to define manhood by four principles: courage, hardiness, integrity, and independence. I think presently, our nation, as a whole, lacks strong male role models. Modern attacks on masculinity, and fatherless homes, have left a generation confused and lost in society. Media has watered down or redefined manhood in physical and lustful terms. The youth more than ever need men like Roosevelt to lead them and teach by his legacy.

I suppose on a more uniquely personal level, I identify so strongly with Roosevelt because of his passions: America, history, reading, recreation, nature, and writing. Although hunting and fatherhood are two huge parts of the Roosevelt experience that I am not yet personally acquainted with, we have such similar interests and worldview, that an overwhelming majority of things Roosevelt said are relatable to me in some regard. Thus he has become quite intriguing to me.

So with all these characteristics in mind, here I was at Roosevelt Arch. Theodore Roosevelt had laid the cornerstone for this magnificent construction that would be dedicated to him. With all the symbolic meaning, as a gateway to America’s National Parks, bearing the name of Roosevelt and the slogan, “For the benefit and enjoyment of the people,” how could I not get emotional? This place appealed to me on so many levels. This was the door that unlocked all the National Parks which would mean so much to me and to so many.

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul alike” – John Muir, The Yosemite.

Read the previous entry “Providence in Yellowstone” here: https://joshthehodge.com/2021/01/15/providence-in-yellowstone/

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

Check out my book Theodore Roosevelt for the Holidays: Christmas and Thanksgiving with the Bull Moose here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08M8Y5P29

Providence in Yellowstone

January 15, 2021January 15, 2021Posted in adveture, national parks, travel, UncategorizedTagged grand canyon of the yellowstone, museum of the national park ranger, national parks, yellowstone, yellowstone national park1 Comment

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.

Read the previous entry “Lands Alive: My First Day in Yellowstone” here: Lands Alive: My First Day in Yellowstone – on the verge (joshthehodge.com)

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

Lands Alive: My First Day in Yellowstone

January 2, 2021January 2, 2021Posted in adveture, national parks, nature, travelTagged national parks, old faithful, old faithful inn, upper geyser basin, west geyser basin, wyoming, yellowstone, yellowstone in a day, yellowstone national park1 Comment

Yellowstone, with gurgling mud pots, colorful pools, hot springs, and geysers shooting into the air, it’s nature’s wonderland. Herds of bison, elk, the curious badger, and ravenous wolves call it home. Cascades and waterfalls, sprawling valleys, rivers, and lakes are pocketed in all corners. It’s so huge and magnificent that it’s daunting to even write about. It is the first National Park, founded in 1872, and among the larger ones at 3,471 square miles, larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined. Central Park is to New York City as Yellowstone is to the United States of America. It is America’s park.

I wanted to give myself plenty of time to make acquaintance, so I had given myself three days, but one could really spend a lifetime exploring its vast wonders. I had bought a book in the gift store at the visitor center of the neighboring Grand Teton National Park titled “Yellowstone in a Day,” published by the Yellowstone Association. It really spelled out an itinerary for Yellowstone in 3 days with optional additional days itineraries.. It was precisely what I needed, and so truly I visited Yellowstone by the book. It calmed my worry that I might miss something of importance. I knew assuredly, before all else, that I needed to see Old Faithful. That was a must, along with the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. I knew I wanted to see Grand Prismatic Spring, but at this point, arriving at the park, I didn’t even know its name nor if the images I had seen of a grandiose and colorful pool were of various springs around Yellowstone or one specific. I’d learn that Grand Prismatic is definitely that one that sticks out from the rest, boasting its own character, photographed many times.

I entered Yellowstone from the south from Grand Teton National Park via the John D. Rockefeller Jr. Memorial Parkway which connects the two parks together. I beheld the entrance sign and took my photo by it and then proceeded to the West Thumb Geyser Basin. Here a half mile boardwalk meanders atop of a delicate landscape where a number of geothermal springs display extravagantly bright turquoise pools which steam into the cool air. Signs warn that the ground may be thin and advise visitors not to step on it but to stay on the boardwalk. Thus the ground appears to the eye like a thin pebbly and crispy crust just atop a earth that bubbles and steams, alive and breathing. The boardwalk descends down along the side of Yellowstone Lake, where one can see over three miles across to the snow capped mountains. Just aside the boardwalk are a few geothermal features within the lake water visible to the eye. There is one called the Fishing Hole. It is not more than a mound that pokes up in the lake with a couple-foot hole in the top where boiling water feeds into the lake. It got the name as the Fishing Hole because there is a tale of a man who would go fishing right here in Yellowstone Lake. Once he caught his fish he’d dip the line over in the hole and cook his fish right there and have himself a meal.

When I came near the completion of the West Thumb Geyser Basin Loop, a female elk popped out of the adjacent pine forest and stepped onto the boardwalk. She simply crossed over the boardwalk and meandered between the geothermal pools. People stopped and gathered to take pictures. I was surprised how unfazed the elk was with all the visitors- but most animals in Yellowstone are rather comfortable with visitors. It’s as if the animals are trying to say. “This is my home, I am quite comfortable here. You are on my turf.” As a visitor, I really do feel like I’ve come inside the animals’ home in Yellowstone. I truly am a visitor here- more so than in any other park. This is the animals’ park.

Leaving the West Thumb Geyser Basin in car, I traveled to the Upper Geyser Basin, the home of Old Faithful! This is perhaps the most prized feature of the National Park Service. The parking lot conveys so with its enormous size. Here a village sprawls horseshoe alongside this feature. Here in this park within a park, is the Old Faithful Inn, Old Faithful Lodge, main park visitor center, Snow Lodge Cafeteria, and a large gift shop and general store. I wanted to see it all, and so I did. When I left my car, I saw a number of noisy crows perched atop a few vehicles. Were they welcoming me, or was their pestering cry their attempt to tell me to go away? Probably they were just looking for handouts. I rushed into the village in excitement. I just had to see Old Faithful erupt! I learned she did so about every hour. Enormous crowds gathered around a boardwalk which outlined the site of the geyser. Some wood benches were built into the boardwalk, but they were already taken. Intently observing, before its eruption there were a few brief spurts, leaving me wondering is that it? Sometimes tourist attractions can be overhyped, but when Old Faithful did erupt, she DID erupt, unmistakably, shooting into the sky pillars of water. People oohed and aahed, and it was everything I hoped for. Water towered upon water, hissing and boiling. It was an overcast day so unfortunately Old Faithful didn’t contrast against a blue sky, but she was still visible with great billows of steam. When the tower of water sunk back into the ground, the tourist quickly disappeared. Many headed back to the parking lot or into the gift shop. I was hungry and ready for lunch. I ate in the Old Faithful Lodge cafeteria, which has an exposed log frame and overlooks the site of Old Faithful through its big windows. This was one of five choices for me to eat just in this village, but at the time I did not know.

When I was done with lunch I took the couple mile boardwalk loop from Old Faithful along the Firehole River to the Upper Geyser Basin boardwalk. Here there were numerous geysers, the highest concentration in the world. There was lots of hissing and bubbling all around, and the air was filled with the repugnant smell of warm sulfuric acid evaporating into the cool mountain air. Seemingly at random, a geyser would erupt for a few minutes, tourists rushed to it, but then moments later elsewhere along the boardwalk, another would erupt and the tourists were drawn to another direction, each tourist reveling in the presumption that perhaps they were the first one to have seen the geyser erupt in maybe hundreds of years, but most of these geysers like Old Faithful are pretty consistent.

When I neared the farthest end of the path, I was desperate to go to the bathroom. The hissing and bubbling eruptions, and the flowing water taking place all around, did not help my predicament. There was a line for an outhouse of about a half-dozen people. I couldn’t fathom having to wait so long with the urgency I was experiencing, but I did and in the meantime I helped a few tourists open a bear proof garbage can. They were struggling and did not know how to open it. I felt quite experienced.

When my walk through the Upper Geyser Basin was complete, I was back next to Old Faithful and walked into the Old Faithful Inn. I get goosebumps on the verge of writing about this place, because it is the most impressive structure and most magical hotel in all of the National Park Service. It is the first “grand” lodge in all of the National Park Service. Shabby accommodations did exist beforehand, but this inn took everything to another level. This became the largest log hotel in the world. This inn was also the birth of the National Park Service Rustic architecture style, which sought to create buildings which harmonized and fit in with the natural surroundings. Imperfections and asymmetry, rebellious to the styles of the industrialized world, were welcomed. Hand labor contributed greatly to this style, and Robert Reamer who designed this hotel went on to create a number of other lodges in National Parks. When Theodore Roosevelt and naturalist John Burroughs toured Yellowstone in 1903 they saw plans for the lodge, and it’s been noted that Theodore Roosevelt praised the plans extensively.

When one walks into the lobby he or she is greeted by an enormous stone stacked fireplace in the middle of the atrium. Its chimney is extremely bold, larger than the rooms would be in many houses, and it extends six levels up through the rustic log roof. The logs which make up the whole building are not shiny and refined, but rough and rustic, unpolished and wild. Each level has a balcony which looks down into the main lobby. Just standing in the lobby looking around the place impressed me greatly. It truly looked handmade, and most of it was. It’s a mighty fortress of a structure and the epitome of a childhood dream of a fort in the woods. The top two levels in the lobby were small crows nests for musicians. Back in its earlier days, dances were held on this lobby floor to the live music above.

I wanted to spend some time here and enjoy this building and its architecture, so I went to the small cafe adjacent to the lobby and bought an overpriced cinnamon scone and a cup of orange spice tea. I walked up the rugged uneven stairs, noticing families on vacation climbing the stairs causally, hauling their suitcases. I couldn’t even imagine the delight of spending a night in such a place. I’d be so elated you’d see it all over my face. On the third level I stopped and sat on a rocking chair which faced the railing before me and the lobby below. A violinist up in the crow’s nest began to play soothing and relaxing music. This moment was so perfect. I just reveled in and savored it. The sights, the sounds, and the comfort of my hot tea were all perfect.

Resting here I imagined what it was like back in the day when the only way to this remote lodge was through the great wilderness on coach. There weren’t any roads nor the infrastructure of today. What a magnificent place to come upon in the wild after days of travel by horse, foot, or coach. The warm fireplace would have been so welcoming, and although rustic in style, this would have been luxurious. I imagined the visitors all dressed up dancing across the wooden floor below to the sound of the fiddle in the rafters.

Then, stop, I reminded myself: Be still. Be calm Be quite, and be ever present in this moment, savoring it completely for what it is. I so thoroughly enjoyed my break of peace and quietude here and often think back to it at the mention of Yellowstone. After sitting here for probably a good half hour, I resumed meandering around and found myself outside on a rooftop terrace facing Old Faithful. She was erupting again and I enjoyed it all a second time. This was a great vantage point of Old Faithful without the herds of people. It was cold outside so I didn’t loiter for too long. I went back in and went into the gift shop in the inn. I bought two post cards- one vintage one for my parents and another artistic one for my friend Ricky in California. I took them with me to the second floor where a few small old wooden desks outlined the walls. The desks had built in lamps and cozy wings for privacy. I filled out the postcards and then decided I better head to camp. I took a short stop by the Kepler Cascades, as the book instructed, on my way to my campsite at Bridge Bay, which I had reserved months in advance.

I arrived at the campground just before dusk. The campsite was mostly an open field with no privacy and very few trees, but I didn’t mind. By the time I was done setting up camp, the sun had set and I could hear a ranger giving a talk over at the campground amphitheater. I thought about joining but felt my time was best spent getting reorganized in my car and off to bed. After cleaning out my car and getting organized, I made my trip to the campground bathroom to brush my teeth, and then I settled into my tent with my park map and my “Yellowstone in a Day” book to see what the plan would be for tomorrow.

Read the previous entry “The Mighty Tetons” here: The Mighty Tetons – on the verge (joshthehodge.com)

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

The Mighty Tetons

October 4, 2020October 4, 2020Posted in UncategorizedTagged grand teton, grand teton national park, morman row, national parks, taggart lake, wyoming1 Comment

“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.

Read the previous entry “My Cougar Encounter At Grand Teton National park” here: https://joshthehodge.com/2020/09/19/my-cougar-encounter-at-grand-teton-national-park/

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

My Cougar Encounter at Grand Teton National Park

September 19, 2020September 19, 2020Posted in UncategorizedTagged cougar, grand teton national park, jackson lake, jackson lake lodge, jaguar, mountain lions, national parks, wyoming2 Comments

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.

Read the previous entry “A Wintery Mix” here: https://joshthehodge.com/2020/09/17/a-wintery-mix/

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873

A Wintery Mix

September 17, 2020September 17, 2020Posted in UncategorizedTagged grand teton, grand teton national park, jackson lake lodge, national parks, wyoming, yellowstone1 Comment

The delicate snow gingerly descended upon the landscape. A family of deer paused in a clearing of cold green grass. They made eye contact and then trampled back into the aspen grove. I was climbing up the mountainside in my car under the blanket of white and grey sky above me, having left the arid canyons and valleys of Dinosaur National Monument and now moving into the rich wet forests approaching Grand Teton National Park.

The wind picked up, and the aspen rattled as the pines swayed side to side. I was thrilled by the sudden change in environment. I had partially expected this. I knew I’d be making my way into colder temperatures, but snow hadn’t crossed my mind. I had stopped days before in Grand Junction, Colorado to buy a pair of jeans, since I had no long pants and also another sleeping bag. This would make three sleeping bags to layer up and keep me warm. I had read the temperatures in this region, even in June, could still swoop down into the forties and even the thirties. For this trip in its entirety I had initially packed more for the desert, and couldn’t have imagined packing for snow, especially back in my sweltering apartment in Kentucky.

The snow picked up and the wind swirled it around. Here I was in a blizzard in June. This was novel, and I loved every minute of it. After my northward journey, and ascending about two thousand feet from where I started at Dinosaur National Monument. I arrived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, a ski-resort town but also a tourist and outdoor adventure hub, and in that sense the Moab of the North. I didn’t know this place was such a destination but quickly learned it was the only remaining town before entering Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks from the south. Unsure of when or where my next meal might come from, I quickly slid out into the cold to run into a Mcdonalds for a chicken sandwich. Afterward I changed my attire in my car, from my shorts and tank top into my new jeans and flannel.

Cars started to line up on the roads through Jackson Hole. People were out and about on vacation, although given the weather it may have looked like people were out for last minute Christmas shopping. The crowded roadway added to the hype of reaching the park. This was not some place tucked away off the beaten path but this place was known. This was the place to be. You could feel the excitement in the air, wedged in between the falling snow.

I rolled into Coulter Bay Campground where I checked in and was assigned a campsite. The landscape was grey and green between the grey sky, the pavement and crushed rocks, and the grey of the tree limbs which stuck out skeletally among the forest of tightly packed conifers. This landscape was new to me. I’d never been to the northwest woods. The excitement of a new terrain beset me and the rich wet aroma of pines dampened any dry configuration for the desert I was affixed to. When I turned the car key and pulled it out from ignition, I had one goal in mind: to set up my tent as fast as possible getting the least wet possible. The snow had turned into a mixture of sleet and rain, what one would call a “wintery mix,” but it seemed inappropriate to use the term in June.

When I had purchased my additional sleeping bag and jeans, I had also purchased a new tent to replace True Blue which had been decimated in the monsoon at Guadalupe Mountain National Park. The good aspect of this was that all the components of the tent would be all neatly put together. The downside was that I was anticipating fumbling around, trying to learn to set up a new tent in this undesirable weather. However, it was a success. I set the tent up quickly despite my fingers growing slightly numb from the cold. Being so new, it was perfectly clean and had that new tent smell. I wasn’t sure how sleeping was going to be in the freezing cold, but I felt perhaps adequately prepared and realized only time would tell.

I warmed back up in my car and made my way to the visitor center at Coulter Bay. Coulter Bay is the only named “village” of Grand Teton National Park. A National Park “village” is a location where services are congregated. Usually there is a campground, a general store, gas station, a restaurant, a visitor center, and lodging. Although Coulter Bay is the only one that formally bears “village” with its title, The Jenny Lake area of the park I would also classify as a village. Next door, Yellowstone National Park has many villages because of its immense size and popularity.

Although I already had some trails planned. I wanted to consult a ranger to make sure I didn’t miss anything and also to inquire about what to do in the present state of rain, so I made my way up to the counter in the visitor center. A friendly gentleman handed me a park map and guide. “Here’s what you need to do. Go to the Jackson Lake Lodge, find yourself a nice seat in front of one of the big fireplaces, look through the guide I gave you, and plan some things for tomorrow.” I liked his friendly assertiveness and recognized his Chicago accent. He lifted the responsibility of having to plan my evening, and I liked the sound of what he was saying. I was thinking maybe the weather would clear. Maybe I could squeeze in a hike today, but taking some time to relax by a fire in a lodge while the weather did it’s wintery thing outside sounded very much appealing. I loaded up my backpack with my Chromebook, postcards, journal, and pens, and stepped into the most comforting of lodges.

I’d seen Jackson Lake Lodge in pictures particularly its grand atrium perfectly framing the Tetons. At the cusp of Project 66, the largest construction program of the National Park Service in which many of the visitor centers and modern facilities were constructed, John D. Rockefeller had this lodge constructed in1955. It is modern, but tasteful. It’s most unpretentious on the outside and on the inside it’s sleek, warm, and dignified. In the corners on either side of the main room stood enormous fireplaces, big enough to walk into. They were blazing and crackling and it was the perfect comfort and contrast to the climate outside. I settled into a comfortable chair, a mound of chopped firewood stood against the wall to my left. At one point a lodge employee threw some more wood onto the fire and poked it with a stick. I began to write some postcards and tried to drown out the obnoxious clamor of the kids around me. Two ladies talked as their kids ran about the fireplace and furniture. One girl, probably around six years old or so approached me and asked what I was doing. I simply told her I was writing postcards. They had ice cream in paper cups from somewhere. They spilled it across the coffee table and giggled. I decided to move. I found a seat further in the lobby where I could focus on writing my postcards. It then became a most peaceful and enjoyable experience. Given the weather, I really had no place to be, and here I was warm, in a beautiful lodge, with the welcoming glow of lamps and the fire contrasting the gloom outside. I could relax. It was astounding to consider how far my trip had taken me so far, from the sweltering heat of the West Texas desert and straddling the U.S.-Mexico border to now in the wintery northern woods.

I then opened up my park guide. I saw the listing of some ranger led hikes scheduled for the following day and I decided to scrap my plans. A ranger led hike seemed much more appealing. Also I was concerned about grizzly bears after reading all the warnings. This would pacify the concern. I’d read quite a bit about grizzly bears in preparation for this trip. This was my first visit in grizzly bear country. I learned that attacks, though rare, are nearly always on solo hikers. Hiking with others is exponentially safer. Usually I don’t learn about ranger led hikes enough in advance to participate, but here in this guide they were planned out for all summer at specific times.

Sitting here I also quickly hopped on the internet to check the weather, retrieve some addresses for postcards, and share this post: “Here’s an update- Dinosaur National Monument in Utah was very colorful and beautiful. Today I traveled through a blizzard into Wyoming. I set up my new tent for the first time in Grand Teton National Park. It’s a new landscape and climate for me. The pine smell is amazing. It’s raining and there is a “winter” storm advisory- snow expected tonight, so right now I am at Jackson Lake Lodge sitting by a grand fireplace. I sort of feel like I am at a Disney Resort. Everything is perfect. I can’t see the Tetons because of the clouds and rain, but I spoke with a ranger, and tomorrow the weather will clear and I will do some hiking and see the Tetons in all their glory. I admit I do want to see a grizzly bear, but just at a safe distance.”

The rest of my evening would simply involve dinner in the lodge and returning to my camp for slumber, but first I would have my most memorable wildlife encounter in the park and would find myself in trouble once again with a park ranger.

Read the previous entry “Be Still. Be Calm. Be Quiet,” here: https://joshthehodge.com/2020/09/12/be-still-be-calm-be-quiet/

Check out my book Canyonlands: my adventures in the national parks and the beautiful wild here: https://www.amazon.com/Canyonlands-adventures-National-Parks-beautiful/dp/1711397873