Tales from the West

The last two nights we went off the beaten trail and submitted ourselves to nature and nature’s God. On Wednesday, after a full day of driving through the valleys and mountain ranges of Idaho and Montana, we stopped for the night in a small town called Emigrant, just a fifteen-minute drive outside of Yellowstone National Park and stayed with a host we found through Airbnb.

Al, our host, was a retired sixty-or-so-year-old who moved out to Montana from, get this, Brooklyn. Other than his thick Brooklyn accent, I would have never guessed he was originally an easterner. He was a thick and stocky man who cross-dressed between a motorcycle maniac and a western cowboy. The hair he had left was long and yellowish-white that he pulled back into a pony-tale, and his mustache hung down close to his chin. His gait was arched like he’d been on his feet for too long. Perhaps he had. It turns out he was a NYPD officer in a previous life. His voice was deep and scratchy, a smoker’s voice. He looked like a man who had lived a life of chaos and traded it in for a life of serenity in the mountains of Montana where the sky is bigger, stars are brighter, and air is crisper. Who could blame him?

In his golden age of retirement, Al has become one with the land. He studies the earth and can identify minerals layered in rock and sediment just by touching and feeling it. He builds Indian-inspired drums, carefully crafted from woods in the area and animal hides. And in his spare time he rents out his authentic tepee to weary travelers. Can this guy get any better? During our rainy evening with him, with cups of hot coco and coffee in hand, he told us stories of Yellowstone’s volcanic history, and how wood and rock become petrified over time. He put on a National Geographic documentary of Yellowstone in preparation for our visit the following day, and fell asleep in his armchair as  Andrew and I immersed ourselves in the show. It was family night at Al’s, and we didn’t mind at all.

Midnight came and the rain finally came to a slow and steady halt. Andrew and I made our way to our tepee in Al’s backyard and settled in for the night. The tepee was about fifteen feet high. Most of the canvas was the color of sand, but the bottom was detailed with red and yellow geometric lines. It could comfortably fit 4-6 adults, so Andrew and I had plenty of room to set up the sleeping bags that were provided to us. Under the light of the stars, Andrew and I got up 4 hours later, bid farewell, and left for Yellowstone.

We arrived at the entrance of Yellowstone National Park at 6am under the cover of darkness. We did this to beat the crowds, but more importantly, to catch glances of wildlife before the heat of the sun. 8,000 feet high, Yellowstone felt wild. We were able to get up close and personal with families of elk, roaming bison herds, and watched as a pronghorn defended her young from a curious coyote. We saw 8-pronged deer with beautiful velvet racks, and gazed at the beautiful valleys and pastures they grazed through.

When we weren’t pulling the car over to capture wildlife, we were driving around the vast park and stopping to explore various trails, cascading waterfalls, and of course, geysers. We did the touristy thing and watched “Old Faithful” blow her cap, but it was the bubbling, brewing and boiling geysers that caught our particular attention. These geyser’s lava hot pools produced intricate and vibrant colors of neon blues, yellows and oranges as it broke down the rock and sediment surrounding it. The colors spilled out and covered the landscape with steaming liquid that filled the air and senses with sulfur. This place felt alive and active, and I imagined the ground beneath my feet was a molten lava furnace waiting patiently to be released.

One particularly amusing and special moment that Andrew and I will remember was a conversation we had with a biker couple. They were probably in there early to mid seventies and were decked out in leather. Andrew thought the sight of them was so interesting that he asked the couple if he could take a photo of them with there motorcycle. They were happy to oblige and posed next to their bike, holding out a worn-out American flag that hung proudly from the back of it. They shared with us that from Memorial Day to Labor Day the flag goes on a marathon where it travels through all the states in the Continental U.S., being passed from traveler to traveler. From this friendly exchange I was reminded of the special value of hearing from others. The stories I’ve heard on this journey have been so rich, and it’s been an absolute joy and privilege to intertwine my life with others if only for a brief hello.

After 13 incredible hours exploring the volcanic paradise of Yellowstone National Park, Andrew and I began our drive to our next host’s place, located 2 hours east of the park. We drove up a gravel driveway to a spot of land that had three beautiful log cabins. Just beyond the cabins, surrounded by mountains and a river that could be heard through the darkness, was a canvas tent pitched against a pasture. After two hours of sleep and 13 hours of trekking, beholding this canvas tent felt just about magical, folks. Each square foot of the tent was covered in patterned and textured wool and fur carpets. There was an iron wood burning stove to the left of the entrance with a bucket of wood beside it. To the right there were two wooden armchairs that were made up of natural synthetics similar to the flooring. They were plush and soft and gracefully rocked back and forth. In the middle of the two armchairs was a small rustic wooden table that sat a lamp with a beautifully woven lampshade. In the back corner of the tent was the most comfortable queen-sized bed. It matched the country decor of the tent, and was fitted with a mosquito net. The tent oozed charm and embodied western country culture in every corner. It was exactly what we needed after a long and wonderful day.

We’ll be exploring the Dakotas for the next few days, and I know I’ll be thinking of my sweet grandmother often. She grew up in South Dakota, so I’ll be looking forward to living out some of her stories and paying homage to her origins. Until next time, peace.