Dang! More Sweet Pics!

"I already get my hair cut at the Cuttin' Curral."

Home of such great scenes as, "Iss a Sledgehammer."-"Dang! You got shocks, pegs -- lucky!" and "Let me borrow your bike!"-"No!"

The site of the famous liger-drawing scene, and the one with "If I become president, you can be my secretary or something like dat.", and the "Your hair looked great today, Pedro." scenes.

The curb that Pedro's cousins pulled up to in their convertible.

SWEET!

Sweet Flippin' Pics! Gosh!

"You got, like, three feet of air that time. Can I try it really quick?"

"How much you wanna bet I could throw a football over them mountains?"

"Get off my property or I'll call the cops on you!"

"Well, then do it!"

"Maybe I will, GOSH!"

The Lincoln Bedroom of Preston, Idaho. See the movie poster?

This is home to the famous, "We need, like, some name-tags with our picture on 'em, all laminated and whatnot -- I mean, we gotta look professional, man!" scene.

Flippin' Sweet Digs

I left Thayne with a bittersweet feeling in my throat. Sad because I was leaving my new friends, and I had given back the cowboy hat before anyone noticed. I had left it on the table of Len's workroom, on purpose, wanting it to be bought by someone who would actually use it. Whoever had taken the time to make it, I felt bad taking it merely to decorate the interior of my car with. If either Len or Larry noticed before I pulled out of the lot, they said nothing.

The sweet part came from knowing that I had made terrific friends in a short amount of time. "Another breadcrumb on the trail," I cheered myself. "Another spot where someone knows your name."

I crossed the border into Idaho and felt the familiar feeling of a quickening pulse. It happens whenever I cross another state line that I haven't been to yet. Now the only ones left, however, are Nevada and Oklahoma, so I'm trying to space those out. They'll be my last new frontiers of the Continental U.S.

Idaho looked very much like Wyoming, but with more shade. Sagebrush and knotty pine dotted the hills that rose on both sides of Rt. 36 and there were so many trailheads I couldn't resist. I pulled off on a secluded trailhead and hiked up the switchbacks to Lookout Mountain. I made it half-way before the bugs got to me. I slapped them in such a rhythm I felt like a one-woman drum kit, but they were inescapable. Still, even only doing two miles, I was proud.

I meandered through the grassy plains, trying to remember every curve and buttery valley on the road. It was gorgeous. Towns came at me, nothing more than a handful of buildings in one square acre, no actual businesses, just houses and barns. On the two-lane road I passed tractors and the locals passed me, riding my ass like Seabiscuit until they could get a clear passing lane. My father's words echoed in my head: "Getting somewhere isn't a race. Just let the assholes pass you." Thanks, Dad.

For once, I had a specific destination. Preston, Idaho. Home of Pop'n Pins, Big J's, The Cuttin' Curral, Rex Kwon Do and, of course, Napoleon Dynamite. Now, you can think I'm a dork if you want to, but I love that movie. It makes me heart-happy. I planned on splurging on a motel room for two nights, locking myself inside, armed with cheap booze, ice and crackers, and writing until my fingers bled. And taking pictures, of course. Too bad I was about a month early for the 2nd Annual Napoleon Dynamite Festival, but I liked the idea of discovering the town on my own anyway.

I thoroughly enjoyed my drive into Southern Idaho, perhaps because I was at the wheel and not carsick in the passenger seat. It seemed that every fifty feet was a recreation area -- reservoirs, rivers, lakes and mountains. A commercial came on the radio. "We here in Idaho know how lucky we are to have the Great Outdoors right in our backyard. So if you're looking for a new ATV, mountain bike, climbing harness, or jet ski...." It was outdoor heaven. It had everything except the ocean. But no outdoor heaven for me this time -- I was behind on writing and needed to punish myself for it.

I crested a hill and thought I was driving down into Preston, and my pulse beat even faster, but it was only Mink Creek, the town prior. I filled up at a gas station and walked inside, fully expecting to see Napoleon Dynamite merchandise all over the walls. There was none. But the gas station itself served as the central hub of the town, as is the case in very small towns all across the country. Gas station, grocery store, video rental shop, liquor store, toy store, drug store, bait shop, hunting and fishing licensing place and restaurant. The amount of stuff they are always able to squeeze into a small space never ceases to amaze me. I bought a bottle of STP gas treatment, flipped through a People Magazine for a weekly dose of mind-numbing crap, and set off for Preston.

I entered the town via Rt. 36 and ended up so excited I turned onto Rt. 91 and drove right through Preston and into Franklin. One kamikaze U-turn and seven weird looks from strangers later, I was back on 91 North, and back in Preston. I didn't know where to go first, so I just drifted through town, looking for landmarks from the movie. The first one I found was the high school, home of such wonderful scenes as "Let me borrow your bike!", "It's a liger," "You got shocks, pegs -- Lucky!" and, of course, the Summer Wheatly pinata. The second thing I found was Uncle Rico's orange Santana van, delectibly parked right in someone's driveway. Someone had scribbled the words, "Sweet!" and "Vote for Pedro!" in the windows with soap. Third was The Cuttin' Curral, as in, "I already get my hair cut at the Cuttin' Curral." Then I tried to find Pedro's house, which involved half an hour of rubbernecking through the side streets of Preston, annoying the locals and drawing way too much attention to myself. I couldn't find it with a magnifying glass. Finally, I ended up on State Street, the main street of town, standing in front of a town map in a storefront window made specifically for people like me, with all the movie landmarks listed right there. I wrote down the addresses of places I wanted to go, and then tried to find Pedro's house again. I still couldn't. I gave up and went to Napoleon's house instead. It was slightly easier to find, but not by much. I had forgotten that his house was on a gravel road, not an asphalt one, so I drove past the right road several times. I took pictures, just waiting for someone to come to the front porch and say, "Get off my property or I'll call the cops on you!" But no one did.

I stopped at the grocery store for anything wet and cold that could be ingested. The cashier looked familiar; a curvy, pretty red-head. Her nametag read, "Nanette". I asked her The Question of Death That Would Surely Prove Me A Tourist: "Where's Pedro's house?"
She laughed at me, reaching for a pen. "Here, I'll draw you a map." She explained the simple directions so completely, so thoroughly, in two sentences, that I couldn't help but feel like a total ass.
"Good luck finding it," she said.
"Thanks."

And I found it. Like a religious artifact, there it was in the middle of the block on North Second Street. A sprinkler in the front yard sprayed right into my open window as I gawked and took a picture, and I didn't care. I'll take a little water in the face for a picture of Pedro's house.

As the sun went down, it was definitely time to find a place to stay that night. I pulled into the only motel in town, the Plaza Motel, and walked into the office, prepared to hand over what would feel like my heart, soul and first-born child. In other words, $70.00 per night. Which is exactly what I paid, $140.00 in all, but for the solitude and electricity it would give me, it was well worth it.

A sweet grandmotherly type greeted me with a cheerful hello from an obvious apartment attached to the office when I rang the bell. Children shrieked and chattered beyond the walls. When I asked what rooms she had available for two nights, she ran her finger over a dockett and brightly said, "Forty-one! That's a king-size."
"Oh, no! Does that mean it's more expensive?"
"Oh, no, sweetie! It's the same price."
That day I learned to spell relief, "S-A-M-E P-R-I-C-E".

While the credit card processed I checked out some "Flippin' Sweet Napoleon Dynamite Merchandise" on a makeshift shelf in the office, like left-over T-shirts from the 2005 Napoleon Dynamite Festival from Pop'n Pins that say, "Sweetest Lanes in Preston!" The lady remarked on my Six Million Dollar Man lunchbox, which I was still on a retail high from, and asked, "Do you have a Napoleon Dynamite lunchbox yet?"
"No. I only collect vintage ones. All the Napoleon Dynamites were made in the last couple of years."
"Oh. Well, you know, room forty-one is the room Napoleon Dynamite stayed in when they were filming the movie.""WHAT?! You mean Jon Heder?"
"Is that his name? I don't even know. But, yes, that is the room he stayed in for about two months!"
"OH MY GOD! Are you serious?"
"Oh, yes! There's even a movie poster in the room!"
"OH MY GOD!!!" At this point, I'm dancing around like Jojo the Idiot Circus Boy, right there in the office.
She laughed. "You like the movie, huh?"
Mid-stomp I sang, "Yes! The nerds win! It's a modern-day 'Revenge of the Nerds!'"
"Well, enjoy your room!" She handed me The Sacred Key.
"Oh, I will!"

(If up to this point it has not been obvious that I am a geek, I hope it is now.)

I scrambled up to the room, which was on the second story, terrifically eager to see my new temporary Napoleon-tastic digs. Sure enough, there was a movie poster right over the king-size bed. I jumped on the mattress, my head crashing into the ceiling. Then I laid on it every which way I could, trying to find a position where my head was on the tip of one side and my feet hung off the other. It was impossible. The bed was so huge, a nation could have staged a war on it. "All this space and I'm alone, god-dammit," I thought, text messaging my boyfriend.

Then came the phone calls. "Guess where I am?" I screeched into the phone to my father, my brother, my friends.
"Where?"
"I'MINNAPOLEONDYNAMITESROOMANDTHERESTOTALLYTHEBIGGESTBEDI'VEEVERSEENANDWOODPANELINGANDAMOVIEPOSTERANDAMICROWAVEANDAFRIDGEANDACLOSETANDABIGTV!!"
"Okay, um, what?"
I explained further, slower, to the delight of everyone Out East.
"Wow!" they all exclaimed.
It was a big deal to us.

After the dispensary phone calls, it was time to settle in. That required hauling out the propane stove, cooler, ice, vodka, orange juice, cup, soup, crackers, laptop, backpack, shampoo, underwear, propane tank, stuffed moose, change of clothes, facial scrub, camera, charger, and oatmeal. Never let it be said that I'm not a Boy Scout.

I know I made an odd sight to other people in the motel, namely, the burly, young construction crew that was staying below me and to the right, so they could see perfectly into my open window. Couple that with the fact that I was a) alone and b) wearing a mini-skirt and they were on me like white on rice. Except this rice didn't want to be white.
Watching me pull the cooler of ice, vodka and juice up to the room, they shouted, "You gonna drink all that beer all by yourself?"
"Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah."
"I don't have any beer," I snapped. And with that I was gone.


Two terrible seabreezes later, I was a writing machine.

Altitude Sickness on Teton Pass.

I woke up at 5 AM in Room 3 the next morning, sweating and sticking to my sleeping bag. I couldn't figure out how to turn off the heater so I just opened the window and went back to sleep. At 7, I hopped through the shower, making sure not to leave even a trace of water on the floor, and ran outside, looking for Len or Larry. I found Larry in the room the drunken old men had stayed in the night before. "Mornin'!" he called. "Ya sleep okay?"
"Yeah, but it was really hot. You want some help? I can vacuum."
"That'd be great," he said as he wiped down the bathroom sink.

Somehow we got on the subject of marriage and kids. "Please, let's talk about anything but that!" I said, stripping the beds.
"You got a bad situation?"
"No, I got a good situation. And a big fucking mouth."
"Come again?"
"Forget it. Anyway, what were you saying about your daughter's kids?"
"Oh, man! Well, she came home this one day and said, 'Dad, this is the guy I want to marry!' I just smiled and nodded and said, 'Okay, Stacy, if that's what you want.' So they get married and then about a year later I say, 'Hey, when are you two gonna have some kids?' and she says, 'Not with that asshole!' So I says, 'Alright.' She d'vorced him 'bout a year later and then she married this other guy, and he is real nice. So good to her. Now they've got three kids! She waited and waited 'til she was 31 and now she's got three."
"Stuff like that scares me," I said.
"What scares you?"
"Starter wives. Being a starter wife. Or making a mistake and marrying a starter husband. Aging, losing my looks and them losing interest. It's all scary."
"Oh, nonsense," he said, flapping out a bedsheet over a mattress. "You're just like my daughter, you two'll keep your looks like diamonds keep their glitter."

We made the beds and he showed me how to do hospital corners. I learned a lot about being a housekeeper that day, like how you can save paper towels and such by using the un-used towels and washcloths to clean the bathroom. I vacuumed and emptied the garbage, and we sprayed the mirrors down. Working together, we were done in no time. "You want some coffee?" he asked, packing up the cleaning kit.
"That's the magic word."

I followed him into the office, where a door opened onto Len's living quarters. Len popped out with a, "Mornin'! Come meet my wife." He introduced me to Cindy, a pretty lady with long red hair.
"So you're the girl who's writin' the book, huh?" she asked me.
"Yes, ma'am." For some reason, I was intimidated by her, like she was your friend's strict mother down the street that didn't want you tracking mud through her kitchen. It was a silly fear, but strong enough to be acknowledged.

Len's daughter lives in a camping trailer in a sidelot of the motel. Her dogs, two tiny Chiuaua-cock-a-poo mixes, taunted poor Dagger into a tizzy, nipping at his big nose with their tiny teeth and yapping. Len picked the both of them up with one arm and handed them off to Cindy, who walked them back to their daughter's camper. "Damn dogs," Len muttered.

"You want to leave soon?" Larry asked. "Where d'you wanna go?"
"I don't care! You're the one who knows all the great spots!"
"Well, okay. Len says there's a road we can take that'll lead up in the mountains and you can see the other side of the Tetons. But first we gotta go take care of Smokey, that's Len's horse. Keeps him up on his cousin's property down in Star Valley."
"Wow! Can I ride him?"
"Uh, I doubt that. He hasn't been ridden yet this year, so he's pretty jittery."
"Damn. I want to ride so bad!"
"Oh, I bet! Maybe we can rent some horses today instead, you wanna do that?"
"Actually, I'd love to eat something before we do anything."
"You got it. But you gotta wear your hat."

He had given me the big white cowboy hat as a gift the night before. "Len won't mind, he's got tons'a those," he had said. "You keep it. It looks good on ya."
I had thanked him cautiously. I didn't think I would ever wear it anyplace but the parking lot of that junk shop. Mind you, I wanted to, but it looked so clownish to me I only wore it to appease Larry.

We jumped in the cab, KC sitting on Larry's lap -- an odd site in a pick-up truck. We forewent the air-conditioning for windows-down and drove up towards the mountains that lay beyond the motel. "This here is where Len's cousin has some property. He's got a house he's building up here, and Len might build up here, too. It's expensive, though."
"How much?"
"Well, they're selling land up here nowadays for almost a million dollars. People from California, they buy it right up. All this here," -- he pointed to a development as we drove through, picket-fence yards and pre-fab housing shaded by the mountains -- "all this is new. And the property higher up the mountain is runnin' about a million-two per package."
"It's so disgusting. Pretty soon there's going to be nothing left. My uncle works for the Forest Service. Last year he and I were sitting, having coffee, and we both... just.... stopped talking and got this weird look in our eyes, like fear, like it's all disappearing. What's going to happen to all the open space? Who's gonna protect it?"
"Oh, I know what ya mean. Did Len tell ya last night about the National Forest land someone wants to buy?"
"No."
"Oh, yeah! Some developer's in talks to buy out some seven hundred acres of the National Forest, and everyone's up in arms about it. But it's jobs. And commerce."
"And terrible. And damaging to the environment."
"You're right. But don't no one listen."
He parked at a restaurant on a golf course. When I see golf course, I think country club. I was wearing jeans, Doc Martens, and a wife-beater. And a big white cowboy hat. "Can we go in here dressed like this?"
"Oh, yeah!" Larry assured me. "It's quite alright. Plus, they got a great breakfast here."
Breakfast? As in, hot and not instant oatmeal? I hadn't had one of those since... Bob and Dean fed me in Watford City, North Dakota. Wow.

The place was quite casual, with the trademark Western paraphanalia on the walls and tables made of unfinished wood. We took a seat by the window and I watched cowboys on golf carts rambling by. This being the Great West, there wasn't exactly a Lite Fare menu. I figured the daily special would be nice. For $4.50, how much food could it be? I ended up literally ordering a frying pan full of eggs, sausage and hash browns slathered in sausage gravy, four pieces of rye toast, coffee, orange juice and water. Sweet Jesus. I gorged myself and still couldn't finish it all.

As is usual on the Western side of the Mississippi, the coffee was weaker than an American Idol reject. Half a creamer and it was snow white. God forbid you forget where you are and add the whole thing, then you're just drinking beige milk. However, now that I'm in the Northern Midwest, I've started noticing little stands scattered across the landscape offering ESPRESSO. Every little gas station, every drug store, every barber shop has a sign: ESPRESSO. I haven't stopped at one yet -- too afraid of the prices -- but it's nice to know that if I want good coffee, I'm not out of luck like I was all through South Dakota and Nebraska last year. Hell, even Kansas had crappy coffee.

Over breakfast, Larry told me more about the divorce. "She was mean. I don't know how else to describe it. It was like I couldn't do a thing right." He spoke slowly, choosing his words. "Actually, since the divorce I kind of... don't know... how to talk to women. They scare me. Not talk to them like make a pass at 'em, but just simple conversation. I just walk on eggshells around 'em, like habit. Like my friend's wives. I don't know how to act around them anymore. And dating... god. I tried it, because my friend was like, 'Lare, ya gotta get back out there!', but he's not the most sensitive guy towards women anyway, but still I tried that phone dating thing and it was just.... not for me. I talked to this one gal on the phone for a couple months before I even met her. Then we went out and -- now I'm not a bad person, so please don't think that, but -- she never told me she had an eye problem. One of her eyes pointed a different way. Now, that's not so bad, and I actually took her out twice, but it just wasn't for me. She was... kinky. She asked me over the second dinner if I liked golden showers. And I said no, so then she said, 'Well, how 'bout a different kind of shower?' You can imagine what she meant -- think urine, but from the other side. Now, I'm sorry, but that's just... no."

It was awkward enough to hear him talking about the date, I could only imagine how it must have felt to be on the receiving end of that question.

He continued, "And I told her right then, look, I can't see you no more. I gave up that dating thing, then I got KC. She's my life -- well, she saved mine. She's the only woman I need. I even told my daughter, when I got her from the pound, I called up Stacy and I said, 'Stace, I found a new woman.' She said, 'Oh, really, Dad?' and I says 'Yup, and she's a black girl, too!"

I had left the cowboy hat in the truck, feeling just a little too silly to be seen in it. Larry chided me for taking it off. "You're supposed to wear it outside the truck, that's what it's for!"
"I know, I know, but I just... I don't know. I feel weird. Plus I have a thing about wearing a hat at the table. Something my parents drilled into me."
"Oh, I know what ya mean," he said, his cammoflague still firmly planted over his dark hair. "I don't like it either, but I tell you what, I got the worst haircut of my entire life before I left to come here. My gal wasn't at the shop that day but I didn't want to wait so I went to the Wal-Mart salon."
"Well, that was your first mistake."
"No kidding! And this gal, she didn't have any idea what she was doin', she just--" He took the hat off and I gasped, completely involuntarily. Usually I'm the person who says, "Oh, it's not that bad," but I seriously let out a "OH!" before I could stop myself. It was bad. I didn't know Wal-Mart did their haircuts with sickles.
"Yeah," he said. "I put this hat on in the morning and I take it off when I go to sleep at night. It doesn't leave my head at all durin' the day. And it's Len's hat! I'd never worn a hat, ever, before this happened. But man, I got used to wearin' a hat that day!"

I attempted to stand up after the heavy meal and it was a process. Sausage gravy rolled about in my stomach, threatening to knock me over if I moved too fast. We trudged back to the truck and I wondered if a waitress at a golf course in Thayne, Wyoming could actually make a living. KC was anxiously awaiting our return and Larry had to break it to her that we didn't bring leftovers. He aimed the truck toward the mountain again and soon we were pulling up alongside a steep corral that ran up the base of the mountain. It was empty. "Where is he?" Larry mused, looking for Smokey. Finally, a large grey stag appeared at the top of the hill, his eyes covered with a fly-guard mask. He took his time coming down to us as we crawled through the barb-wire fence, as if to say, "You guys leave me here all alone for days at a time so forgive me if I'm not rushing over to greet you."

Larry shook a can of peanuts filled with horsey treats and sprayed Smokey down with fly repellent. I stroked his velvet muzzle and calculated what it would take to mount him bareback and ride off into the mountains. His mane was long enough that I could steer him with it, and his back just hollow enough to cradle in. As I mentally measured the physics of the fencepost I would have to jump onto to get the right height, Larry saw the inner mechanations of my mind. "Silly girl. I wouldn't try it if I were you."
Yes, he was a father.

We didn't spend too much time with Smokey, as we both we eager to get to the mountains. We climbed back through the barbed wire and into the truck, KC taking her trademark spot atop Larry's left leg, and the truck took off to the north as magpies swooped from every angle, their wings iridescent in the midday sun.


Larry and I stopped at a gas station for bottled water and snacks before our big drive into the mountains. For once, and for Larry, I forced myself to wear the cowboy hat into the store. I probably drew more attention to myself than need be, because I was so self-conscious that I walked very fast through the aisles and covered the side of my face with my hand, like a true dork. Children giggled and I giggled back, completely called out on my cowboy-hatta-phobia.

Finally, we were on our way. We passed back through Alpine and branched off of Rt.89 there, up towards the Tetons. KC fidgeted around in the cab, making me fear for Larry's driving. We got higher and higher into the mountains, watching out the windows for deer and elk and big horn sheep. A few times we pulled off the road to try out Larry's binoculars on the rocky cliffs, but all we saw were white rocks. We did see one deer, but a trucker coming the opposite direction blew his horn wildly, to scare the animal back into the tall grass and grubby trees up the side of the mountain. Larry was miffed, but I knew it was only because the trucker didn't want the buck jumping out into the road.

The higher we climbed, the more nauseous I felt. "What's altitude sickness?" I asked Larry.
"Why? You feelin' sick? Oh, dammit, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have brought you here." He seemed so mad at himself that I lied my green face off."No, no! I'm fine! Really. I just wondered what it was."
"Oh, well, I think it's when you get up high and the oxygen is thin. It can make you queasy. I got it when I first got here."
"Really? Okay, then I don't feel so bad."
"Wait! So you are sick?"
Dammit. I'm a terrible liar. "Kind of."
"I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault!" I wondered if this was part of what he was saying over breakfast, about being nervous around women, like he was always going to screw up. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine," I assured him. It seemed to help. His psyche, not my stomach.

At Teton Pass, we stopped next to a viewpoint and sign that read, "HOWDY STRANGER! YONDER IS JACKSON HOLE -- THE LAST OF THE OLD WEST! Teton Pass Elevation 8431 Feet" A silohuette of a cowboy pointed the way and I posed next to him, in my cowboy hat of course. The wind ripped through the pass and nearly knocked me over the side of the mountain. I had to hold the hat to keep it from blowing down the caldera, or taking me with it. Pictures finally taken, we fought the gales to open the truck doors again, and nearly lost KC as she jumped out and tried to run, beaten down by the wind.

"D'you wanna go down to Jackson Hole and get something to eat."
I hated Jackson Hole and just the thought of eating was enough to turn my insides. "No," I croaked. "I just want to go back."
"You sure?" Larry sounded disappointed.
"Yes, please."
"Okay, then."

Driving down the mountain, I remembered Other Larry's advice for getting rid of sea-sickness that he had taught me on the North Haven Ferry off the coast of Maine the year before. "Just look at something that doesn't move. Look at the horizon or the land coming toward you, don't look at the waves and don't close your eyes. Focus on a constant." I stared at the dashboard, which, while rocky with the descent, at least wasn't coming at me.
"Open the glove compartment, there's some pictures of my grandkids in there," Larry said.
I found a stack of photos, school pictures and family reunion snapshots of a huge family. "Yeah, we're all real close," he said, noticing the one I was looking at. "That's why it's a little odd to be out here all of a sudden. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but family's family."

"I think I'm gonna sell my house," he continued.
"For how much?"
"Two-thousand."
"DOLLARS?!?!"
"Yeah."
"THAT'S IT?!"
"Well, yeah." He spoke so nonchalantly. I, in the meantime, was calculating how I could jump on this opportunity.
"How many square feet is it?" I drooled, tasting the sweet promise of equity.
"It's a trailer."
"Oh..... nevermind."

This led to another discussion on -- of course -- the insanity of the housing market. It's such a viable topic, everywhere I go. I told Larry about the backyard buyout trend and the crappy 2-bedroom that sold for $375,000 around the corner from me. He told me about the yuppies moving from DC and New York to Butler, PA and how he thought he could escape it in Wyoming, but was wrong. We shared the same fear -- bring on the Apocalypse, as long as it's got wide-open spaces and no Gaps.

He asked me about my National Parks Pass. "How much didja pay for it?"
"Like, sixty bucks. Best sixty bucks I ever spent."
"That's great, I got one, too. 'Cept mine was free," he teased.
"What? Why? You're not old enough for the senior discount."
"No, but I'm fully disabled."
"Huh? You don't look handicapped."
"Well, I am. I have a bad heart and I can't work. I'm on disability. It was odd, too, 'cause I started having pain and I went to my doctor. And I worked on his car (Larry was a mechanic) so he was pretty straight with me, and he said, 'Lare, I ran the tests and you need an operation.' So I says, 'Okay, what kind?' and he says, 'Quadruple bypass and we have to do it today.' I was in shock! And I called muh wife and said, 'I gotta have this here surgery,' and she got all upset at me, because I wasn't going to be around to feed the dogs that night! But anyway, I had it and afterwards my doctor said, 'Lare, you can't work no more, or it'll kill ya.' I didn't wanna give it up, but I had to. So now I can't really work on cars no more." He told me all about his old cars, how he'd fixed them up for years and how he'd sold them just before the divorce. "I miss them cars, but at least I got my free National Parks Pass!" he joked.
"Well, there ya go!"

As we got closer to Thayne, my nausea subsided. I think being a passenger in a car may also have something to do with it. Maybe I have control issues. But as we headed for home, KC curled up in my lap and I just enjoyed the drive. We stopped to inquire about renting horses the next day at a place that offered unguided trail rides and I considered staying another day in Thayne. Until the woman in the sweltering little shack told me that this week was booked up, but next week would be better.

I was anxious to be moving on, but tired too. Larry and I got back to the motel and found Len in the back of the junk shop, working on fixing up an old tool box. "I thought you were going to fix the ceiling in Room 4 today."
"Yeah, I still gotta get to that. Didja have fun, girl?" he asked me, laughing at the lunchbox in my hand.
"Yeah!"
Larry had left the room and Len leaned over to me. "Well, good. And it's nice that you could spend time with my friend Lare, 'cause he's been pretty lonely since the divorce. I think you did him a lotta good."
"I hope so. It did me good too."

I took their picture and they took mine, and they waved as I headed off into the afternoon sun, bound for Idaho. "You give us a call if you're ever back around again!" Len called. "I want to read that there book you're writin'! Just don't write about how we let you sleep on the bed, that's bad for business!"
I smiled, waved back, and said nothing. "I can't not write about that," I thought. "It's too perfect. I just won't name the motel by name!"

I gave another wave as I drove out of sight, honking the horn and uproariously happy not to be nauseous and to have been able to spend time at the Swi--- oh, sorry, can't mention it by name.

Wyoming Pics.

Jackson Hole.

Gettin' mah stunna shades on in Grand Teton.

Larry took this one. "You look like a real cowgirl!" he said.

Larry and Len. Two of the sweetest, most generous men in Thayne, Wyoming.

Pictures of Grand Teton National Park!

Nothing Ever Happens in Thayne. Except Wonderful Things.

Route 89 South in Wyoming took me through the Caribou National Forest, and the tiny towns of Hoback Junction, Alpine, Etna and Thayne. Cattle, as always, grazed in the acres of butterscotch plains. My family was having a birthday party for my brother and called, mouths full of cake. "Where are you staying tonight?"
"I don't know," I said, staring at the Star Valley Rest Area and the darkening sky.
Greg was at the party and took the phone. "Honey, stay someplace safe tonight, please."
"Of course!" I flipped a U-turn and swooped into the rest area. "I'm gonna stay right here."
"Where's here?"
"Don't ask," I said, reading the sign that said "No Overnight Parking".

If the cops came I could just say I was driving through and stopped for a few minutes. Provided they didn't come twice, I'd be safe. In the meantime, I could head into Thayne and check out the one place of business still open, Paul's Bar and Steakhouse.

In the bathroom of the rest area I changed clothes and put on makeup. The structure was small and made of concrete block and arched glass ceilings. Sounds echoed throughout the space like a cathedral. I heard a car pull up and the men's room door open, then close again. I didn't hear the car pull away. A payphone rang outside in the hallway. I cracked the women's room door and looked. No one was around. I answered the phone. It was dead. I went back in the women's room, and heard the main door open again, then the men's room door. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Greg's words echoed in my ear. "Someplace safe." Was someone calling from outside to see if I was inside? Who was coming in and out of the men's room. My mace and my knife were both in the car. Dammit. How was I going to get out of here?

I pinched my car key between my index and middle finger like I used to walking home at night in New York. One well-landed punch and I could stick a key through someone's cheek. "Come and get me, you bastard," I thought, opening the door slowly and easing out into the hallway, walking sideways, my back to the wall. My dirty clothes were piled in my arms but could easily be dropped if I had to fight. Silence. I cleared the twenty feet of concrete tile floor from the bathroom to the exit in under a second. There was only one car in the parking lot besides mine, an old man and his Yorkshire terrier. I could have knocked him over with a strong breath. The muscles in my face relaxed. I hate being the softer sex sometimes. If I could live anywhere, it would be a world where a woman doesn't have to carry her keys like a weapon.

In Thayne I parked on the main street of town, Rt. 89 itself. A tall, older man with dark hair sticking out from under his trucker hat sat outside an antique store directly across from Paul's. Okay, so there were two places of business open that Tuesday night. He waved as I inspected the random smattering of merchandise scattered throughout the front lot in front of the garage-style doors. Most of it was Amish furniture and saddle horses. A pink motel ran perpendicular to the shop and shared the parking lot, rosy in the setting sun. "How ya doin'?" he called brightly.
"I'm great! Yourself?" I was buoyant just not to be dead or assaulted.
"Can't complain! Just 'bout to bring this stuff inside."
"Do you need some help?" I asked.
"Ah, no. My friend, he owns the place, he'll help me." His name was Larry and his face was sweet and his eyes were kind behind thick glasses. He fell into the category of people I call Insta-Comfort. I made a new friend in seconds flat, the best part of being on the road.

The Road is possibly the only place where I can go from nearly taking out an old man with a car key to falling into a friendship in fifteen minutes.

Antique shops are like crack to me. I'm usually pretty good about controlling my habit, but when it's right-freakin'-there and I have nothing better to do, that's it. It's over. I poked around the paths laid out between stacks and stacks of cabinets, hat racks, display cases and general oddities, decorating the house I don't own in my head. "Where ya from?" he asked.
"Baltimore."
"Well, then! We're nearly neighbors! I'm from Pittsburgh. I got a brother that lives in Columbia, Maryland. You know that place?"
"Oh, my god! Yes! I used to work in Columbia! I went to high school in Columbia! I hate Columbia, it's facist, have you been there? The housing association is evil! They control everything, even down to the color of car in your driveway and the color curtains in your windows! Ugh! Columbia!"
His eyes widened and he laughed. "You really like the place, huh?"
"Obviously! So what brought you out here?"
"My divorce."
"I see."
"My friend Len from back home, he lives out here. He owns this place, and the motel. He said, 'Come out here, Lare! (when he said it, it rhymed with "bear") Come help me with the shop and the motel and get away for awhile."
"That's awesome!"
"Yeah, it sure is different. Just took myself and my dog and came out here." He motioned to the Caribou Mountains that lay past the top of Paul's Bar. They were purple in the light of dusk. "This here's a great place. I may not go home."
"Given the choice between this and Pittsburgh, I'd stay too."
"Yup."

A short man walked around the corner from the motel, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a t-shirt. He had a blondish goatee and a slightly intimidating air about him, the kind that must be cut through to get to the true kindness of the man. He nodded a hello, looking somewhat surprised that Larry and I were just shooting the breeze, about ATVs and canyons and mountains and things that aren't Eastern. Larry said, "Jessica, this here's Len I was tellin' you about."
"Hi, nice to meet you," I said. "How much for that bike?" I pointed to an avocado green Schwinn.
"That's not for sale."
"What?"
"That's muh bike." He had a lilted way of talking, an iambic pentameter all his own that I loved.
"Why is it out here with all the stuff?"
"Why not?"
I couldn't argue.

Larry told Len what I was doing. "That how you ended up in a junk shop in Wyoming?" Len asked me.
"Pretty much! But this stuff isn't junk."
"Oh, yes it is."
"Depends on your idea of junk, I guess. I love this stuff." I grabbed a stiff white cowboy hat and slid it down over one eye. It was too big for my head and it stood up nearly six inches too high.
"That looks nice on ya!" Larry said.
"Oh, whatever. It looks silly."
"Nah, you look just like the rodeo girls 'round here. Don't she, Len? Look like one'a them rodeo girls?"
"Sure do."
I blushed.
Larry asked, "What size shoe do you wear?" He led me over to a cabinet full of pointy cowboy boots.
"Oh, I can't wear those."
"Why not?"
"I'm not a cowgirl."
"Nonsense. You are now."

I poked my head into a side door in the garage, that led to another room filled with antiques. Not antiques in the Christie's auction sense, but in the stuff-my-grandmother-had-that-I-used-to-think-was-crap sense, like macrame owl wall hangings and bright orange vases. "Len redid this whole room. It used to be shut down for some time, but he bought it and redid this whole room." I had to slip sideways past a giant mirrored mantle to even get into the room, thick with dust. Like the garage area, it was stacked high with pathways running between. Taxidermied heads hung on the wall, antelope, deer and elk. While checking out a lamp in a corner, I screeched when I touched a stuffed badger. Larry was in the doorway, leaning on the mantle.
"Are they really that big?"
"Yeah, they're real big. And mean!"
"What do you mean when you say Len redid the room?"
"Oh, he put all that paneling up," Larry said, pointing to the unfinished diagonal cuts of wood on the wall. "It was scrap from the lumber mill. And he did the plaster up there on the ceiling." The ceiling was white, with circular ripples radiating from the center of the room in a sort of bas relief. It was nice.
Len walked up to the doorway. "You like my twenty-six dollar room?"
"Huh?"
"Cost me twenty-six dollars to redo this room."
"Len's really frugal," Larry told me.
"I see that."

"So what brought you out here from Pennsylvania?" I asked Len.
"Aw, I always wanted to do my own thing. I could do it there, but I could do it better here. And I always loved travelin'. On the motorcycle. Me and muh wife, we'd ride all over the place, not needin' much. And wherever we went, I'd get more junk. I like it. If I saved money by sleepin' under a truck, I could buy more junk."
"I like that, too."
"Where're you sleepin' tonight?"
"Someplace. Around. Nearby." I didn't want to narc myself for sleeping at the rest area.
"Someplace?"
"Yeah." I blushed. "I don't want to tell you."
"Well, y'know you can camp down on the river bed."
"How much?"
"Free."
"What?"
"Yeah, it's totally free. You just can't stay there longer than 14 days."
"Hmmm.... No, I think I'll just stay at the res--ting place that I picked... earlier. It's free, too."
"Is it the rest area down the way?"
"No. No, absolutely not. It's the... other... place."
"It's the rest area, isn't it?"
Suddenly sheepish. "Yeah."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to turn you in."
"Thanks."

Tooling around the shop for the sixth time, I inquired about prices of things, as if I was actually going to buy something. "How much for your Hoosier?" I asked Len. I don't remember what he said.
"You really gonna buy somethin'? You're travelin' around, girl."
"Oh, I know. I just was wondering about your --"

(Okay, now, please understand. I am about to attempt to recapture the utter perfection of this moment. Just know that even if I fail to crystallize the symbiotic magnificence, the moment itself was so undeniably wonderful, it cannot be summed up in prose. In other words, you had to be there.)

As I was finishing my sentence, pointing to an organ-grinder monkey toy on a shelf, my eyes rested on something far more magical: A 1974 metal-and-hinge Six Million Dollar Man lunchbox, with a cartoon picture of Lee Majors' face surrounded by smaller cartoons of him jumping over a car, bending steel, outrunning a horse and uprooting a tree. I collect lunchboxes. It's an affliction and an addiction. I have a Strawberry Shortcake, an A-Team, and some others, but this was a Six Million Dollar Man. So really the sentence turned into, "Oh, I know. I was just wondering about your --- (at this point I'm standing stock still and pointing like a woman possessed) SIX MILLION DOLLAR MAN LUNCHBOXOHMYGODDOESITHAVEATHERMOSHOWMUCHDOYOUWANTFORIT?"

Len stared at me like I was nuts, which I was. He pulled a ladder out of a crawlspace and climbed up to the box. "Forty dollars," he said, before he reached for it.
"Does it have the Thermos?"
He opened it up. "Hooo! Fifty dollars!"
"Oh, no! I don't have that much!" He started to put it back on the shelf. "No, wait wait wait! I want to hold it."
"You gonna buy it?"
"I don't... think I have... that much. I know I don't. You really want fifty for it?"
"What can you give me?"
I was going to save money by sleeping at the rest area that night. I didn't need to eat the next day. "I can give you twenty-five." He considered it. "With that and one more dollar you could remodel another room!"
Len smiled, like a father giving into a daughter. "Cash or credit?"
Sweet victory! "Debit."

I signed the receipt and Len handed me another slip of paper; it was a registration slip for the motel. I looked him right in the eye. "I don't have money to stay here."
He gave me another smile. "No, I know, I just want your contact information, so I can keep in touch with you. I like what you're doin'. You're doin' it right."

I never made it to Paul's Steakhouse that night. I ended up sitting in front of Len's shop long into the night, talking to my new friends. Len brought out some Smirnoff Ices and Larry passed. "I don't drink no more," he said. "Seen it do more bad than good."
"Yeah, so have I," I said.
"My son has a problem. Well, more than a problem. " Larry spoke slowly. "He's a crack addict. Him and his wife. I though it was just him. They were living with me for awhile and she had me fooled -- oh, she had me so fooled! Every other day it was, 'Oh, Dad, I need some money for diapers,' or 'Oh, Dad, I don't know where he is, but I need this.' But the whole time she was doin' it too. Takin' my money for it. One day she took off and left me with the baby. They were gone for three days! Took my truck, so I couldn't even get to the store to get milk for the baby. I had to call my ex-wife, my first wife, that's his mom, and say, 'Look, can you help me? They took off and I can't get no milk for the baby.' She came over and stocked the house with groceries, and thank god she did 'cause I couldn't! So when they came back I told 'em, 'You'n's can't stay here no more. You'n's no good right now. You'n's need help I can't give ya.'" He paused, and I processed the Pennsylvania dialect. "Yeah, it's hard to kick out your own, but what else could I do?"
"Who's got the baby now?"
"My ex."
"Well, that's good."
"Oh, yeah. She and I get along real well. It's the last ex that I have problems with. She tried to take me for everything I had, which wasn't a lot, y'know? So I took my friend's advice and just sold everything before she could take it away. Sold my business, sold some cars. Oh, she was burnt up about that! But I don't care."

Larry brought out his dog, a black cocker spaniel named KC. Len followed suit and handed me the leash attached to a huge brown pit bull named Dagger. "Watch him for me, will ya?"
"Sure!" I sat on a barrel next to Larry, who sat on an Amish chair. Dagger kept inching his way under my knees and lifting up my legs with his back. A fight broke out across the street at Paul's, and we could see through the open door that a little guy had tried to punch a big guy. As always, it was about a girl. They ended up brawling on the street, looking like a scene from a spaghetti Western in front of the darkened mountains and flat-front, two-story buildings. Except one was wearing baggy jeans and a wife-beater.
"In two minutes they'll be best friends and buying each other shots," Larry predicted. He was right.

As Len putzed around, putting the things in the shop, Larry walked KC and asked me along. "Hey, I was gonna say to ya, if you want to stay someplace tonight, I stay in Room 1. And I ain't no pervert, I don't want you to think that at all. But I'm just sayin', I'll sleep on the floor and you can have the bed. KC, she sleeps under the bed, so she won't bother you. And like I said, I'm not a pervert or nothin', just a dad."
Who said chivalry is dead?

Len came back and took Dagger's leash, and we watched two old men, both with white hair, flannel shirts, tight jeans and cowboy boots, come walking out of Paul's towards the motel. "These guys are a hoot," Len said quietly, before they were in earshot.
I hadn't even talked to them yet and already I loved them. They reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men in the balcony on 'The Muppet Show'. As they got closer, Len called to them. "How ya doin'?"
They were drunk. The skinny one was the louder of the two. "WE'RE TWO SPITS DRY OF A WHISKEY BOTTLE!"
I threw my head back and laughed harder than I had in days, even with The Brendans.
He was a fountain of hilarity. "WHERE'RE YOU FROM, LITTLE LADY?"
"Baltimore." I was still wearing the cowboy hat.
"BALTIMORE? IS THAT IN THE UNITED STATES?!"
"Yes."
"WELL, IS IT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI?"
"Yes."
"THEN IT'S NOT IN THE UNITED STATES!!!" His laughing blue eyes fought for attention against his huge nose and wrinkled smile. He spoke with a lilt playable only by someone completely intoxicated.
"Well, where are you from?" I asked, giggling.
"I'M FROM EYE-DA-HO!!! THAT'S THE YOU-NI-TED STATES!!!" Drawing out his words, he made me laugh so hard I could barely breathe.
"What are you doing out here?"
"I WORK FOR THE PIPELINE!"
"GREAT!!!" I shouted, joining the chaos.

The two men eventually went to bed, visions of flasks dancing in their heads. I figured I would hit the sack as well, and started to say goodbye to Len and Larry.
"Wait," Len said. "You sleepin' at that rest area?"
"Yes."
"You got a sleepin' bag?"
"Yes."
"Well, why don't you go ahead and put your sleepin' bag on top of the covers and you can stay here in room 3 instead." It wasn't a question, it was an order.
"Are you sure?" My eyes were wide with disbelief.
"Why'd'ya think I had you fill out that card?"
I blushed, then gushed. "Thank you so much, oh my gosh! Thank you! And I'll help you clean rooms tomorrow! I really will! And I won't use the towels, I'll use my own towels! And I won't make a mess, I won't eat or drink or anything, I promise!"
Len laughed. "Okay, okay, calm down! Just keep things neat and make sure you don't use the covers, that's all."
Larry spoke up. "Hey, if you got time tamarraw I can take you for a drive up to one'a the canyons! Would you like that?"
"Yes! Wake me up whenever you want! I'd love that!"
"Well, alright then!"

I was shown to my room, and set it up "Leave No Trace"-style, like backcountry camping. The sleeping bag went on the bed and I turned the heat on, as what warmth had lingered during the day died with the setting sun. I watched part of a terrible soft porn and then flipped to an infomercial, then the late-night baby channel, with pretty shapes and colors kaleidascoping across the screen, mesmerizing me. "What does it say about me that I cannot look away?" I thought. But all it said was that it had been nearly two weeks since I'd even seen a TV, not since I was in Malta, Montana at the Crazy Cat Lady Motel.

A sign on the back of the door of Room 3 told me just how lucky I was:

ROOM RATES:
$65.00 PER NIGHT

Yes, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

More Yellowstone Pics.

The Hot Springs.

See the mule deer?

See the buffalo?

See the SHEER AWESOMENESS?

Another hot spring.

Yellowstone Pics. (finally.)

"Hi, I'm a baby buffalo and I'm very cute."

One of hundreds of waterfalls in Yellowstone.

Yellowstone Lake. Note the mountains on the horizon, including Flat Mountain and Overlook Mountain.

In this one, you can see my right headlight in the bottom left corner. I didn't use a zoom lens, this is actually how close they were.

"...happy with the trail I was leaving behind."

Do Buffalo Eat Turkey? I'm Gonna Go Ahead And Close This Window Just In Case.

That night I built a fire that would have made a caveman proud, except I used newspaper and lighter fluid. It lasted for hours, which I wasn't expecting, because the wood sold by the Parks Service is actually slower-burning than the wood we get out East. Yellowstone instructs people to burn the cardboard crate as well, to cut down on waste. So I figured I would blow through a box of firewood in a couple hours and call it a night. What actually happened was a marathon campfire that ended with me praying to the Fire Gods to "Please just go out! Just burn! Hurry, I want to go to bed!" I didn't want to throw water on the burning wood and ruin it, and I didn't want to end up with extra wood to store in my oops-the-suitcase-exploded-in-the-backseat car. So I burned it all, with no marshmallows and no hot cocoa and not even booze, but I did cross my eyes every time I threw a new log on the blaze and said, "BUUUUURRRNN THEM!"

The next morning I drove around to the other parts of the park, and saw a myriad of animals -- moose, moose calf, elk, bison, bald eagles, black-tail deer and even a brown bear, although he was far enough away that I didn't get even remotely scared. I hiked the Hell Roaring trail to the suspension bridge that crosses the sulphur creek and took a few minutes to sit in a small meadow speckled with wildflowers. Looking up at the mountains above me and the valley below me, I wrote in my journal: "How many people have seen this versus how many people have not? Statistically, I'm still a pioneer. And this land is still untouched."

Heading down further into the valley, I passed a harrowed gentleman with a huge pack and a red beard. "Did you make it to the suspension bridge?" I asked.
He laughed breathlessly. "You can... say that. We did... fifty miles.... of backcountry.... in the last... five days." He pointed vaguely to the caldera that lie beyond the central mountain range.
"Sweet Jesus! Good for you! Well, you're almost to the top!"
"Ahh, I know!" he exhaled, trudging slowly up the switchback.
A minute later, I passed another exhausted man, dirty socks tied to the top rail of his pack and flapping like a mop head. "You're almost there!" I shouted, cheering him on. He said nothing. After five days and fifty miles of hiking, I'd probably be silent too.

For anyone who has never been to Yellowstone, go. Between the waterfalls, the hiking and the scenery, it can continually take your breath away, at least three times a day. And it's large enough that it's still possible to find solitude when you need it. It's difficult to describe, just because it's so damn beautiful.

While I was driving through a mountain pass, near the Continental Divide, four huge bison were plodding towards my car, in the other lane, holding up oncoming traffic. Their hooves hit the asphalt with unnatural knocking sounds. Their heads were bobbing in time with their steps and their eyes held a liquid sadness. I'd seen that look only one other time, in the eyes of a dying horse. They paraded in a straight line, rushing for no one. One got very close to my window, making eye contact. It was intense. People gawked from the windows of RVs and I was almost afraid, not knowing if he smelled the turkey sandwich on the seat next to me. I raised the window halfway and he moved on. The cars were stacked in the other lane for a quarter-mile, the ones towards the back having no idea what the hold up was and getting antsy. I wondered how long the buffalo would hold them up, because they showed no signs of straying from their single-file march.

A rainbow arced over a canyon as I drove near Mammoth Hot Springs. I pointed out the window to show other cars. They thought I was flipping them off and flipped me back. Their loss. It was a gorgeous rainbow.

I left Yellowstone and drove in Grand Teton National Park, expecting nothing because I'd forgotten every picture I'd ever seen of the famous mountain range. Good thing I did, because the surprise view of jagged snowcaps was breathtaking. The mountains overlook a lake on the east side, as clear as Yellowstone Lake and just as cold. I stopped in at Colter Bay, as the kids I'd met in Glacier had told me to. "The Chuck Wagon!" they had said. "Just come on by!" Two of them were working, but had no time to talk to me. Honestly, I had no idea what we'd say to each other anyway. It was obvious they were stunned that I showed up at all. I said, "I'll come back when you're not so busy," and took a two-mile hike to Swan Lake instead. I never went back.
I waded out in the water until my ankles became used to the cold. "I can't believe I'm here," was the continuous thought in my head. Astounding. I could see my feet clearly below the surface, turning blue.

I did laundry in the park's laundromat and as I was folding, an elderly man in a security guard's uniform walked up and pinched the collar of one of my shirts. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm with the Fashion Police. I'm checking for ring-around-the-collar." I tried to come up with a witty comeback but the laugh came out before the words. "Did you put your money in this machine?" he asked, opening the dryer.
"Yes. Are you going to give it back to me?"
"No, I'm going to take it for myself!" he said triumphantly, emptying quarters into a bank sack.
"I suppose I'll allow it."
"Why, thank you!"

In the gift shop I skimmed a book day hikes and realized that there are no real day hikes in the park besides Swan Lake. I drove around for awhile, but ended up outside the park before I knew it. "Well, that's that, I guess!" Grand Teton is on the list of places to revisit when I get a backcountry pack and can enjoy it fully.

South towards Idaho brought me through Jackson Hole, the alleged "Last of the Old West", which is really the First of The Towns To Capitalize On The New West. Did you know The Last of the Old West has a Gap? T-shirt shops, elk antler gateways, Indian paintings, and totem poles. Old Thyme Photographs and stagecoach tours. Indian head-dresses on display at stores that sold pink glittering cowboy hats. And boutiques that sold adorable, countrified cardigans and dresses for $425.00 -- on sale.

I stayed long enough to check my email and be struck by an overwhelming sense of sadness, one of the random perils of road living. These waves come on with no rhyme or reason and, if left unchecked, can ruin an entire day. It was three parts lonely and two parts depression, watching the Wild, Wild West be commercialized into a two-level strip mall. I was in a subterranean Internet cafe that doubled as an online gaming place and distracted myself by laughing at the pre-pubescent boy behind me, asking his mom if it was okay to go over to a friend's house. "His mom says it's okay, Mom, really!" I miss those days.

I didn't stay long in Jackson Hole. I wanted the real West and this wasn't it. I headed further south, passing through tiny towns with no stop signs or traffic lights, just a lower speed limit than the miles of pristine highway between them.

More Yellowstone.

Back at Camp John Steinbeck, I treated myself to butternut squash soup and Cheerios. I dressed the soup up with black pepper and garlic salt, because those two condiments can improve any meal, from pilaf to pancakes. My battered copy of "Fear and Loathing" sat propped open with a pocket knife and I read slowly in the fading sunlight, wanting to extend the story as long as possible, yet gobble it up at the same time. Families rode bikes on the asphalt road leading to the camping loop and my neighbors fussed and clicked themselves into a frenzy. When I went to the bathroom, I stubbed my toe at the sink on a rice cooker. "That's a terrific idea," I said aloud, noticing the frayed wire sitting right under the hand-dryer. "Good on ya, Einstein."

I finished the book and then pulled out the ever-trusty "Blue Highways", aka My Bible. William Least Heat-Moon made a trek similar to mine 25 years ago and lamented the state of commercialism leaking across the States, in a methodical, quiet style that only a Native American writer can employ. His story was part of my inspiration and the spine of my thick copy is now worn to a soft, rippled horseshoe. What I'm learning is, what began as a leak in the late seventies is a flood in the new millenium. From his words, it is evident that each small town he passed through had its own culture, its own customs, fashions, and lifestyle. But as small towns become part of the Global Village, they take on an unfortunate sameness, like gum losing its flavor. The Internet and cable TV have presented a model for fashion and language, and in doing so have filed down the rough uniqueness of places into one smooth, stand-by form. In every town I drive through, large or small, I am guaranteed this scenery: at least three stick-thin teenage girls in cotton mini-skirts and oversized sunglasses, at least two teenage boys in alligator polos and white baseball caps with shaggy hair sticking out beneath, and at least one Git-R-Done bumper sticker. All in the name of progress.

The light was nearly gone by then, softening the edges of things. Two male figures dressed in black walked by on the pavement, far enough away that I couldn't make them out until they had passed. They were giggling and carrying bottles, and they stared at me. It was The Brendans. They whispered to each other, and kept on walking, laughing as they went. I was stunned. Not only did they turn down my offer to stay with me, but they drove twenty miles out of their way to walk by and laugh at me. I couldn't stop the tears from welling. Solitude can amplify emotion and things that should ordinarily slide off one's shoulders can cut to the core. I grabbed my journal and tried to write away the words I wanted to shout. Here is a direct quote: "God damn you, you fucks! How can you live with yourselves? Fuck you!..... I offered you the one thing I have none of -- living space -- and you pull this shit? But can they really be blamed for their ignorance, or failing to realize the real human condition -- that beyond the shallowness of the surface is a well of compassion to deep to fathom." Apparently, I get wordy when offended.

I was still writing, wishing much ill will in their general direction, when they walked by again, this time from the loop road, right in front of my car. They stopped in front of my campsite and again spoke in whispers. I had wiped my face by this time and stood up, watching them watch me. I was prepared to be nice. "You guys don't have to just stand there. You can say hi."
The one with dark, curly hair spoke. "We weren't sure if it was you or not. You changed your shirt. And we thought you said 226, but there's a guy in that spot. We were like, 'Uh, that's not Jennifer.'
"Jessica."
"Oh, yeah, right. Jessica."
"Did you guys need to stay here?"
"No, no, we got a site over at the other Bridge Bay area. We made a reservation at the gift shop like you did. We're cool. But we came over here to say hi."
I was no longer wishing them ill will. "Well, hi! You wanna sit down? I've got two pomegranate wine coolers and that's it. I don't usually drink coolers but I love pomegranate. You want one?"
"No, thanks," they said in unison, holding up their beers.
"So which one of you is Brendan?"
"We both are."
"Okay!"

Brendan 1 was tall and thin, with huge blue eyes and a hooked nose. His light brown hair was straight and stuck out from under his beanie. Brendan 2 was a bit thicker, also with blue eyes, and dark curly hair. They met in Massachusetts and had been on the road for 4 days, with 30 days left to go.

We talked long into the darkness, about college and writing and books and travel. They are the antithesis of me. They travel in a pair, sticking to the interstate, and stay mainly with friends.
"Don't you feel like you lose part of the experience just taking 90 all the time? It's so uniform."
"Yeah, but it's a great way to cover a lot of ground really quick! Just put the cruise control on and zone out, it's awesome."
"Yeah," Brendan 2 said. "I've been getting a lot of reading done. I'm on 'Lolita' now."
"Oh, that's sad, you guys! There's so much more to see on the backroads."
Brendan 1 cried, "Screw the backroads! We got pulled over for doing 35 in a 30 when we tried to take
backroad." He did his best redneck impression. "This cop was like, 'This here's a quiet town. I can't have you boys comin' in here and getting rowdy!' Then he invited us to a Dutch oven!"
"Do what?"
"Yeah, we were like, huh?"
"I don't think I'd accept an invitation to the kind of Dutch oven I know," I said.
"Yeah, but I guess it's like some big barbecue or something."
"With an unfortunate name."
"Yes, very unfortunate."
"The West is bizarre," Brendan 2 said. "It seems like the culture has been commercialized. Like, when we were driving through Wyoming, they were having a pow-wow. And it just seemed like a joke, like a cartoon. The announcer was like, 'Let's give it up for those lovely ladies!' and it was just.. kind of... sad. Even like cowboys. Y'know, everyone has this image of a cowboy with his blue jeans and his lariat, shirt half open, all that. But really, cowboys were dirty mother-fuckers. I mean dirty! But it's all romanticized and glazed over now."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Same thing with Native culture. If I see one more cartoon painting of an Indian kid in little buckskin I'm gonna puke."

They made me laugh, something I am so glad for in these lonely days on the road. They played off each other to the point that they reminded me of wind-up toys -- just give them a topic and let them spout. Somehow we got on the subject of surgical masks. "Yeah, when 9-11 happened I was working in downtown," I told them. "And the stores were sold out of those paint masks, so some people wrapped bandanas around their faces."
"No, those were robbers," Brendan 1 said. "They were there to hold up a subway train."
A few times during the evening I laughed so hard I had to slap the table.

I asked Brendan 2 about 'Lolita'. "Ive been meaning to read that. Is it, like, steamy?"
"No. It actually makes the pit of your stomach fall out."
"What?"
"Yeah, seriously. I thought the same thing when I started reading it, like, oh, this is a naughty book. But the dude is a child molester. It's written from his point of view and he's just a straight-up child molester. Like, hangs out on the playgrounds, that sort of thing." He elaborated.
"Wow," I said when he was finished. "Now I'm not sure if I want to read it more or not at all."

Finally, I asked the question I'd been wanting to ask all night. "What did you guys think when I told you you could stay with me?"
Brendan 1 spoke first. "We weren't sure what to think, actually. The one thought was definitely, 'Let's hide our wallets.'"
"Yeah," Brendan 2 said. "It's not really normal to just have someone walk up and say that, especially a girl. Especially a girl by herself. That's, uh... rare. You start to think, 'Is she a nympho?' But we hoped maybe you were just cool."
"Yeah, I'm not a whacko and I'm not a whore, I just know what it's like to have no place to go. It was funny, though, because when I checked in I told the lady you might be coming, and she asked your names and I couldn't remember them! Or it, really. And I was just like, 'Uh, I don't really know their names, they just might stay with me.... yeah. She thought I was nuts. And don't worry -- you're not the first people to mistake me for a hooker."
"What?"
"Yeah, seriously." I told them the story of getting kicked out of The Billy Goat Tavern in Chicago last summer, and being told that my "whore money" was no good there. "Because naturally any woman in a bar alone is a prostitute. I mean, didn't you know that?"
"That's nuts," Brendan 2 said. "Yeah, we kind of kept you in mind as a last resort. But it's cool. Thanks for the offer."
"No problem. Anytime."

"What're you guys doing tomorrow?" I asked.
"We're going to watch things bubble out of the ground."
"Yeah, I'm going to watch things bubble out of the ground, too! Do you want to watch them together?"
"Sure," they said.
"Cool! Let's meet here at, like, ten?"
"Sounds good. Hey, how many tents are you allowed per site?"
"Two."
"Oh. Well, could we put ours on your site tomorrow and split the cost?"
"Hell yeah! That'd be awesome!"
"Sweet! Well, see you tomorrow, then."

I went to bed that night excited to have plans to spend time with people and eager for the nighttime company. It's the little things that count on the road.

I awoke the next morning to rain on the tent. "God DAMMIT!" I had left my camp chair and pocketknife out overnight, but at least my tent hadn't leaked as badly as in Glacier. Still, it's annoying. Had I known it would rain I wouldn't have pitched the tent. After making some coffee and oatmeal I left a note on the picnic table: "The Brendans -- I'm at the showers. Make yourselves at home, I'll be back soon."

The rain continued as I drove to the showers on the other side of the marina. Still, people were fishing and out on boats on the lake. At the desk, the man said, "3.25". I only had three dollars.
"I got it," a young guy said, dropping a quarter in the man's hand.
"Thank you! That's so sweet!" I gushed.

I made the water scalding hot as it was my first shower since leaving Missoula, trying to burn away the sweat from the Lava Lake hike and the sand from Yellowstone Lake. A little girl in another stall got soap in her eyes and screeched, and it reverberated through the tile room. I made my way back to the campsite as the sky began to clear and wondered if my new friends were there yet.

There was no sign of The Brendans when I pulled up, but the note on the picnic table had changed. It had been rained on and stuck to the wood like wallpaper. It read, "Not sure where you shot off to but we're getting the hell out of Dodge. Nice chatting with you last night. Always good to run into a fellow traveler. Good luck with your book. The Brendans" At the bottom of paper was an email address.
"Crap. So much for company."

I was only slightly miffed, however, and understood why they had chosen to take off. The rain was daunting, and something about Yellowstone seemed so commercialized. Gas stations and grocery stores, hotels and spas, they were all there inside the park. So were the drive-through tourists, the ones who drive in, take a picture of Old Faithful, and leave again. I made some sandwiches, anticipating a hike later in the day. Signs everywhere read, "Do not leave food out in the open!" but I figured two turkey sandwiches would be safe in plastic bags on the picnic table while I went to the bathroom. When I walked back, two gray birds with red faces were pecking wildly at the bags. "Get away from there! Go on!" I laughed, shooing them away. They had left tiny pock marks and holes in the plastic, and they cawed loudly in protest in the tree next to my site. I quotes Carlos Mencia to them, saying, "It no hah joo name on it!" They did not laugh.

I drove straight to the hot springs, wanting to get a look at Mother Nature's insides. Part of Yellowstone is atop a volcano, and the rising energy causes sulphur pools to bubble. Some of the springs are brightly colored and crystal clear, allowing people to see right down inside. Others are thick, muddy, and usually gray, and those are called paint pots. One green one was so encrusted with mineral deposits it looked like an aerial shot of the Degoba System. I expected to see a miniature Yoda bumbling around the crevices.

Boardwalks lie in between the pools so people can peer inside and get a whiff of the strong sulphur water. It's very tempting to touch the water, and hard to resist the urge to jump in, at least for me it was. The water was so clear and colorful; it was like candy. "Touch me!" it said, but only a week prior a little boy had fallen into one of the pools and suffered third-degree burns. The talk was on everyone's lips as I weaved between families to get a better look at two doe elk that had come down to the pools to graze on the mineral grasses.

I spent the better part of an hour walking around, reading about the different geological phenomena that created the springs and nourished Yellowstone Lake. Then it was on to Old Faithful, after a short hike through the trees back to my car, because I am a renegade and parked outside of the designated parking lot. The hot springs were one of the few places I got decent phone service inside the park, and when I got back to the car my phone was jingling and flashing wildly. Of the text messages I received, one was from Josh, in Missoula. "Hey, it's me Josh. U remember me, right?" I wrote back, "Of course! How are you?" His response, a few days later, was, "Muy bueno, so when are you coming back?"

I was right on time for Old Faithful. In the parking lot a blue Jeep Liberty had "Just Married!" scrawled in greasepaint on the back window. I slipped a congratulatory note under the windshield and walked toward the geyser. A huge crowd had already gathered for the mid-day display and I stood back in the trees near the visitors center, and within five minutes we were treated to the 40-foot plume. It was incredible. Water and steam shot into the air for four minutes straight. I wondered how many gallons had to be pumped to make that kind of scene. When it was over, everyone clapped. I was glad Mother Nature was getting some bomb-ass props.

With those two things out of the way, all I wanted to do was hike. And hike and hike. It was Yellowstone, it was a necessity. I drove around, past the buffalo range and stopped to take pictures of a calf that was loping around near the parking area, under the close watch of a shaggy male. Some of the trailheads were cluttered with cars, so I passed those. Finally, at Cygnet Lakes Trail, an empty trailhead. Thick trees shrouded the parking lot in shade, belying that the trail itself was through the infamous Burn Zone. I expected a shady hike with lots of streams leading to a lake, and what I got was a sunny, almost eerie walk through a ghost forest.

New pine trees stood about five feet tall, underneath the thin shadows of huge grey ghosts of tempered trunks. Some of these were black in patches, with shiny ash that blew through the cracks left by flames. There was no verdant, leafy shade, but rather bright, hot sun that peeked here and there through some intense clouds. The trail was relatively level, and I wondered how much of that was due to the fire, foresters trying to even out the ground eighteen years ago to ensure regrowth. Many trees had fallen over, evident where large trunks had been chain-sawed through to clear the path, the pieces thrown to the side. In some places felled trees were stacked higher than my head, and throughout the entire area burnt, swaying trunks creaked in the wind like old rocking chairs, sometimes creating their own thin, sad melodies. Broken branches stuck out at odd angles, and I watched for wildlife passing between the stumps but saw nothing. There was no life save for the promising sprouts of new trees.

I didn't make it all the way to the lakes, because trail maintenance weakened the further into the forest I went. After the tenth huge tree I had to climb over, I stopped to eat some canned peaches and was nearly eaten to the bone by mosquitoes. I had only gone about a mile and a half, but it was time to turn back. On the way I realized that, since the Parks Service allows anyone to collect firewood that is already dead and off the tree, I was hiking right in the middle of the Official Kindling Goldmine of Yellowstone. I loaded my backpack up with all the tinder it could hold and set off, one happy girl who was going to have a real campfire for the first time on this crazy trip.

Yellowstone.

In the town of West Yellowstone I stopped for groceries and prided myself on only spending twenty dollars. The man at the deli counter was so talkative he would get into conversations with customers that would last long after he was done serving them, causing other customers to wait. "Maryland? Wow! We got some people here in town from Maryland, they run the day care center. Nice people."
"Well, I'm glad. I'm beginning to believe they're the exception to the rule."
"Oh, no! They're super nice! I'm gonna slice you off some'a this sun-dried tomato turkey instead of that roasted stuff, okay? I know you'll love it."
"Suit yourself," I giggled. "As long as it tastes good with mustard."

I threw my bag of ice on the ground outside to break it. I picked it up and dropped it about five times, and finally a woman came over and said, "Do you need some help, hon?"
"What? Oh, no, I'm just breaking it."
"Oh, my stars! I thought you were having trouble picking it up! How silly of me!"
"Well, thank you!"

I didn't want a repeat performance of hiding from a signpost, so I had to get some Bear Bells. Basically, bear bells are just jingle bells that you wear when you're hiking to alert the bears to your presence. The locals ensured that I needed Bear Mace too, but at $40.00 a pop, I figured if the bells didn't cut it then it was my time to go. Lunch was homemade huckleberry ice cream and I ate it on a bench as I watched RV after RV make the left-hand turn towards the park. "I better get my ass in gear," I thought, still a little dogged from the six-mile hike that morning. "Or I'm not going to get a campsite."

I lined up behind an inordinate number of campers, since it was one of the first nice weekends of the year, and knew sweet, sweet redemption as I got into the park for free with my Parks Pass. "Ha, ha!" I shouted to no one. The campground closest to the Western entrance looked alarmingly full so I decided to drive southeast to the Grant Village campground. It took about an hour, canvassing only a shred of the park's 2.2 million acres, through the burn zone, past the bald eagle nesting area, past the hot springs, through the buffalo reserve, and finally into the Village. Dusk was approaching, and I was so relived to have found it before dark.

And it was closed.

I tried not to panic and flipped a U-turn in the access road, heading for the Village's visitors center. Inside, two young guys about my age leaned on the desk, asking the ranger where else they could go and looking totally bedraggled and forlorn. "You can drive about twenty miles down to the southern campground. There are no facilities, and it's very small, and they don't take reservations. Still, that's your best bet at this point," she told them.

Sweet Jesus.

When it was my turn, after the guys had trudged out of the center, I was prepared to be a little more demanding. Or pitiful. "Help me," I said, as though someone had just punched me in the stomach. "I came in at the West entrance and it looked full. So I drove allll the waaay down here and you're all closed up. Where can I go that will be a guarantee? Do any other campgrounds take reservations?" The benefit of having brown eyes is the ability to turn the puppy-dog look on and off like a light switch.
She softened. "You can try calling up at Bridge Bay. Go over to the gift shop and ask to use the phone, they'll know the number."
"Thanks."
On the way to the gift shop I passed the two forlorn guys, plotting their next move.

At the gift shop Evelyn, a grandmotherly-type, dialed four different numbers before she finally got through to a working line at Bridge Bay. She handed me the phone as it rang.
"Bridge Bay," a man barked on the other end.
"Um, hi. I was wondering if you had a tent site available for tonight and tomorrow?"
"How many people?"
"One." The two guys wandered by the window of the shop, looking weighted down by just their clothes. "Well, possibly three. I'm not sure."
"One, possibly three. Okay, we'll put you in 229."
"Oh, my god! Thank you!" I filled out a comment card while I rattled off my information. It read, "Evelyn saved my life and found me a campsite! Give her a raise!"

Suddenly buoyant, I skipped out of the shop and up to the two guys. "Are you two still looking for a site?"
"Yeah," they said, East Coast suspicion leaking from every pore.
"Well, if you guys don't have any luck towards the south, I'm in 229 over at Bridge Bay. If you're totally assed-out you can stay with me. I'm Jessica."
"We're Brendan."
They didn't give me a chance to say, "I'm not a whacko," they just muttered a quick thanks and kept on walking, leaving me to wonder which Brendan was having an identity crisis.

At Bridge Bay I got my site, in a scene so reminiscent of "The Grapes of Wrath" I was wondering when someone would bring out a pickin' box or offer me a job harvesting oranges. Loop D was for tents only, and brightly-colored nylon stretched nearly an acre into the distance. A pirate flag flew astride one tent and I assumed that must be the leader. 229 was in between an Asian family and a Hindu family, both the proud owners of Kids Who Hate Camping And Throw Very Loud Tantrums For The Better Part Of Every Day. Between the children screaming and the parents arguing, in very different languages, all you had to do was close your eyes to think you'd fallen into a raccoon's nest. The Asian father helped me pitch my tent, which I was glad for, although I almost cried when he decided my wooden stake that I had hand-whittled in Glacier National Park was not up to par, and broke it. "No good," he said, throwing it aside.
"Well, I have some extra stakes in the car" -- that Bernice had given me in Turah, because she is awesome -- "but I liked that one 'cause I made i.... nevermind," I whispered, telling myself it was silly to cry over a stick. He didn't speak English anyway, it wouldn't have made a difference.
I took a walk on the beach of Yellowstone Lake, a huge stretch of crystal blue water with snowcaps on the opposite side. Black volcanic sand stuck to my bare toes as I left my boots by a dusty rock. I'd left a note on my windshield that read, "Brendan and Friend of Brendan: I'm taking a walk. Be back soon and make yourselves at home."

To get to the beach, I had to cross the street and hike down a steep embankment. Dried buffalo droppings peppered the grassy patch of turf next to the road, and occasionally the beach itself. I had trouble descending the bank and could only imagine a buffalo doing it, just trying to get to the water. An irrigation ditch sank into the ground, to alleviate the excess water from the campground spigots and keep the asphalt dry. On the beach, a drainage tunnel stood nearly as tall as me, trickling water over black stones. And it was then that I realized: Modern humans are the most unnatural thing on this earth. How many thousands of years had Yellowstone survived without irrigation and roads and turf-leveling? How does that poem go, the one about bison and whales? "Too big now for this world, small children laugh and throw rocks as you die
with the wind in your ears..."

My footprints pressed deep into the ashy sand and I left the beach, lamenting the loss of bison and Indians and hand-whittled sticks, but content with the trail I was leaving behind.

MY COLUMN'S UP!!! IT'S UP IT'S UP IT'S UP!!!!

www.whoisisabella.com

It's called American Exoticism!

Lava Lake Pics.

Mountain lion? Dog? Fox?

spectacular.

Have you ever seen anything so perfect?

That's me.

Lava Lake.

I drove through Butte and Bozeman on my way to Big Sky. Ranches stretched from horizon to horizon under that famously huge expanse of blue and lazy cattle walked with loping gaits across the prairie, heads bobbing. The interstate that I usually vehemently avoid was empty and gorgeous, making its way through mountains with death-defying drop-offs and steep grades. I stopped at a McDonald's in Butte (hey, I got an Archcard for Christmas, ok?) and marveled for the zillionth time at the genuine kindness of people in the Midwest. The employees behind the counter actually seemed as though they cared about my order and they smiled a lot. They said "Excuse me" and "Thank you" to their co-workers as they moved about the kitchen. The cashier was an outrageously freckled teen with a nametag that read, "RIAN".
"I love your name!" I told him. "That's a great way to spell Ryan."
"Oh, um, actually it's Brian. The B wore off."
"Oh. Well, Brian is a cool name, too."

In Bozeman I turned from East to South and traded the sprawling landscapes of I-90 for the twisting S-curves of the Gallatin National Forest. Suddenly it was darker, as the mountains loomed in front of the sun. I passed trailhead after trailhead, following Swan Creek as it snaked in between the foothills. Trees at least 50 feet tall lined both sides of the road. At the Greek Creek campground I pulled in and read the signs. "Camping $18.00 per Night"

"$18.00? Oh, hell no!" That's way out of my budget. I pulled right back out and drove up to the Lava Lake trailhead. Lava Lake is a mountain lake at the end of a steep three-mile hike up the side of said mountain. Parking was free and there weren't any signs saying overnight parking was prohibited, so I decided to risk it and sleep in the car at the trailhead. The lot was devoid of people but had plenty of cars parked. The license plates ranged from Michigan to Florida to California.

It wasn't quite dark so I figured a short hike would be nice, to wear me out. I threw on a sweatshirt -- my brother's wrestling hoodie that I stole, to be exact -- and began climbing. And climbing. And when that was over, I climbed some more. Then I turned around and realized I had only gone about 30 feet. "Sweet buttah, I'm out of shape." I muttered, struggling for air. It was very dark in the woods, and I began to get scared.

This was the first time I'd hiked since my bear encounter and I realized that after about ten minutes that I wasn't just scared, I was petrified. Every tree stump, every wayward boulder I thought was a bear lying in wait to attack me. I kept looking around and watching behind me, and even dodged behind a rock at one point, to escape the treacherous and hungry gaze of a signpost. "Stupid bears," I thought. "This isn't even fun." The scenery was spectacular, with dense trees and a rushing white-water creek, and here I was, not even enjoying myself because I was too damn scared of the wildlife. And I didn't know how to get un-scared.

I hiked for what seemed like forever, until I stopped to inspect what looked like yellow wax dripping from a tree, and was passed by the only other person I'd seen since parking my car, a middle-aged guy in a Michigan sweatshirt. "Hey, do you know what this is?" I asked him.
"Probably just sap. From those cracks in the bark right there."
"Huh. It looks like wax and it threw me. Did you hike all the way to the lake?"
"No, it's three miles up to the lake. I only got about halfway, to where the footbridge is and I turned back 'cause it's getting dark."I was just happy to see somebody else, and kept asking questions. "Have you seen any wildlife around here?" Subtext: "I'm very afraid of bears. Have you seen any bears?"
"No." He had stopped to talk to me and began descending the trail again. He watched me with bright blue eyes to see what I would do -- keep hiking up, stay put, or start the hike down.
"I'll come with you," I said, hopping, skipping and jumping down the steep hill
"Okay," he said, falling into step with me, single file on the narrow trail. "No, I haven't seen much wildlife."

"Are you from around here?"
"No, no. Michigan. And you?"
"Oh, I should have known by the shirt. That must have been your Michigan license plate in the parking lot. I'm from Baltimore."
"Yeah, I'm thinkin' I might never go back," he said.
"To Michigan? Why's that?"
"No work out there. Nothin' for me anymore. I love the outdoors and I called up my union yesterday -- I'm a roofer -- and they said they got me a job up in Bozeman I can start Monday."
"Wow! Do you own a house back in Michigan?"
"Used to. Sold everything I own and bought a trailer. Left about three weeks ago, on June 5th."
"That's the same day I left!" I said. "And you're brave to have done all that with no guarantees!"
"It's better than bein' back in Michigan. When I say there's no work there, there's literally no work there. I haven't worked in two years. Been on unemployment. It's nice, but you feel kinda worthless. I wanted a change, and I wanted to work. So I just packed up and came out here, hopin' for the best."
"So will you buy a house here now?"
"Not just yet. For the summer I'll probably just stay in my trailer at the campground. They want to charge me a hundred bucks a week, and that ain't bad at all. Maybe later on I'll get an apartment. See how I like the summer first, though. See if the job lasts. You don't want to get in on a lease and then have your job fall out from beneath you, y'know?"
"True." I was still amazed -- here was someone almost exactly like me!

"So is it a good job, what they're offering you?"
"We'll see. It's union, so it pays good." He told me what he made per hour and per week and it literally made me want to cry and become a roofer, in that order. It was exorbetent, almost criminal considering how many non-union workers (case in point, my father) work their asses off and never see money like that in decades.
"Yeah. Yeah, I don't think you'll have any problems." For a moment, I hated him. It's a jealousy thing that crops up now and then; funny how money and envy are both green. Still, I couldn't really begrudge him personally, it's not as though he wrote his own paychecks.

I told him my story as we made great time to the bottom of the mountain. Before I knew it we were passing the sign at the trailhead. "Too bad we didn't make it to the lake," I said.
"Yeah, well, I was gonna come back tomorrow morning and do it again, early. You know, before it gets too hot. Where are you staying tonight?"
I pointed to my parking space. "You're looking at it."
"Okay, well, if I come back in the morning and you're still here, would you want to go with me?"
"Sure! What time?"
"Like, eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock sounds good, I'll be here. Hey, y'know, I never got your name." Which was silly, because we'd only been talking for about half an hour at that point.
"I'm Robert."
"Jessica. And I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!"

After Robert left I walked down to the rushing Swan Creek. The water was frigid but felt good on my face. Sounds of fast-moving water drowned out the industrial rumblings of tractor-trailers speeding past the trailhead and I breathed out, because sometimes I forget to.
That night I put my "Please don't tow me" note under my windshield wiper and settled in. I debated on eating something but the McDonald's hours earlier had been so filling that I forewent dinner. The pale blue sky grew dark at 10:30 and I leaned my seat back for a long summer's nap.

The next morning a familiar red pickup with a Michigan license plate pulled up next to me at seven o'clock, kicking up gravel and rousing me from a dreamless sleep. I reached for my phone on the dash and rolled down my window, thrusting the phone out. "You're an hour early!" I shouted angrily, but I was smiling.
Robert laughed. "Sorry! I wanted to get started before it gets too hot."
"I hear that, just give me a minute."

I re-donned my bother's sweatshirt and my hiking boots, threw a bottled water and my camera in the pocket and we were off. Again I thought I'd die thirty feet into it, but having Robert along gave me something to aspire to. I hadn't eaten breakfast, or dinner the night before, but that turned out to be wise as the altitude began to get to me. With nothing in my stomach, I had nothing to make me sick.

Robert said, "I wouldn't be surprised if we see a lot of wildlife, since it's early."
"Yeah, just as long as we don't see any bears."
"Oh, yeah! Last night I was by myself and I kept looking behind me, I was kind of scared."
"Oh, thank god!" I exhaled. "I'm not the only one, then! And I feel better with you here, I'm not scared anymore!"
"Well, that's good," he said.

I still couldn't get over the idea of him packing up and leaving home the way he had. "What does your family think?"
"I don't really have family there anymore. My mom lives in Florida. I tried living there too, but I absolutely hated it. It was okay in the winter, but the summer will kill you. And it was so crowded! The traffic was so bad a trip to Target, about 3 miles from my house, would take two hours. I hate it, hate overpopulation. The day I decided to leave, I tried to go to Target. Took me four hours. I got home from the store and started packing up my stuff. Broke my lease, I couldn't stand it."
"I hear you. I can't stand my hometown now either." I told him of the alarming Honey-Let's-Sell-The-Backyard trend. "Schools are so overcrowded. Neighborhoods are overcrowded. And no one seems to care."

We stopped a few times to take breaks. At the steeper parts, I lagged far behind, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. But at no time did I even dream of saying, "Let's turn back." I've got too much girlish pride, which could be a good or bad thing. Four years ago, hiking in the Grand Canyon, my friends, Patrick and John, nicknamed me 'Sparky' because I refused to be the slow little girl in the back. I kept running past them, straight uphill, because I never want to be seen as a weakling. That night, back at camp, I felt like I'd smoked pound of weed and couldn't move for 24 hours. Hence, Sparky was born.

Sparky made a re-appearance on Lava Mountain that day, just trying to keep up with Robert. Still, he stayed a few steps ahead of me. At the 1.5 mile marker, the footbridge over the mountain creek, we walked single file over a wooden plank. "This is as far as I got last night," Robert said. "It should level out now."

It didn't. It began switch-backing. We laughed to ignore the pain in our legs and chests, and talked about home.
"My girlfriend's back at the campsite. She doesn't like stuff like this. I don't think she'll last very long out here," Robert said.
"Wow, I didn't even realize you had someone with you." He hadn't mentioned her the night before.
"Yeah, that's why I got the camper, mostly. She doesn't like to be without a bathroom and stuff. But I kinda made a mistake and bought a trailer without a holding tank. Still, if it weren't for her, I probably would have done what you're doing and just take my truck. And my dog. The gas with pullin' that trailer is killing me."
"Yeah! I can't imagine traveling in anything but a Honda. And alone, with maybe a dog."
"You got a boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
"What does he think about you being out here?"
"Well... he wishes I was there. More than that I think he wishes he was here. But we make do. So, if your girlfriend doesn't stay, will you stay together?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah, long distance relationships are hard."
"Relationships are hard period. I was married for years. Been divorced for about 8 years now."
"Do you have kids?""Yeah, but they're kind of grown-up."
"What?!" He looked to be about 34. "How old are you?"
"I'm 45."
I was incredulous.
He continued. "My ex-girlfriend, the one before this one, was your age. Twenty-five. It was great dating someone younger, but she didn't like to do anything outdoors. She loved to shop, she was kind of a princess."
"Yeah... that's so not me," I coughed as we crested a switchback. "Are we almost there, you think?"
"Hope so."

Finally, after an hour of steep climbing, the ground leveled and we enjoyed a leisurely walk. Animal prints were scattered over the soft ground and we tried to figure out what made them. "Mountain lion?" "Dog?" "Fox?" We also started walking faster, eager to see the lake. And there, just past a huge pile of rocks, was the most beautiful lake I'd ever seen.

Snowcapped mountains, spectacular though not very tall from this vantage point, surrounded the whole scene and tall pine trees blanketed the shoreline. The water was so clear we could see rainbow trout swirling as far out as thirty feet, over brown and green rocks on the lake floor. The reflection was pristine, marred only by the smooth ripples of a jumping fish. A tiny yellow butterfly flew past my face as I tried to take it all in. Staring out at the water, Robert murmured softly. "I'm definitely not going back to Michigan."
"I might not go back to Maryland, either."

We stayed by the water, picking our way across the wooded shore and waving to the only other people up there -- three backcountry campers perched on some rocks. "C'mere, look at this!" I shouted to him, a few steps ahead of me.
"What?"
"Look under that tree-root."
"What is it?"
"Glow-in-the-dark mushrooms."

There, tucked in a marshy crevice, were mushrooms shining the color of parking cones. "That is too cool," he said.

A salmonfly swooped too close to the surface and ended up in the lake, floating out towards the center. "That's it for that guy," Robert said, just as a hungry fish jumped out to bite. "I'd love to bring a kayak up here," he continued.
"Yeah... but you'd have to lug it all the way up the mountain. I'm having a hard enough time with a bottle of water and a camera." He laughed.

Hungry and tired, we didn't stay too long. It was getting close to noon and the sun was heating up. We filled our water bottles in a stream that fed the lake (best water ever) and headed down the mountain. On the way down, we passed group after group of people clad in fleece, panting and sweaty. "Good thing we did this early," I said.
"Seriously," Robert said as a man walked past with a baby in a backpack.
"Sweet god, I don't envy that guy."

At the bottom of the mountain, we said goodbye. For all the time we spent together, it was the most random meeting. "You be safe out there," he said, pulling away.
"Will do," I said, and I turned right, towards Yellowstone.