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.