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.