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Yellowstone01

No balloons. There were no balloons this morning. As I was driving north on a warm Saturday morning, I realized that every year I get to see hot air balloons in the valley off to the northwest as I head out to Montana. I get to drive the rocket ship this trip. At least on the way out. No four thousand pound tow car. I notice the difference. Shamu feels downright peppy. Cruised up I-25. Judy isn’t with me so I had to stop at the Ft Collins rest stop to rearrange some stuff that was rattling. Decided to drive on north to I-80, and then west. I could take the scenic short cut from Ft Collins directly to Laramie, but then I’d miss the round rock rolling hills section of I-80 between Cheyenne and Laramie that I like so well. Stopped at the rest stop just east of Laramie for lunch. 130 miles from home. I like this rest stop. It is easy access, set well back from the highway, and has a completely separate section for trucks. Not like a truck stop at all. And the best part, is that it is right at a mountain biking trailhead. Perfect for a mid day trail run just before lunch. And just enough uphill to get me the run I like the best. A ten or fifteen minute burn uphill, then an easy cruise back to home base. Drove past the Wagon Hound rest stop. It’s a nice one set back from the highway too. Last year, Judy and I saw a red-necked phalarope there. Didn’t need the rest stop this trip. Drove past the Ft Steele rest stop too. Another nice one. Didn’t need it. Cruised down Interstate 80. Crossed the Continental Divide. Twice. I have been paying more attention to how much water I should drink. Every day I’m supposed to drink three of those sixteen ounce bottles of water. The water kicked in. I couldn’t make it to the next rest stop. I got off at Wamsutter. Good thing I’m in the Motorhome. Then I stopped at the Bitter Creek Rest Area just past Rawlins. Then I stopped at Rock Springs. Maybe I don’t need all that water when all I’m doing is sitting down and driving. It was a pretty quiet drive to Yellowstone without Judy along. Seven hundred miles by the route I took. But a little help from the Rolling Stones, John Prine, Martin Sexton, Dave Alvin, and Kelly Joe Phelps got me through it. And Pink Floyd. I could have used some Pink Floyd. OK. Next trip. Drove north from Rock Springs, through the town of Eden, crossed Little Sandy Creek, Big Sandy Creek, passed the still visible ruts of the old Oregon Trail, then two miles of washboard, and I’m there. Big Sandy State Recreation area for the night. There is no reason to stop there. There really isn’t anything. It’s just high desert sage and rabbit brush, with a lake. No trees. No improved campsites. No campers. No camp hosts. No fees. Just me in the motorhome on a bluff overlooking a desert lake. A few birds. One evening on a previous trip, I ran over a hill and startled some pronghorn antelope. They ran with me for awhile, then just faded into the brush. I stop here every year. The next morning, I dropped down out of the desert into the lush river valley town of Boulder, population 75. This is great 65 mile an hour highway with no-one else on it. This could be one of my favorite highways in the world. Right up there with highway 50 across Nevada. At Boulder, we see the first osprey nest high up on a pole. Then, after more highway miles, we get to Pinedale. I love Pinedale. This is bigger than Boulder. Population 1,200. There is a sign at the outskirts of town welcoming you to “Pinedale. All the civilization you’ll need.” They could be right. Now we’re getting scenic. Wide streets. No storm sewers, just dips in the intersections. This used to be a fuel stop for me back when I had to stop every 150 miles. Crossed the Warren Bridge across the Green River. There is a campground. We don’t usually stop there, but we did once. It is a nice fishing spot. Popped over a over a sudden alpine crossing and into an unusual 10am thunderstorm. Pretty early for a thunderstorm. Didn’t last though. Crossed the Hoback for the first time at the outskirts of Bondurant. Bondurant is a high-country ranching community set in a mountain meadow that always looks like it just emerged from winter. In August. From here, down the Hoback River canyon, looks fishy, to Hoback Junction. At this point I can choose the shorter but busier route through Jackson, the Tetons, and Yellowstone, or I can turn left and go the long quiet way through Idaho. I always turn left. Now it’s a drive down the Snake River canyon to Palisades Reservoir. The water in the Hoback was clear all the way. The Snake is green. The Hoback is for fishing. This part of the Snake is for rafting. Palisades is my mid-day lunch run stop. I run the road along the lake, watch the people camped down by the water driving their boats or jet skis, kids splashing in the shallows. I pass secluded coves, some with swim floats, sometimes a boat tied up to the float. This time is different however. This time there is no water in sight. There are no people playing. I run next to a great flat grassy plain. The drought has left its mark in Idaho. There is still some water in the lake farther down by the dam. Enough even for boats. But there is none to be seen from this end. I run in the heat. It is in the eighties. I don’t know what it is about running in the heat, but I’ve always loved it. A hot sweaty run in the eighties is about as good as it gets, unless of course, you can run at ninety. I used to scare people, like park rangers, by doing my run in the middle of the day in the heat of the desert. It’s not supposed to be good for you. But I figure if it wasn’t good for me, something about it wouldn’t feel good. Anyway, now I don’t run far enough to scare anyone, but it still feels good. A flock of grasshoppers in the dry grass next to the road joined me today. They leaped and swarmed and buzzed ahead of me, the farthest landing, the nearest taking flight. We ran the entire way together. Well, onward, out into the dry wheat fields of Idaho and the town of Ririe, for my turn north. I never quite turn right at the right spot, but I always find the highway north eventually. On to West Yellowstone.
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Work

Speaking of work, I’m in the midst of a minor catastrophe. Did I mention that we’re moving? We’ve churned about that for about six months now, and ended up moving down one floor in the same building. We’ve signed a five-year lease, and they’ve just finished the build out. The wall have been cabled. The carpet has been laid. Here’s the problem: The carpet has been laid.

Something I said, meant to instigate conversation, was taken seriously. I was out of town. The carpet got laid. Red.
Now we’re trying to figure out what to do about it. It’s going to cost thousands to replace. Guess it’s the price I pay for being me.