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Yellowstone

A one-day stopover in Louisville, and I’m on the road again. Not Judy, just
me. And Rags the cat. We’ll meet brother Bill in West Yellowstone on
Sunday. We get to fish for a week. Then Judy drives the Jeep up to meet
me, and we get to fish for another week. The Madison in Montana; the Lamar,
Slough Creek, and Pebble Creek inside the Park. Bison, elk, grizzly bear,
and wolf country. How cool is that? Balloons. I miss the balloons. Usually, driving north on a Saturday
morning, I get to see hot air balloons drifting on the horizon. Not this
morning. It’s too cool, cloudy, and rainy. Low ceiling. And gauges on the
instrument panel. I miss those too. And turn signals and warning lights.
I used to have turn signals and warning lights. And I miss the way the
electronically controlled transmission used to shift. The battery warning
light came on, and I was afraid I’d have to stop to get it looked at. When
it went out, I was delighted, until I realized that every other light on the
instrument panel had gone out too. The plan was to stop at K&C RV to get
some windshield wiper blade replacements. Now, half way there, I’m
suffering a serious electron shortage. Maybe I’ll have to stop at K&C a
little longer. Amy at the counter was very sympathetic, but there are no mechanics there on
Saturday. They only work during the week. Bill, the parts guy was very
helpful. He diagnosed the problem as a dead alternator. He couldn’t fix
it, and didn’t have that alternator in stock anyway. I was going to have to
wait for Monday for them to fix it, but their mechanics were already fully
booked for Monday, so I might have to wait until Tuesday. My schedule float
down the Madison River on Monday was in serious jeopardy. I called Judy. Judy found a mobile truck repair guy in Commerce City who would drive an
hour north to fix it, if I would pay him for all his travel time, as well as
the time it took to actually fix it. I had to choose between a weekend in
the parking lot of an RV service facility, or spending some extra money and
making the Madison River float. I chose to float. The repair process
didn’t go perfectly smoothly, but it did go, so finally, at three o’clock in
the afternoon, thirty miles from home so far, I was released to the road. A
nine o’clock to three o’clock delay. This is a guy trip. Me and Rags, driving to Montana to meet up with brother
Bill. We’re going to fish and fart, eat dinner without silverware, and wipe
our hands on our pants. It’s a guy trip. Just me and Rags, and Bill. Making up time on Interstate 80. Driving fast. This freightliner, on the
open road, seventy-five feels like fifty-five. Leapfrogging semis.
Crossing the continental divide at 7,000 feet, a far cry from crossing it in
Colorado at 11,000 or 12,000. This is a straight fast truckers highway.
Often the only vehicles I can see in the distance are trucks. Across
southern Wyoming, past the windmill farm in Arlington, to a backbeat of
Lucinda Williams, Shelby Lynne, and some hard driving electric Mississippi
blues. Past the continental divide again, fifty miles later at 6,930 feet.
Past the Point of Rocks, to turn right at Rock Springs with Bob Dillon.
Left the cloudy rainy weather behind on the eastern slope and burst into the
sunshine on the western side. Last year, along Interstate 80, I had an experience motorhome drivers don’t
want to have. Cruising along at sixty-five in the gas Bounder, following a
truck about a half mile ahead, I saw him swerve to miss something. I had
plenty of time to prepare for whatever was in the road. As I approached his
spot I could see there was nothing there, so I was figuring it must have
been an animal he swerved to miss, when I hit something I couldn’t see. I
was pushed clear into the left lane, then back to the right lane. Then it
was over. Clear air turbulence? If we had been in an airplane, we would
have dropped a thousand feet. This is less likely to happen in the diesel Bounder. It cruises along empty
at twenty thousand pounds. It’s a lot harder to push around. It was a busy day. I drove and listened to music, while I fished, worked,
and played racquetball in my head. It can be a loud, busy place in my head,
even on a quiet day. I realize that fishing is a lot like racquetball; in
that fishing every day would be almost enough. North on highway 191. Fifty miles from Rock Springs, through the tiny
town of Eden, then the tiny town of Farson. Past the still remaining ruts
of the Oregon Trail. I encountered exactly zero other cars headed my way.
Have I mentioned I Love This Road? A four hundred mile day. Not bad, considering the six-hour delay. We’d
have made ever better time, but I was already a pot of coffee and a liter
bottle of club soda into the trip by the time I left the RV shop. I don’t
have to stop at rest stops, we have a bathroom on board, but I still have to
stop, since I’m the only one driving, every time I need a “rest”. We stop for the night at Big Sandy State Recreation Area. It’s a horrible
place to spend the night. No facilities, no trees, just a pullout in the
desert scrub, on the bank, overlooking a Wyoming high desert lake,
surrounded by sagebrush and pronghorns. There are tracks off the road to a
turnaround, so we can tell that other people have been here, but we’ve never
seen them. There is nothing to do; just watch the sun set over the desert
hills behind the lake while nighthawks swoop about. I’ve stopped here every
trip for about ten years.

Posted on

Yellowstone

A quiet night; no-one else around. The next morning, I see birds in the
sagebrush I can’t recognize. Two different kinds. I’d better read up on
which birds like to hang out in desert sage. I don’t know why they put so many warning lights and buzzers on the Bounder.
I hardly ever start to drive off while the hydraulic jacks are still down,
or before I have reinflated the suspension. We leave by nine for our rendezvous in West Yellowstone. The freeway miles
are behind us. Now we’re driving wide-open, two-lane highway; me at the
wheel, Rags asleep behind his cat box. I spot the first of the osprey nests
at Boulder City, Wyoming. They take good care of their osprey here; tall
posts, with platforms on the top, away from the power poles. I see a sign advertising local attractions. The Museum of the Mountain Man
in Pinedale has Jim Bridger’s rifle. When we do get to Pinedale, population
just a few, we’re greeted by the sign “Welcome to Pinedale, all the
civilization you’ll need”. I like that sign. This town is alone in the
high desert; a wide main street, with dips at the intersections. No storm
drains for this place. Further through, just before we leave town, we stop for fuel. It’s not that
we need fuel yet, but we can take on a half tank. I meant to stop at Rock
Springs, because the prices are better there, but that didn’t work out. Too
many other people had the same idea. If I fill up at West Yellowstone for
the trip home, I’ll probably pay the highest price possible. Snacked on some white peaches Judy picked up at the farmer’s market in
Carbondale. White peaches are very good. We need more white peaches. Passed the campground at Warren Bridge. That’s the campground we can never
remember quite where it is. It’s well north of Pinedale, four hundred
seventy-five miles from home. There. I’ve written it down. No way I’ll
forget where that place is again. We stopped there once on a previous trip.
It’s not spectacular; it’s rather plain, but it’s a nice place to stop. It
would be a place to fish for a couple hours, if a person remembered to stop
in Pinedale and get a Wyoming license. On we go, through that high mountain meadow town of Bondurant, still looking
like it is just waking up from winter. Past the Black Dog Ranch, and out
the other side of this mountain park, by following the Hoback River Canyon
down to the confluence with the Snake River, downstream from Jackson. The
Hoback is a clear-running, winding, wadeable mountain stream. It looks
worth some fishing attention. The Snake River cuts a much wider swath. A
person would not wade across this one. A lot of people float on it; some
with fishing poles. The Snake empties into Palisade Lake in Idaho. The lake level is not as low
as last year, but the whole upper end is still a flat grassy field. I am a
creature of habit. I stop for lunch where I always do. I go for a
lunchtime run up the road like I always do. I look down from the road into
inaccessible secluded coves that are supposed to have boats anchored and
people playing on the swim platforms that have been tethered there. The
swim platforms are lying on the ground, and there are four-wheeler tracks in
the dirt around them. The drive after lunch is easy and fast. We check in at Grizzly RV park by
three-thirty. Bill is already there. He wants to play racquetball, so we
check out the local hair and nail salon. That’s where the racquetball court
is in West Yellowstone; in the back of the hair and nail salon. It’s
Sunday. It’s closed. We take a tour of the area, checking out the camping sites at Baker’s Hole
just north of town, and out on the Madison Arm, poking into Hebgen Lake. We
don’t need to stay at these campgrounds; we just want to know what’s
available for future use. The Baker’s Hole campground looks promising; well
separated dry camping sites, some right on the edge of the Madison River.
The RV Park out on Madison Arm is in a nice location right on the lake, but
it feels kind of crowded and crummy. We probably won’t stay there unless
we’re desperate for lake time. Chores and errands done, we get good barbecue for dinner at Eric’s new
sit-down restaurant. Eric used to guide out of Madison River Outfitters.
He started a little stand-up barbecue stand in town and it went well. Now
he has the new big place open and the little place closed. It was packed.
The food was excellent. Good for us. Good for Eric. Tomorrow, the float trip.