The Last Ditch by Tom Paine

My plan yesterday casually to take in Yellowstone en route to my hotel was – I now know – absurd. As Londoners say it was Dagenham (i.e. two stops beyond Barking). This is a park so big it needs gas stations! I drove more than 130 miles today on park roads alone and – unlike yesterday – I don’t regret any of them. I took almost 200 photographs, scarcely knowing which way to point my lens next.

The weather was not good. The sun didn’t shine. At one point it snowed. From my hotel in West Yellowstone I ascended more than 2,000 feet to the Continental Divide, which I crossed several times in my travels. The temperature was chilly and when it wasn’t raining it was about to.

I encountered more elk, a herd or two of bison (buffalo) and marvelled at the natural beauties of a park so vast it takes in lakes, canyons, rivers and entire mountain ranges as well as sitting on a supervolcano that powers more than half the geothermal features on the planet.

Old Faithful is the most famous of these features. She lived up to her name by delivering at the precise time predicted by the park rangers. Leah, a charming young rangerette, told me they are correct within 10 minutes either way 90% of the time. The “timer” for the feature is the period it takes for water to refill the underground chambers beneath the geyser after an eruption, apparently. It has worked consistently for recorded American history but even that is remarkable stability in a violent location where change is usually the only constant.

I saw a quote today from some Indian chief that the Earth is more alive in Yellowstone than anywhere else. He went on to draw some mystical point or other, but he was not wrong in his basic observation.

To be sure of my photographic position for Old Faithful I waited a full 50 minutes in place. This brought lots of tourists over to talk to me. They assumed, given that I had set all my camera kit up, that I knew what I was doing and was expecting an eruption sooner than the park rangers.

I passed most of the waiting time however chatting to two Californians on a similarly ambitious tour to mine. They had actually been on the road longer than me. Mr & Mrs Jim Cooper proved the truth of my repeated assertion that Americans are supremely friendly. From a cold start (my asking them “Where are you guys from?”) to our parting we achieved a rapport that would have taken years in Britain. They invited me to their home in Oakdale and Jim, a retired police officer, offered to ensure that I miss nothing important during my visit to San Francisco by being my guide. Thanks, guys. I will call, I promise.

My least favourite part of the day was picking Speranza’s teeth with a stick to remove a small bird she had ingested. Especially as the stick only got me so far and I actually had to get hold of the damn thing. I am no naturalist, as you may have noticed from earlier posts. I like my nature at a comfortable viewing distance. In fact, I persuaded my High School to run a Latin course largely for the opportunity to rewrite my timetable to exclude the dissections coming up in my “O” level biology class. I am squeamish and therefore, pathetically, proud of myself for overcoming my qualms today to attend to Speranza’s welfare. No damage was done to the car, you will be relieved to hear, but the bird, I am afraid, has ceased to be.

My second least favourite part of the day was the standard of the catering at the Old Faithful visitors centre. The concessionaires know they have a captive audience, I guess, and the experience was sub-optimal. After a terrible food day yesterday and an typically uninspiring “complimentary” breakfast at my hotel, I had hoped for better. I was much amused by an imposing lady from a party of Chinese tourists berating the waitresses for the dirty tables in sign language and grunts. She seemed accustomed to command and I speculated on how senior a cadre she might be back home. On the other hand, she got the tables cleaned, for which I was grateful.

My favourite part of the day was visiting the geyser basin at West Thumb on the shores of Lake Yellowstone. My only disappointment was that – despite spending the day very much “bear aware” as urged by the park signs – I saw none. No Yogi. No Boo Boo. This, although I spent all day trying not to call the park “Jellystone.”

Worse things happen than seeing too few bears. Too many bears, for example, or one bear far too close. They kill about one human a year in Yellowstone, but that’s not the greatest danger in the park. I experienced some of the worst driving conditions I have encountered on my trip. Despite sensible advice from the rangers and very logical park regulations, people who spied an elk or bison stopped immediately rather than parking in a safe place. I lengthened my following distance considerably to account for this and then suffered from being tailgated by enormous RVs and pickup trucks whose sense of invulnerability is as understable – given the scale of their monstrous vehicles – as it is inaccurate. 

I loved driving Speranza around, especially for the limited periods when I could have the roof down, but if I ever drive through Yellowstone again, it will be in a Hummer with bull bars!