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I asked the woman
running the convenience store how the road north to Greybull was. I told her we had just come through the Bighorn Mountains, and she asked, "How did you like them switch-backs?" "I beg your pardon?" "The turns. The two sharp turns." "Pretty scary," I answered. "When I saw the signs for twenty-five miles-per-hour, I slowed down to twenty." "Yes. When the mountains talk, you listen," she said good-naturedly. "Where are you from?" "New Jersey." "I lived out East for a while. Pennsylvania. We moved back here because we missed the mountains. When it gets too hot, you can drive up into the mountains and cool off." "I feel the same way about the seashore," I said. The thought that someone living in the mountains of Pennsylvania could miss the mountains of Wyoming amused me 'til I remembered my years living in the Midwest. Going to the beach at a lake was not the same as going to the beach at the ocean, any more than living in the bosom of the earth-mother Appalachians could be compared to getting lost in the wild and tangled nape of the Rockies. The road from Worland to Greybull was as promised, and our mood became more carefree as we passed through small towns with their main streets only two or three blocks long. One town boasted a population of ten. At Greybull, we headed west into Cody, an hour away. We checked in at five AM and went right to sleep. The next day, we took our first daytime look at Cody. To the east loomed the Big Horn Mountains that we had crossed the night before, and to the West lay Yellowstone National Park. The town was a sprawl with no worry about space, with most buildings no taller than three stories. Main Street was four lanes wide. After breakfast, we got on US Route 16, the road we had followed since leaving the interstate, and continued to Yellowstone. At the west end of town, we passed the Buffalo Bill Museum, and a few miles beyond that, we drove by a gorge cut by the Shoshone River and stopped to take pictures. Driving on, the scenery became more rugged. Around every turn, more mountains rose, jagged and silent. We went through a short tunnel, and the Shoshone River gorge met us on the other side. The gorge ended abruptly at the Buffalo Bill Dam, in an elegant spray of slow-motion upside-down geyser that spewed from a sluice. The reservoir behind it was calm and blue and held in place by the cupped hands of the Carter Mountains. Driving on, we entered the Wapiti Valley, in the Shoshone National Forest. The North Fork of the Shoshone River was to be our companion for the rest of the fifty-mile ride to Yellowstone. The scenery seemed to change with every mile. Progress was slow because around every bend, as the mountains rearranged they, one was tempted to stop and take pictures. Jagged granite bluffs balanced boulders on their pointy fingers, and red ridge rock pirouetted in a hesitation waltz, as we twisted our way through the valley. As the road wound through the valley, the peaks seemed to turn and trade places, like a giant gear works. And then, under a canopy of pines, the East entrance to Yellowstone National Park. We drove along a two-lane blacktop road, entering the Absaroka Range of the Rocky Mountains, as chipmunks played tag with each other in the trees to our left. Soon, the road began a steady climb. We turned a corner - slowly - and the dark pines on our left stopped and a deep and dizzying valley dropped away. The next mountain over was covered with green pines, like a reptile's scales, and it seemed to move slowly and snakelike as we drove on. The height, the sheer drop that started at the lip of the road was at once beautiful and terrifying, and the fact that a storm cloud was hugging the mountain up ahead underscored how far up in the sky we were. It had started to drizzle now, and a beige mudpack was forming on our van as a construction worker flagged us to top. There was road construction up ahead. The flagman came over to shoot the breeze. "Is this road going to get any higher?" I asked him. "It goes down a little, then up a little bit. Then down again. Then up and then down." His walkie-talkie croaked, "There's a line comin' through. Last car's a green Honda. There's a motorcycle passin' people. Tell him it's dangerous and he's gotta stop." "Ten-four," answered our flag-man. A line of cars crept by, in the middle of which was a restless motorcycle with two riders. They passed two cars. "Hey!" yelled the flagman, "Slow down! Don't pass!" The green Honda finally went by, and our line began to move. We went through Sylvan Pass, at an elevation of 8,559 feet. To get my mind off the mountain, as it were, I idly wondered why one of the construction workers didn't take a bulldozer and add an extra foot to make Sylvan Pass an even 8,560. The rest of the trip
was not as high or as intimidating as Sylvan Pass had proved to be. On
our last down slope, the trees ahead parted and we got our first glimpse
of Lake Yellowstone. We stopped on a drive-off a few miles beyond; a bluff
with steam curling from pocks in its side. A sign read, "Thermal
Area. Do not walk." A metal plaque explained that the crust was only
six inches thick in some places. It was impossible to tell where, and
a foot that accidentally broke through could end up scalded. The air smelt
like burnt matches. |