July 6 - Is That a Hunting Bike?

[Adele]

I'm not even going to try to top Brock's foray into fantasy prose. Suffice to say I almost laughed up the Moose Drool brown ale I'd been sipping on as I read.

We have now spent 26 hours in the legendary, aye. magical land of Yellowstone.

I've observed that this place has two faces.

First, Yellowstone is Nature for Dummies. Most of the visitors here appear as if they'd be more at home on the golf course, at the mall, or at their local Applebee's. I saw copious amounts of inappropriate footwear and smelled superfluous perfume.

Here, without leaving the convenience of your motorized metal box, you can snap photos of monstrous bison, majestic elk, evil-smelling fumaroles and golden-walled canyons.
(Despite the ubiquitous warnings to stay a safe distance away from the wildlife, we witnessed something that appalled Brock and alarmed me. Next to the restrooms at the Lower Falls, a bison stood eyeing the tourists who jostled and crowded not meters from its face, taking pictures and then gleefully checking the results on their expensive DSLR screens. They acted as if the bison were some harmless museum display, not some living creature who could, if the whim took it, toss them all into the air like ninepins.)

The other side of this National Park is the unforgettable encounter with the wild, irrepressible force of nature. Fire and stone flex their muscles beneath the surface of the earth, sending up plumes of steam and literally boiling the clay earth. And as calm as the bison seem, some overly curious and imprudent visitor has already been gored this year. "They're half teddy bear and half devil", Brock remarked this afternoon. It's the combination of the cute curly fur and the horns.

I'd made a 24 hour detour to see Yellowstone on a cross-country road trip the summer after my sophomore year of college. One of my friends was working at the Old Faithful Inn (or Lodge?). While I enjoyed visiting with her, the crowds dismayed me and this time around, I feared that cycling through Yellowstone could turn into "a supposedly fun thing I'll never do again" situation.

Although a near-constant stream of cars flicked past us as we biked the 26 miles to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, I was surprised by how much fun I was having. Gentle climbs led to grand open meadows of tall green grass where bison grazed. Fly fishermen plied their skill in the meandering rivers which at intervals plunged through honey-hued canyons.

Vehicles, even the dreaded rental RVs, typically kept at a prudent distance from us, aided by the ample shoulder. I think there must be a difference between the drivers here, who are all visitors, and those on the rural roads we've travelled, who can adopt a "get off my road" kind of attitude.

Brock and I only carried what we needed for the day, leaving the tent and large bags behind at Madison campground. Freedom! "I actually feel like I'm on vacation", I commented, with only a hint of irony.

We pulled up to a long train of cars stalled in a flurry of exhaust, their occupants waiting to see the Artists Paintpots, a geothermal marvel located 1/3 of a mile from the parking lot.

As we wove through the traffic jam to the trailhead, I felt as if I were at Disney World and I could cut to the front of the line (the wheelchair trick) but instead of a wheelchair I was sitting on a bicycle. Passing the languishing crowds, we locked up our bikes and headed up the trail. I heard so many languages that I lost count: French, German, Russian, Spanish, Indian, Chinese; Americans are almost the minority here!

"You've sure got the right idea there!" passing tourists remark to us as we overtake them on our bikes past the Paintpots, Gibbon Falls, and Grand Canyon. Brock and I smile condescendingly. It feels good to have some payoff for the 8,000 ft. of elevation we've gained over the past few weeks.

I leave you with one parting gem that I overheard a young boy say to his mother as Brock and I pulled out of Canyon Village: "Mom," he called out, pointing to Brock. "Is that a hunting bike?"