We woke lazily this morning to the sun that had risen several hours earlier. We tend to go to bed around 11:30pm and wake around 8:30, and I suppose our bodies deserve the rest after what we've been putting them through. Still, when the sun rises several hours before we do it's easy to think we should be sleeping in less.
The obliging employees working at the registration booth in Madison campground filled our coffee mugs again this morning. Their kind treatment is vastly different from the experience I had with their company at Crater Lake's Mazama Village last summer, and makes me wish more people were like this!
Fellow bicyclist John had been at the campground the night prior when we returned from our day ride to the Canyon area of the park. A man of few words and military background, he said that he does bicycle touring because it's not competitive like the triathlons he used to race in. It's better, he says, to actually be able to pay attention to the scenery around you. John also baked pizzas out of pre-made crusts on the grate over his campfire pit, an impressive bit of culinary skill, and he said that being in the military wore him out on eating badly while in nature. He also complained of gastrointestinal trouble this morning, but we're not sure if the two are related.
We set out down the road to Old Faithful following the Firehole River. Herds of bison grazed just across the water on the flatland of the lower geyser basin and the requisite crowds gathered to snap photos and admire the handsome beasts. I still haven't figured out if they are adorable or terrifying.
A gravel road led us through the geyser land past steaming pools of water and streaks of color across the ground from the geothermal features. We walked over the fragile landscape on boardwalks, elevated above the excitement and watching boiling water spouting up out of the deep. Some of the colors were so vibrant it was hard to believe they were real, or at least naturally occurring.
As we were munching on mixed nuts and strolling through the geyser basins, the heavens broke forth as they had been silently preparing to do all morning. We assumed at first that a passing shower would soon leave, allowing the sun to kiss away the droplets of rain. It turned out that more hail was in the works for us, but fortunately not nearly the size of the hailstones we encountered in Washington. Other park visitors scampered to their cars, but we, being without shelter and assuming the storm would pass soon, allowed the drenching to happen and stood in the steam trail of the geyser pools as the sulfuric air warmed us.
It became evident that the clouds were not going to part, and so we mounted our bicycles again and set out for Old Faithful's industrial complex of a visitor's center, soaked to the bone and cold. We sought refuge at the Sinclair station and bought fake cappuccinos from the automatic coffee machine while we waited for the downpour to dissipate.
When the rain stopped, we wheeled our bicycles over to the historic Old Faithful Inn to warm ourselves inside. Tour groups stopped on the porch in front of our spread of peanut butter, tortillas, and trail mix while the guide gave a serviceable monologue about this area's first guests. The famous geyser erupted with a column of water and a plume of steam before we were quite settled in, and so we did see the one thing that everyone who visits this Yellowstone Park must see, but we saw if from a distance, and partially obscured. Better late than never.
We hung around the Inn for awhile, admiring the craftsmanship of the building, and browsing the wares of the gift shop which was harangued by crowds of the same. I tried on a Stetson buffalo felt hat, but balked at its price tag and decided I'm not much of a hat person anyway.
We labored up to the Continental Divide for the second time this trip, climbing slowly out from under the perpetual cloud cover that had rested on the valley. A short downhill run proved all too short and we labored uphill again towards another curve int the Divide and we crossed once again from the land of waters draining to the Pacific Ocean into parts east and south where the waters drain to the Gulf of Mexico. Being gluttons for punishment, we will adhere to a route where we will once again cross this divide, the elevations becoming gradually higher until, as I hear, we will pass the 10,000 foot mark and presumably collapse our respiratory systems.
A brief pelting of fat raindrops was visited upon us after our showers which we paid dearly for. The hiker/biker site at Grant Village is actually spare ground between group camps in the "L" loop, and so we are serenaded by camp songs and chants by boisterous teenagers on both sides. We are burning another campfire since we are in a position to do so, and also since it is the most patriotic sort of activity available to us; we are now at the heart of the American experience. We even ate sausages!
We haven't taken a real rest day fully off the bikes yet; it feels better to us to keep moving, even if it's only about 30 miles or so, and that way the scenery never loses its luster. We may encounter a weariness of legs or souls that will finally need a day without motion, but so far we feel good about our pace.
Wyoming is next. The Grand Tetons lie just south of us, a pleasant day's ride with plenty of room for relaxing built in. After that, we climb our highest pass yet and enter a land I have always considered to be "just on the way to somewhere else." I hope I'm proven otherwise.
Awesome writing Brock! Thanks for the visual imagery, I've never been there. -jojo
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