Day 5: 4R2 to Grant Village

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Wednesday was the midpoint of our trip and it was the only evening we would sleep under a man-made roof in Yellowstone. We had certainly worked for it and this dawn wouldn't differ: an amibitous hike out of Canyon lay before us. Camping two nights at the same site had us fixated on one familiar conduit and we were ready to branch off and explore—which, in this case, would result in a longer, less direct route. This would indeed burn more daylight, but the convenience-to-come of sleeping indoors meant we weren't tethered to the setting of the sun: "camp" was already assembled and surrounded by sustenance; warm and waiting.

My first choice was the Wapiti: it was the northern boundary of the area's wolf closure and I thought it might offer a glimpse of Hayden Valley (or wolves, even!); however, this would've taken some seven plus miles to reach the car—an aggressive venture considering we were showing wear and hauling our bulky payloads. We settled for a lesser four-mile trek that resembles a warped hairpin turn. Rather than forking north along Lily Pad lake for the one-third mile to the rim, we would continue southwest. This would weave us through a number of thermal features and pass by Clear Lake before emerging at another parking lot; from here we would follow the South Rim Trail—a grand one rife with overlooks!—back to the lot at Artist Point.

Our surroundings shifted shortly after the fork where we entered new territory. The trees constituting the thick and shady forest were now clumped like an archipelago in a sea of blanched and blinding earth. We squinted and tugged on the brims of our hats to deter the solar assault. This no-man's-land was spotted with smoking holes rimmed with sallow stones and prostrate logs were regularly employed for guidance or deterrence as the trail's delineation was oftentimes unclear in the alabaster. Early on we met with two large, gurgling mudpots. They possessed a lunar-like quality and their edges looked as though they had undergone a slapdash bout of terrace mining. Milky whites churned against dull shades of gray and belched a rotten egg smell—a descriptor often applied to many thermals at Yellowstone. The wind shifted as I made my photography rounds and I was forced to retreat after a few oppressive inhales stirred up a cranial throb.

Mudpots are acidic features with a limited water supply. Hydrogen sulfide, which rises from deep within the earth, is used by some microorganisms as an energy source. They help convert the smelly gas to sulfuric acid, which breaks down rock into clay. Various gases escape through the wet clay mud and cause it to bubble and plop.

Not far from the trail—about fifteen or twenty feet from the first mudpot—we made an exciting discovery: grizzly tracks! Or so it seems based on my guidebooks. I didn't have a ruler to capture the size, but the grith looks right as does the shape: you can draw a straight line between the toes and pad of a grizzly print, but not a black bear print (as their toes arch against the pad). Although the sun continued to beam and bake, we lingered to simmer in the thrill.

After zigzagging past a few thermals more we encountered a tour group hiking through. I notified them of the prints (which I thought were black bear at the time); they were kind and curious about our backpacking. Once they passed we deviated from the trail to visit the shore of Clear Lake. Appropriately named, the lake was translucent: its carpet of a myriad greens blended beautifully with the forest backdrop shimmering on its surface. Wooden cadavers were scattered about its shore and a few thermals boiled beneath. Beyond Clear Lake the land enlivened as pale yielded to forest and meadow; the trail entered a moderate climb then dropped into a near one-mile descent across meadow. From here we could see the bustling South Rim Drive and the parking lot where we'd pick up the South Rim Trail.

Rounding the parking lot resulted in confusion as we encountered a number of unmarked trails. Although they were headed in the right direction, we entered the touristy zone for confirmation. Margaret found solace on a bench while I snapped photos and chatted with an elderly couple from Texas. (Backpackers were a rarity—along our path, at least—and the few folks interested in our undertakings spoke up.) Afterward we followed the asphalt east and signs comfirmed our bearing. The South Rim Trail meanders along the tree-lined canyon rim and brushes up against a number of gorgeous vistas. Sheer drops aren't far away and some are edged with airborne roots that have long been abandoned by soil. The trail was fairly easy, but our travels had worn Margaret down and the trek became laborious: her face was expressionless and each step ached—nothing more than a means plodding to an end. I was weighted with my own share of fatigue, yet every glimpse of the canyon's hues and rugged wonders introduced a ration of rejuvenation. We also saw Lower Falls from a new perspective and a rainbow born of its swelling mist. One sight was unexpected: an Englishwoman's derriere. The main trail often branched into smaller trails and apparently this family was unaware and mom hadn't peed before the hike. A child was assigned lookout, but by the time he saw us and sounded the alarm her drawers were dropped. Not quite the wildlife I was expecting to rear its, well, rear—you could say I was bummed?—but it did make for a well-rounded experience.

Having survived, we headed into Canyon for a much needed lunch; as to where we would eat, I had a venue in mind: the osprey nest at Lookout Point. There we found an excellent angle near a group of boulders that made a fine table. Margaret munched, read, and lifted the binoculars now and again while I established the tripod-and-telephoto command post. And boy did it cause a stir amongst our fellow tourists! What's out there? Are those eagles? May I look through your camera? One youngster lacked the height to gaze through my viewfinder, so I lent him—and afterward his mother—the binoculars. I shared knowledge and fresh photos with many. One Japanese tourist placed his myopic camera against mine and snapped a photo through my viewfinder—and it turned out quite well, albeit vignetted! I missed a couple of photograph opportunies while mingling with the curious, but overall the idea was a success. In one prized photo I captured two osprey: one standing in the nest, its neck arced quizically at another preparing to land—its white underbelly exposed, long legs bent, talons curled, and brown-tipped wings fanned into a fingered blur. What luck to have wildlife like this within visual grasp!

After a while the raptors disappeared into the canyon and I was able to pull myself away from the prosperous overlook. We then headed south, Fishing Bridge bound. It wasn't too long before we partook in our first "bison jam": one of the behemoths was sauntering right for us down the double yellow with a motorcade in tow. I swerved right to take a photo outside my window, then left to guide the fellow toward the roadside. And it worked. He walked right by the passenger side: Margaret could have petted him! Perhaps this signified our promixity to the seven-mile stretch of Hayden Valley, supposedly one of the best places to view wildlife in Yellowstone.

In many ways, Hayden Valley is the heart of Yellowstone.

Geographically, Hayden Valley is the heart of the Yellowstone plateau. The plateau rises 8,000 feet above sea level and is surrounded by 12,000 foot mountains. Hayden Valley, the largest valley in the park, is really an old lake bed. During the Pinedale glaciation, which ended around 14,000 years ago, water from Yellowstone Lake flooded this 17,000 acre valley.

Historically, Hayden Valley is also the heart of Yellowstone. Early visitors, from Native Americans to the first European trappers, used the valley almost like a compass, while navigating across the plateau.

Biologically, Hayden Valley pumps life into Yellowstone. In August, the valley is the scene of the largest free roaming bison rut that occurs in North America. Grizzly bears, wolves, coyotes, elk, moose and dozens of bird species call Hayden Valley home.

— National Park Service

It was a beautiful day. The blue sky was embossed with cottony clouds and we could see for what seemed like miles. Bison roamed and birds soared through the rich chroma of the landscape. (O', how I wanted to take off into the valley or brave the grizzly-frequented Mary Mountain trail, but we were saving our stores for shorter, easier hikes—walks, really.) Out of the plethora of pullovers I've a fond memory of Trout Creek—a maze of gold- and green-lined meanders scattered with bison:

Trout Creek is an excellent example of meanders, or the windings a stream forms when it flows across nearly level ground. As water flows through this remnant of the former lake bottom, it gradually cuts through the glacial till and lake sediments. If the river encounters a small obstruction, it goes around it. As a curve develops, the water flows faster on the outside of the curve, cutting still further, while on the inside of the curve, where the water flows slower, a sandbar of deposited sediment builds up.

— Yellowstone Treasures

Mud Volcano sits at the southern tip of Hayden. It harbors "urbulent pools of hot, muddy water; hillsides strewn with trees cooked by steam; strange odors; and a bizarre landscape." Its greeter, Sulphur Cauldron, is situated beside and below the road. It is one of the most acidic features in the park with a pH comparable to car battery acid and stomach fluids. Sulphur's chimney of steam chafes the wall of the overlook—a wall that had to be rebuilt in 1985 when the gases rotted it away. It reeks and furiously vomits a silvery molten gray. Farther out, humble pea-soup colored hot lakes teem with legions of bubbles.

Just down the road we parked for the Mud Volcano trail. In 1999 hydrothermal action poked a hole in the lot—Yellowstone: an exemplar of change!

Unlike the water-driven basins of geysers and hot pools you find on the western Grand Loop Road, Mud Volcano is a vapor-driven system. Here steam rather than water rises from deep underground, and rain and snowmelt provide most of the water to the features. Before railings and boardwalks, early tourists considered the place "most repulsive and terrifying."

— Yellowstone Treasures

The trail is a two-third mile loop that clings to a percolating hillside. We took the counterclockwise route and the northern boardwalk swung us by Mud Volcano and Dragon's Mouth Spring. Mud Volcano was a boisterous beast back in the day: a 30-by-30 volcano-like cone that splashed mud into tall trees—as much as one hundred feet up and two hundred feet away. On our visit it was tame: a small churning crater tucked into the hillside. Dragon's Mouth is unique and precisely what the name implies: a dark cavernous recess belching steam and its associated sounds of hissing and chugging. For centuries it has enticed imaginations and taken many names, such as Gothic Grotto, Blowing Cavern, and The Belcher. The rest of the trail was sedentary and speechless compared to these two gasbags, but there's no telling what the caldera will do next. In 1870 Mud Geyser was described as "a boiling spring, a placid pond, a deep dry funeral or an active geyser according to the time of one's visit." Like a human with the flu, the area has had its share of quakes and fluctuations in temperature and plumbing operation. Throughout 1978 and 1979 a swarm of earthquakes skyrocketed the soil's temperature to a toasty 200°F; the land became barren, trees fell, and the name "Cooking Hillside" was born.

Before reaching Fishing Bridge we happened upon another bison experience. One of the pullouts was surrounded by the bovines and we were able to squeeze into the lot, pulling in nose-to-nose with an RV. Approximately fifteen or twenty feet away from my driver's door, a bison—the largest land mammal in North America weighing anywhere from one to two thousand pounds—sat chewing in placidity. Behind him a stubby-horned yearling inspected the RV and the land beyond sloped into an expanse littered with bison. Across the road a dozen or so more ambled about—one was particularly vocal and stuck out his tongue with regularity. We stepped out of the car and clung to it in order to minimize a disturbance. I kept an eye on the big guy nestled on the nearby knoll. The National Park Service recommends staying one hundred yards away from grizzlies and wolves—the two predators that can take down an adult bison—and fifty yards away from everything else. I suspect this rule is broken most often around bison given their indifference toward human proximity and their misleading facade of lethargy; on the other hand, it is probably the easiest infraction for rangers to manage since it's roadside. We saw quite a few during the week that broke up bison jams and gave the careless public a talking to.

At Fishing Bridge junction we headed east to take a half-mile stroll on the Pelican Creek Nature Trail. It winds through wood, marsh, and along the sandy shores of Yellowstone Lake—the largest freshwater lake above seven thousand feet in North America. I've seen it referred to as an "inland ocean" since it covers approximately one hundred and thirty-six square miles. I thought the woods and water might offer a variety of (visible or audible) wildlife, but we only found geese at the water's edge. Over the lake hung a bloated late-afternoon cloud; it blotted out the sun whose rays burst from behind and scattered across an infinite canvas of blue. It was a pleasing jaunt, both physically and aesthetically: a complementary mix of sylvan asylum juxtaposed with vast open air.

Having hiked our last hike for the day, we moseyed about the nearby general store, picked up some liquids, solids, and souvenirs, and drove another twenty plus miles, tracing the erratic curvature of the lake's shoreline. You'd think there'd be something to say about twenty miles of driving, but it was truly uneventful: no animal made a peep and we were either wearing the blinders of a thick forest or gazing across vacant waters into an atmospheric cavity.

On the perimeter of Grant Village we joined a few folks roadside to watch elk—some of them young—graze in an open depression close by. Once indoors I prodded the keeper of a small gift shop in an attempt to find a cure for, elk aisde, our recent wildlife deficit. We had hiked six miles and driven close to forty and all we had to show for it was bison, geese, and elk. Bison are a given in Yellowstone, elk are a close second, and who doesn't see a Canada Goose every week? The worker was very forthcoming; she shared stories of wildlife encounters in the village and recommended heading toward the southern entrance for moose. A fellow visitor overheard us and chimed in: not fifteen minutes ago he had seen three moose on the way in! Heading south wasn't the plan for Thursday, but at that moment our intended course took a turn.

The shop was attached to a larger building that housed the check-in desk. There we gathered keys and advice for dinner. Our room was an easy find in the first building; it was a standard room with bathroom facilities in a large building along a paved road—nothing rustic there. After unloading and showering we took a short walk downhill in the dark to dine at the casual Lake House restaurant. Its oblong dining room hung over an old marina and night had turned the massive panes of lakefront glass into obsidian. It was fairly late in the evening, maybe eight or nine; the place was quiet, the service kind, and the food scrumptious.

Back at the hotel I sprawled two maps across the bed, cracked open a few books, and concocted a plan for Thursday by lamp light.

Tonight would be quiet, comfortable, and obviously void of wildlife. Little did we know, Thursday would be an unforgettable antithesis...

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