Day 6: Grant Village to OG1

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Thursday's dawn was heralded by an alarm clock rather than the sun's warming rays and we had slept soundly, devoid of the sporadic re-situating that came with camping. Down at the Lake House restaurant we rallied empty plates for the breakfast buffet and took in the now-lit lakeside view that had their large, plentiful panes full up. The food was warm and generous, the early atmosphere sleepily subdued, and our server—the same from our evening visit—carried a kind smile. We enjoyed our ready-made and varied breakfast while discussing the possibilities along our southbound route. Afterward, we gathered our things from the hotel and I happily withdrew from its walls and halls, eager to return to the outdoors.

The plan was to drive twenty-one miles to the southern entrance, stopping along the way to hike, see waterfalls, and hopefully spot moose and other critters. We would then backtrack, walk the West Thumb Geyser Basin, brave the tourist-packed area around Old Faithful, and venture into a nearby meadow to make camp.

The first possibility on my list was the Riddle Lake trail. It's described as an easy (read: flat) hike of four and a half miles through burned forest and wildflower-packed meadows that's destined for (yet another) lily-padded lake—this one two hundred and seventy-four acres. The trail crosses the Continental Divide and, per Yellowstone Treasures, it has been closed in recent summers for bear management. It sounded manageable, beautiful, and wildlife-rich, but we passed it up given our leftover aches from Canyon and the seventy plus miles of driving that lay before us.

We pushed on, passed three-mile Lewis Lake, and stopped at its outlier: Lewis Falls. Lewis River emerges from the lake, heads south for a mile, then makes a sharp turn east; here its breadth pours a mild and angular thirty feet, winds under a bridge, calms and curves southward through soggy, vegetation-rich meadows—a favorite of moose!—and scours a deep canyon farther downstream. We parked, eased up a small hike that closes in on the falls, and walked along the bridge for an unobstructed view of the falls. The area looked like it should be teeming with life, but nothing inhuman fell across our eyes. It was peculiar and frustrating. Was it the amount of folks; the nearby disturbance of construction; simply nature being nature?

Many miles later, and still wildlifeless, we made our second stop at Moose Falls. Unlike Lewis Falls, it was almost deserted—perhaps because it lacked the immediate roadside convenience and was veiled with trees. Short trails lead to this "delightful, small waterfall in a mossy sylvan setting." We clambered about a collection of boulders in its peaceful nook and I carefully crept across logs and slick rocks—aided by my tripod that I squeezed into a monopod-like walking stick—for a new perspective mid-creek. There appeared to be an inkling of a trail that followed the creek around a bend and into the wood; my curiosity wanted to chase it to the confluence, follow the river into the canyon, and explore, but that was for another trip, if at all.

Back on the road and a mile later we passed through the southern entrance, leaving Yellowstone and entering the Grand Tetons. We drove for a bit and doubled-back, all the while craning our necks in an attempt to find the South Boundary Trailhead. It's the only trail in the area and we decided to hike a fraction of the twenty-four mile trek to Bechler Ranger Station. Yellowstone Treasures describes the beginning as a one-mile hike through lodgepole pines to Tanager Lake (named so after the official park bird, the Western Tanager). We were unable to find the trailhead and questioned a ranger as we reentered the park. She directed us to the white-striped trail crossing the road ahead: it would lead us into the adjacent woods where we would look for the barn. On the opposite site we parked, prepped, and peed, and the trail lead us into a government housing area shortly after crossing the road. We ambled about the grass and gravel amidst wooden homes, trailers, shacks, and picnic tables—all lifeless. Eventually we found a barn, but there were no signs or indications of a trail, so we continued our pre-hike and found a group of fellows hammering a building. They hadn't a clue—one was normally stationed at Mammoth and only down for the day. With that, we turned around to inspect the barn. A homemade corral of crisscrossed logs bowed from its sides and a few standoffish horses strolled over to check us out. North of the barn we found a small, weather-worn sign along a faint trail that disappeared into a thickening wood—this was it: the South Boundary. The first hundred yards or so climbed up a rough and seemingly forgotten path; it then levelled out and shot across a lodgepole-lined landscape straight as an arrow. Ever so often the trees on the north side were donned with small rectangular signs to indicate the border of Yellowstone—an FYI for hunters to disarm. Nothing moved but the squirrels and chipmunks and, as made clear by the obscurity of the trailhead, we didn't see another human being nor did we expect to. It was remote. Eventually we crossed a small creek that supposedly originated from the lake. We saw nothing through the open stretch of orange-tinged marsh and hiked on fruitlessly to scout for a view. It wasn't long before we came upon an opening scattered with a few logs; here we sat, snacked, and hydrated before turning back. No exceptional beauty, no wildlife, no lake, and time gone by. Canyon had spoiled us and we were feeling disheartened.

After revisiting twenty vacant miles we were back where we began: Grant Village. We raided its general store for sandwiches and supplements and I continued to feed my addiction to Old Faithful Root Beer. Afterward, a short drive north took us to the West Thumb Geyser Basin and we settled in the shade at one of its windswept picnic tables. The basin borders Yellowstone Lake and feeds it an average of three thousand one hundred gallons every day. Its half-mile of boardwalk circles a plethora of geysers, pools, paint pots, and spectacular, kaleidoscopic springs. Some features are milky and murky; others so clear you can see them recede into the bowels of earth.

One of the deeper hot springs in the park, Abyss Pool descends to 53 ft. It varies from turquoise blue to emerald green to various shades of brown. In 1883, a park visitor described it as "a great, pure, sparkling sapphire, rippling with heat."

—Yellowstone Association Guide

A very explosive geyser in the 20th century, Abyss then became dormant for something like 80 years. Then in 1991 and 1992, it erupted numerous times up to 100 feet high, causing some of the nearby pools to drain. Since then, Abyss has quieted, but no one can guess how long it may remain that way.

—Yellowstone Treasures

An assorted pallette of amber, sapphire, charcoal, saffron, ruddy brown, aqua marine, alloy orange, and other kindred hues was strewn amongst the sands and grasses of the shore. Many of these mingled and slithered into the lake, their spectrums slowly dissolved, swallowed by the boundless blue. The most famous feature at West Thumb, Fishing Cone, is situated in the lake itself:

Mountain men told of a geyser along an alpine lake where one could catch a trout, swing the pole around, dip it into the boiling pool, and cook the fish without taking it off the line.

The cooking-on-the-hook feat at Fishing Cone became famous after being described by the 1870 Washburn Expedition. Visitors often dressed in a cook's hat and apron to have their pictures taken at the "Chowder Pot" or the "Fish Pot." Anglers often injured themselves while straddling the boiling water, and their feet damaged the geyser cone. Fishing is no longer allowed from Fishing Cone.

Visitors are sometimes surprised to find Fishing Cone underwater. During the spring and early summer, lake levels rise from melting snow and cover the vent. When exposed, the temperature of the cone's water averages just about boiling (199° F).

—Yellowstone Association Guide

Thankfully, the sun's presence offset the cooling winds and it made for a gorgeous day. West Thumb Geyser Basin is a (drug-free) psychadelic trip that I recommend.

Another set of twenty miles—our third and final for the day—brought us into Old Faithful Village. Every junction prior was commanded by stop sign, yet here there was an exit ramp. This and the amount of signage that followed was a harbinger to the huge parking lots ahead. We settled somewhere in the sea of asphalt and headed for the nearest, most prominent building. Inside the lodge was walled with dark wood and dim light hung in its carpeted hallways; it emanated a polished, yet natural feel—it was like walking through an oxymoron. Its nexus was an immense room filled with tables and chairs that stood beneath a barbed chandelier of antlers and between a bold fireplace and grand Old-Faithful-facing windows that drenched everything in the light of mid-afternoon. Our arrival time was just right: people were scurrying and congregating across porches, lawns, boardwalks, and behind windows for the pending eruption of Old Faithful—the most famous geyser in the world that's part of the largest concentration of geysers in the world.

Old Faithful erupts more frequently than any of the other big geysers, although it is not the largest or most regular geyser in the park. Its average interval between eruptions is about 88 minutes, varying from 44-125 minutes. An eruption lasts 1½ to 5 minutes, expels 3,700-8,400 gallons of boiling water, and reaches a height of 106-184 feet.

—Yellowstone Association Guide

We promptly left the lodge and set up shop at the end of the walk where it bisects a semi-circular boardwalk encircling Old Faithful—arguably the heaviest trafficked path in all the park. Surprisingly, the concentration of people was less here and the few present were sitting on the edge of the planks. I set up my tripod, locked the camera in place, and waited with a trigger finger, eying the white, mellow lump that rested atop a knoll of bronze grasses—mountains on one side, a tree line on the other, and a big, blue, empty sky suspended above. It gradually steamed, spurted, and spilled into a silo of water that northeastern winds attempted to topple, and after a minute the crowd dispersed as it decayed. It was undoubtedly interesting, but honestly I don't know why Old Faithful is so popular given all that Yellowstone has to offer. Perhaps my imaginiton set me up to be underwhelmed (as it often does)—I thought we would be closer; that the ground would rumble and shimmy; that in a quick second the cone would explode with gusto toward the heavens and the forests would echo lightly.

In a geyser, constrictions in the plumbing prevent water from circulating freely to the surface where heat would escape. The deepest water can exceed the surface boiling point of 199° F. The surrounding pressure also increases with depth. Increased pressure exerted by the enormous weight of the overlying water prevents the deeper water from boiling. Bubbling upward, steam expands as it nears the top of the water column. At a critical point, the confined bubbles lift the water above and the geyser overflows. This decreases pressure on the system, and violent boiling results. Instantly, a huge volume of steam is produced that forces water out of the vent in a superheated mass. Eruption begins. In an eruption, water is expelled faster than it can enter the geyser's plumbing system. The heat and pressure gradually decrease. The eruption stops when the water reservoir is exhausted or when the gas bubbles diminish enough to be able to rise without ejecting the water.

—Yellowstone Association Guide

Someone told us of a clockwork coyote that would show up after the crowd to gather abandoned morsels and the rangers that would serve as sentintels. We lingered to try and catch a glimpse, but it was short-lived and we missed the showing (if there was one): we had to move on to beat nightfall. The nearest set of features lie on Geyser Hill, which we looped. Anemone Geyser is on a seven- to ten-minute timer and it was bubbling and bursting on our arrival; I believe Plume Geyser spewed for us as well. Bee Hive, an irregular favorite, was dormant, and we hoped to see some action from the Lion Group—an unpredictable collection of three geysers that awaken with deep roars! They smoked and ejected some spittle: it was all they had to give. Colorful pools sprawled and oozed amongst the geysers, an enlivening offset to the insipid sinter of the geyser cones.

When hot water erupts from a geyser or flows from a hot spring, it cools and leave behind a thin mineral deposit called siliceous sinter, which is primarily composed of silicon dioxide (the same material found in glass). When this mineral is splashed from a geyser, it is known as geyserite. Mineral formations offer clues to the beahvior of a feature and to its age. If you see thin shelves of lacy sinter overhanging a pool, you're probably looking at a hot spring instead of an active geyser. If you know the average rate that sinter forms in a thermal area, you can guess the age of a formation. In the Old Faithful area, sinter formation averages about one inch per century.

—Yellowstone Association Guide.

We were curious about the miles of boardwalk stretching through the steam ahead and especially so of the predictable spouters, but it was time to head for camp. Our destination was a dozen miles north and for over half of the trip we wound alongside the Firehole River. Here barren hills sat dotted with swirls of exhaust and bands of boardwalk—their geology banishing the trees and beckoning the tourists. Near Midway Geyser Basin the road diverged from the river and morphed from emptiness, to trees, to far-flung meadow. At the north end of Lower Geyser Basin we turned south onto Fountain Flats Drive—it served as the main road to Upper Geyser Basin (where Old Faithful sits) in 1882. After a mile the asphalt bulges into ample parking then yields to a span of gravel where retired road becomes active trail. The Firehole River slithers alongside the lot and bows out into remnants of the North Fork fire of 1988—one that burned more than four hundred thousand acres. The area was littered with life and death. Thermals steamed; saplings sprung up haphazardly among exposed stumps; logs and limbs hung entombed in the air and those felled shattered, scattered, and entangled in a myriad of combinations. All of this sat atop a rolling, dry, and dim brown.

A half-mile of gravel lead us to a sizeable bridge over the Firehole and by its sizzling neighbor Ojo Caliente Spring—a "superheated, alkaline spring" that pours into riverbound ruts. Across the bridge we found a small sign for the Sentinel Meadow Trail and turned west. The trail was white, callous, and narrow, and it shepherded onward through the phoenix-like land; a light wind blew and chipmunks skittered about wildflowers and atop logs. We crossed two footbridges and passed under a rank of telephone poles, all the while eying patches of live trees and clumps of dead ones near and far, wondering if we were alone. About a mile in we met the sign for OG1 head on as the trail turned south and rounded a knoll. From here we could see the bear pole hanging high in an unkempt accumulation of trees on the meadow's perimeter. The southeast quadrant was busy with the pole, trail, trees, and Sentinel Creek, so we marched into the meadow to find a home under the sinking sun. It was then our wildlifeless world began to change: not fifty yards away grazed a solitary bison and above it, off in the distance, soared a Northern Harrier. The bison was situated outside the treeline of a gentle slope on the other side of the creek and remained there until night enveloped us all. The meadow was hard, cracked, lumpy, and matted from the tonnage of bison that had stamped through. A good one hundred yards or so from the bear pole we found a level spot free of manure; it was near a bend in the creek and an isolated pool that I wouldn't dare gather water from. After setting up the tent we headed creekside to fetch water and cook. Prior water sources requred a stretch of long legs onto a mid-creek boulder or a careful balancing act on questionable logs. This time a solid bundle of four or five logs bridged the river, so Margaret gave it a go while I prepped dinner.

We spooned our meal out of a bag as twilight fell and continued observing our resident bison. That is, until something beyond the tent—maybe one hundred and fifty yards out—caught the rods of our eyes: one... two... three... ultimately six canids, two of them black, oscillated across the uneven meadow with purpose—hunting, perhaps. A gray one paused to meet my gaze through the telephoto lens and the pack soon disappeared behind a gentle incline masked with trees. We weren't sure what to think through the excitement: coyotes? wolves? Wolves, we concluded, for three reasons: they looked stocky in my photos; we were unsure of coyotes being black; and we were also unsure of coyotes being in a pack that size. Happily filled with food and wonder, it was time to succumb to dusk's reign. As we gathered our things a mouse bolted from a bush and vanished into the bale of logs spanning the creek, and as we crossed the meadow something ahead of us flew low and erratic. Our day was dying, yet the meadow was coming to life! A shimmering half moon hung in the clear of night and a light chill enshrouded the land. We bundled up and burrowed into our bags, still discussing the denizens and what we thought were passerbys. And that's when the howling rose from the hills—what Native Americans call the cries of lost spirits trying to return to earth. (Click here to hear an excerpt of the howls.)

For more than 60 years the howl of the wolf was silenced in Yellowstone. As settlers moved into the U.S. West, wolves killed their cattle and sheep, so killing wolves was everyone's civic duty. The government paid for wolf pelts, and trappers baited buffalo carcasses with strychnine and turned in thousands of pelts. In Yellowstone, official policy condoned extermination of the wolf until 1926.

—Yellowstone Treasures

Wolves have had a tumultuous time in the West—a deadly deck of poison and government stacked against them—in yet another example of man's barbarism. From my readings I gathered no notion of a valiant effort toward coexistence: it was unrestrained slaughter. In 1872 William E. Webb wrote of sixty-four wolves poisoned in one night and in 1968 E. Curnow estimated that at least seven hundred thousand were killed in Montana between 1870 and 1877. Yet the passage of time was on the wolves' side. The first meeting to discuss restoration in Yellowstone took place in 1972—a century after the park was founded—and the effort was committed to ink some twenty years later. "Why had it been so difficult to send a few wolves across the border and release them into some of the wildest areas in the United States, where wolves so clearly belonged?" "The Recovery Plan preparation, the discussions, the congressional briefings, the court appearances, the testimony, the study, the reports, the seemingly endless debate on all the biological, legal, economic, and philosophical nuances." It was a hard-won struggle, "arguably the greatest battle to date over the control and influence agribusiness has regarding policy on western public lands" and in the end "he baritones had been returned to Yellowstone's choir; the big dogs were back."

Reintroducing wolves to Yellowstone is an act of making room, of giving up the notion of 'bigger, better, and more,' to hold onto 'complete, balanced, and whole.' It is an act of giving back, a realigning, a recognition that we make ecological and ethical mistakes and learn from them, and what we learn can inform our actions. Thus reintroducing wolves to Yellowstone is a symbolic act just as exterminating wolves from the West was a symbolic act.

— Renée Askins

After the initial shock of astonishment waned a grand idea popped into my head: record them! I reentered the cold, reached across Margaret, and unzipped the tent flap. After some rumaging in the vestibule I pulled her iPhone from her pack and handed it over. We situated ourselves for silence and lay still as the phone captured the bellows and barks of the beasts. After a minute the double-checker in me began to wonder if everthing was square—was it capturing the howls? how was the quality? were any adjustments needed? Margaret passed the phone to me and I played it back, giddy with the results. It was then a firm, concerned whisper from Margaret overtook the playback, asking me to silence it—for when the phone began its howling, the wolves stopped theirs.

Was it merely coincidence? My mood plummeted and I began to wonder if an infraction had just occurred. Surely the wolves could and would have heard? And if so, what would come of it? Was it a deterrent; a provocation; nothing at all? Overwhelmed, I sunk into my bag as a blitzkreig of possibilities and vulnerabilities bombarded my mind—it was defeaning against the speechless abyss of night. Oblivious to the untamed atmosphere encompassing us, we lay stiff beneath our fragile dome of nylon; listening; waiting. In time Margaret fell asleep and I followed.

Hours later I woke to a rustling outside. At first I froze and poked Margaret: no response. A few moments more there was no question about it: relentless winds were sweeping through the land. The rainfly quivered and clamored without end as unseen forces battered our tent, and ever so often a peculiar brushing sound came from the foot of the tent. I was assured by the conclusion that sprung from my brief observation—it's just the wind—and began settling for sleep. Out of the dark din Margaret whispered at me: There's a wolf outside the tent...

At maturity wolves can stand as tall as three feet, at the shoulders, though they average between twenty-six and thirty-two inches, and from tip of the nose to end of tail measure between five and six and a half feet long, with the males usually being half a foot longer than the females. With a length of six feet, we're not talking about coyotes.

Wolves can reach speeds of between thirty-five and forty miles per hour, and have been seen to "bound tremendously when pursuing moose and deer," Mech writes. Some bounds have been measured at sixteen feet.

— Rick Bass, The Ninemile Wolves

What?! I felt a jolt as my mind drained of its comforts. Wolves are shy; they don't approach people; and certainly not tents. But what little I knew was invalidated the moment the recording was introduced into the equation. Furthermore, it's bear country—that's Yellowstone's undying stigma: bears, bears, bears. Hence, months prior I'd read a tome-worth on bears and not an iota on wolves—"the Holy Grail of Yellowstone wildlife sightings" wrote Paul Schullery in Mountain Time. Also, I had no reason to doubt Margaret; she's a reasonable gal and the one who heard all the nocturnal noises anyhow. We discussed the evidence in a whisper and my senses heightened in an attempt to verify her findings. The tent rippled wildly in the wind, making it difficult to discern what could be out there. Since we lacked a confirmation one way or the other, I prepared for the worst. As quietly as possible, I slithered halfway out of my bag and sat on my knees; I grabbed my glasses, headlamp, and opened the multitool to the largest blade I could find—one that's probably laughable when side by side with a wolf's incisor. Everything was cold until the adrenaline simmering in my veins hasted into a boil. All ears and whispers, we remained motionless within the eye of the storm for what seemed like one primal hour, scrutinzing every noise as wind or wolf.

A breakthrough was made when I identified the occassional brushing sound as our backcountry permit. It was tied to the outside of the rainfly and it whipped to-and-fro, oftentimes brushing against the tent—a sound that could easily be construed as some curious being toying with our shelter. Throughout the ordeal another comforting thought came to mind: if wolves were this close, we'd hear something more—breathing or communication, likely—or see something obvious—like the meaty shadow of a paw sinking into one of our feeble walls.

In time, possibilities were whittled down to nothing, the adrenaline subsided, and our imaginations had been defeated. Still, I must've lain asleep for another hour or two, listening to the cacophony of wind and waiting for my system to fully withdraw from fight-or-flight. Exhausted, we slept well into morning until momentarily stirred by a resurgence of howls saturating the hills. (Click here to hear the howls.) By mid-morning the sun was cooking us alive and we were forced to face the day.

Hot, sleep-deprived, and alive, we were able to laugh about the bedeviled wolves of wind that feasted upon our imaginations rather than our flesh.

View all photos on Flickr.

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