Day the Fourth
Day two of my Yellowstone Cavalade of Whisies was jam-packed with ghosts, creeps, the willies, and trolls. If your heart can stand the terror then read on. But it the very thought of horrible ghoulies frightens you then close your Internet now. NOOOOOWW!
September 4th, 2001 - Tuesday
SUNRISE!
There were some very loud avian creatures outside my tent squawking up a Hellstorm of irritating, sleep-bashing noise that morning. They were an omen of sorts in that I would hear many noises on this day. My first order of business was to find indoor plumbing because my indoor plumbing was in dire need of an emergency drain. I gathered some supplies and drove eight miles to Mammoth. I made use of the ranger station's subterranean facilities in a manner befitting only the most well-fed of cheese eaters. I then floated over to the Mammoth hotel and weasled my way into a 2-dollar shower on the third floor. With my body cleansed, my privates talced, and my spirit prepped for further adventure, I drove to a trailhead I had spotted earlier the other day. This particular trail -- I shall call it Rugged-Manly Bravery Trail -- had posted near the parking area a blood-curdling warning: a mother grizzly bear and her two cubs had been spotted in the area recently and extreme danger should be used when walking the trail. Since I was no fraidy-cat-in-man's-clothing (remember timid Rutger from yesterday?), I decided to throw safety to the wind and march right down that trail to my heart's content. And if I should cross paths with Mama Bear and her fuzzy little brats, why I'd march right up to that ursine bully, jab a finger into her well-muscled shoulder, and say, "Listen here, ruffian. I'm an Apple Jacks Kid. And as such, I do what I want. Now get out of my way before I call down the thunder, because as it is, I'm bearly able to contain my rage. Oooh yeaaah!"
A quick description of the area I was to hike that morning, if I may. It was mostly a lush, hilly expanse of open field. To my right rose a steep jut of land packed with trees that ended about 500 yards away into a nice little rocky precipice overlooking the immediate landscape. To my left rolled a fairly flat area of land that was dotted with the occasional grazing bison and snaked with a few tiny creeks. Two or three miles ahead of me loomed what I instantly knighted as my ultimate destination. It was as if the land grew weary of her flat, uninspiring sameness and decided to grow some very large hillocks to offset the banality. From my vantage point it looked as though the trail slithered between these very verdant and very gigantic hills, possibly leading to unknown, naturery splendor. I imagined some untamed, King-Kongian forest lay nestled and hidden juuuust around that far-off curve. On the side of one of the hills was a small copse of trees amidst a curiously light green patch of grass. It looked very welcoming. I could imagine a young Caucasian couple with their two young children, all dressed in light white clothing and flowers in their hair, frolicking in the soft, soft grass, having a wonderful picnic, and then lying together for a blissful afternoon nap. That idyll would make for a great rest stop before I ventured into parts uknown. So I set off!
Not fifty steps into my hike and I was already scared stiff of running into that accursed bear and her double bear-tots. The trail hugged the base of the steep rise to my right, so there were plenty of trees and shadowy bushes from which a protective grizzly might strike. Of course, this part of the trail was still relatively near the main Yellowstone roadway, so the chances of the bear being anywhere near that part of the trail were pretty remote. Yet, since I was alone and still apparently very much going through puberty, it probably took me five minutes to walk 100 feet, so timid were my steps. But since no fiendish she-bear erupted from the fauna, I eventually grew more emboldened with my locomotion and quickly made great time walking the trail. In fact, so safe were my perceptions of the surrounding territory that I decided to take a quick jaunt over to one of the tiny, leapable creeks off to my left. I think I saw a duck and some fish. Maybe an orc, too.
I stopped to drink down a jug of Gatorade at one point. It was nice to just stand there with energy juice in one hand, a hunting knife (for protection, not muder) in the other, and watch the shadows of titanic cumulous clouds slowly, yet swiftly, float across the field like sleepwalking dinosaur ghosts.
I spotted some fellow hikers emerging from the curve that was my ultimate destination. They looked like professional trail walkers, so speedy were their strides. They were still a mile or so away, but I could tell they meant business. My suspicions were confirmed when, in what seemed like a scant amount of time given the distance that separated us, they practically appeared before me with steely determination wrought in their eyes. They had store-bought walking sticks. Yes; their hiking aids were purchased at a store, not foraged from the woods; not a gnarled, sturdy limb that had lain for decades under inches of forest litter. Not the type of hiking cane that every true-blue hiker acquires whilst hiking the mean trails of Anyforest, USA. I don't know why it bothered me, but it did. So I did what any highly opinionated loudmouth would do when confronted with similar feelings of distate: I gave them a friendly salutation and a convivial wave of the hand (making sure my hunting knife was discretely hid up the sleeve of my hiking jacket lest I startle the freeze dried Starbucks down the leg of their designer hiking slacks). The last thing I wanted to do was wildly wave a hunting knife at strangers as they came near me. Imagine the awkward scene that would have caused. Besides, my exposed genitalia frightened them just fine all on their own.
So I finally get to the point where the trail I'm on forks in the direction of the mysterious curving hillocks. If I were to instead follow the trail's natural course I would curve to my right and into a valley of brown, long grasses. I saw a coyote scampering across the field in that direction, along with telephone poles that utterly ruined the whole "I'm hiking into untamed wilderness" vibe I had going.
Whatever I felt, something made me decide to turn back. Maybe I was physically drained, I don't rightly recall. It's entirely possible that it was those damned telephone poles. At any rate, I turned back, hiked back to my car, got in, slid the key into the "ignition," turned said key, put the car into "drive," and drove merrily towards my next lily-livered adventure.
(For those of you keeping score, it's Paul - 0, Too Scared To Venture Into the Uknown - 2.)
Next, let's pretend I ate lunch at the Mammoth hotel. We can pretend with accuracy because it's really what happened, so choke on that swerve, suckers. It was a spacious, indoor eatery with windows aplenty. This was a very momentous day because it was the first time I ever ordered a cheese sandwich. Remember, I was a (relatively) newly christened vegetarian, so I was still learning the ins and outs of eating appropriately. The menu boasted precious few meatfree choices for my mouth to chomp upon, so I decided to test my luck with the cheese sandwich. My waitress, who was quite fetching in her bespeckled plainness, wore a name tag over her decidedly female breast that proclaimed her from Oregon. Knowing I would be traveling that way soon, and hoping she'd be all, "You're talking to me, cute boy? Wanna make out?" I asked if she knew a good place to go camping. She didn't, and she didn't, so consider that one a double strike out. Anyway, the cheese sandwich was a true delight (especially the pickle finger that came with it), so I was pleased as pie at having discovered a new food source.
With a belly full of bilious, mushy food, I proceeded to Mammoth's hottest, springiest attraction, Mammoth Hot Springs. It's basically an area dotted with all sorts of different hot spring formations. There are plateaus colored like the Ding-Ding Man's Bomb Pop spotted with pools of highly scalding liquids; walls of rounded, bubbled rock weeping similar liquids down its flank; cavern-entrance-like openings roiling with muddy water that have names like Belching Witch's Cauldron; and lots and lots of tittering Japanese she-tourists. Towards the latter half of my visit to the Hot Springs, my interest levels shifted from watching yet another suppurating hole in the ground to ogling a couple Asian girls who offered me a polite, cordial smile that I forthwith misinterpreted as, "Hey, mohawked commando, please follow us and linger near our bodies for the next ten minutes." It was great; both the hot springs and the pervy gawking. So huzzah on you!
Next I found myself taking a leisurely drive in a decidedly eastward direction towards Yellowstone's famously non-phallic petrified tree. But along the way I saw a chance for impromptu adventure! Blacktail Plateau Drive is a one-way, 8-mile drive that only the ruggedest of 4-wheel drive vehicles should attempt. Being the proud owner of a 4-wheel drive SUV for less than a month, I decided that I was the perfect candidate to "go off road" and "do the Dew." So I launched myself onto the trail.
It was mostly a very nice drive with only a few areas in need of some serious 4-Wheel drive domination. It was towards the end of the journey that I felt it necessary to stop and take my impromptu off-road excursion into on-foot territory. I parked at the base of a mighty hill that was bisected by a dry creek bed. The land rose upwards on either side of the ancient rill husk. My goal was to reach the top of the hill, following the creek corpse, to see what sort of view that elevated vantage point might offer.
I kept the creek bed relatively close to my right, walking along felled tree trunks as if they were toddler balance beams, or Mother Earth's many morning woods. About half way to the hill's apex I stopped to take a quick breather. As I leaned against a mossy oak, a slow movement ten feet in front of me demanded my sudden attention. Majestic moose antlers slowly swiveled in my general direction. It was then I most forcibly realized that I had come precariously close to stepping upon, or within feet of, a resting bull moose. My adrenaline shouted, "Do not fight; it is time for flight!" so I turned upon my heel like an imperious baron and proceeded to scrabbled back down the hill like a toddler run-falling down the balance beams he did so well in climbing, or like slimy semen dribbling down a dawn erection after a wake-me-up wank. But the lure of a fantastic photo ceased my frenzied flee about thirty yards into my retreat. Once I realized I was not being chased, and also realizing that I no longer had any sort of reliable photo opportunity, I calmly walked back down to my car so that I might mentally map out a route that would take me as close to the moose as possible without risking bodily death.
As I contemplated, I unsheathed my binoculars so as to espy the great beast from afar. During my nonmagical clairvoyance, a car happened to stop and its meaty passengers asked what it was I was watching. Boastfully (because I was proud of the fact that I alone located one of Yellowstone's most sought-after wildlife), I said, "A moose!" Squeals of glee were choked out between gasps of, "Oh my God, it's the only animal we haven't seen! Eeeee! Yay!" They - and by they I mean two foreign folks - got out and began their eager hunt to spy the moose. The man - I call shall him Bertrand - stealthily crept up the hill to snap a few close up photographs. (FYI, he is the man I will never be.) His wife - I shall call her Esmerelda - stayed with me and used her binoculars to view the creature. The two of us bonded (in my head only, mind you) as we discussed sundry topics. All the while more and more cars stopped to ask what all the hubbub was about. Pretty soon it was a regular Woodstock as literally hundreds of people teemed over the area in search of the Great Moose. And when I say "literally hundreds," I of course mean five or six carloads. Sorry for the sike out. (It should be noted that both of my trips to Yellowstone yielded a moose sighting [I did mention that I had previously visited the park when I was in sixth grade, right?] The first time was when my father, little sister and I were waiting for the car to be fixed at one of the in-park garages. We walked across the road and up onto a small hill that boasted one tree under which shady protection from the sun was well received. The landscape was a fairly barren plain of dead grass. Off in the distance my father spotted a moose grazing. So what does paterfamilias do? He lobs a huge rock at the thing, telling me and my sister that if it charges we should climb the tree. Queue the spooky foreshadowing music.)
Eventually the crowds dwindled to just me again. Having seen a small handful of manlier men than I creep up towards the moose's makeshift bed, I too decided it was high time for me to make my move. I traveled up along the opposite side of the creek bed, fairly confident that the moose would not jump ten feet down into the crevice, wriggle through thick foliage of dead tree branches, and leap up the opposite bank to gnash my bones with slavering fangs. I still gave the beast a wide berth, climbing the hill that rose from the creek bed and making my approach from that far-away ridge. The moose was still boringly resting on the ground. Well, I never! A resting bull does not an exciting picture make. So I threw some sticks at him (like father, like idiot son), hoping he'd at least stand up and walk around a bit. Considering my awful aim, and the fact that there were just recently other humans tramping near by, Monsieur Moose seemed very unconcerned and relaxed. Bastard!
Much to my delight, I soon spotted the answer to my photo-op prayers. Spanning both sides of the creek bed was a tree trunk. One of the tree-bridge's ends lay ten feet directly in front of the moose creature. I deemed the middle of the trunk to be the perfect spot to snap a few photos. I skidded down the hill, carefully butt-scooted my way onto the log, and found myself within 20 feet of the now-standing moose. And what glorious pictures they made! I was terrifically proud that I had come closer to the bull, both accidentally and purposefully, then any of the so-called "men" who were jockeying for position not 20 minutes earlier. Basically, I'm the guy every man wants to be, the brute hunk every woman desires, and the meddling asshole every moose detests.
Victory for me!
Speaking of the moose, he eventually grew bored with his whole "letting the human live" schtick and decided to walk up the hill away and out of my life forever. I never realized my goal of reaching the summit of that densely vegetated hill, but I think what happened instead was a spectacular consolation. I think I might jacked off as I watched the moose stroll away, but I can't remember.
The aforementioned petrified tree was my next stop. It was one of the very few attractions I distinctly remember visiting when I previously visited the Park with my family. It was rather enjoyable to come full circle, in a sense. I vaguely remember seeing one of the people from the moose sighting there - a woman - with whom I shared a convivial "hello" with.
On the drive back to homebase, I drove past a small, open glade that was cast aglow in dusk's blue-gray shine. I remembered the park ranger from the previous day saying that bears liked to come out at dawn and dusk, and it just so happened I was in the area she specifically pointed out as having had more than a few bear sightings. I pulled over (or possibly just drove by real slow) hoping beyond hope that I'd see a bear lumber out from the surrounding bushes and into the open meadow. And guess what! No such creature presented itself. So I continue on my weary way.
Back inside my tent, I detected a rather insidious odor wafting from my tennis shoes. Recall, if you will, my trek through the sulfuric landscape on the previous day, because apparently my blue running sneakers had absorbed the Park's entire molar mass of sulfur gas. They reeked tremendously, and I was so upset that I decided to go to bed. Oh, and some rude hooligans drove by my tent and shouted something rude at me. My pillow had theretofore never been so soaked with tears as it was that evening.
The End... or is it?
September 4th, 2001 - Tuesday
SUNRISE!
There were some very loud avian creatures outside my tent squawking up a Hellstorm of irritating, sleep-bashing noise that morning. They were an omen of sorts in that I would hear many noises on this day. My first order of business was to find indoor plumbing because my indoor plumbing was in dire need of an emergency drain. I gathered some supplies and drove eight miles to Mammoth. I made use of the ranger station's subterranean facilities in a manner befitting only the most well-fed of cheese eaters. I then floated over to the Mammoth hotel and weasled my way into a 2-dollar shower on the third floor. With my body cleansed, my privates talced, and my spirit prepped for further adventure, I drove to a trailhead I had spotted earlier the other day. This particular trail -- I shall call it Rugged-Manly Bravery Trail -- had posted near the parking area a blood-curdling warning: a mother grizzly bear and her two cubs had been spotted in the area recently and extreme danger should be used when walking the trail. Since I was no fraidy-cat-in-man's-clothing (remember timid Rutger from yesterday?), I decided to throw safety to the wind and march right down that trail to my heart's content. And if I should cross paths with Mama Bear and her fuzzy little brats, why I'd march right up to that ursine bully, jab a finger into her well-muscled shoulder, and say, "Listen here, ruffian. I'm an Apple Jacks Kid. And as such, I do what I want. Now get out of my way before I call down the thunder, because as it is, I'm bearly able to contain my rage. Oooh yeaaah!"
A quick description of the area I was to hike that morning, if I may. It was mostly a lush, hilly expanse of open field. To my right rose a steep jut of land packed with trees that ended about 500 yards away into a nice little rocky precipice overlooking the immediate landscape. To my left rolled a fairly flat area of land that was dotted with the occasional grazing bison and snaked with a few tiny creeks. Two or three miles ahead of me loomed what I instantly knighted as my ultimate destination. It was as if the land grew weary of her flat, uninspiring sameness and decided to grow some very large hillocks to offset the banality. From my vantage point it looked as though the trail slithered between these very verdant and very gigantic hills, possibly leading to unknown, naturery splendor. I imagined some untamed, King-Kongian forest lay nestled and hidden juuuust around that far-off curve. On the side of one of the hills was a small copse of trees amidst a curiously light green patch of grass. It looked very welcoming. I could imagine a young Caucasian couple with their two young children, all dressed in light white clothing and flowers in their hair, frolicking in the soft, soft grass, having a wonderful picnic, and then lying together for a blissful afternoon nap. That idyll would make for a great rest stop before I ventured into parts uknown. So I set off!
Not fifty steps into my hike and I was already scared stiff of running into that accursed bear and her double bear-tots. The trail hugged the base of the steep rise to my right, so there were plenty of trees and shadowy bushes from which a protective grizzly might strike. Of course, this part of the trail was still relatively near the main Yellowstone roadway, so the chances of the bear being anywhere near that part of the trail were pretty remote. Yet, since I was alone and still apparently very much going through puberty, it probably took me five minutes to walk 100 feet, so timid were my steps. But since no fiendish she-bear erupted from the fauna, I eventually grew more emboldened with my locomotion and quickly made great time walking the trail. In fact, so safe were my perceptions of the surrounding territory that I decided to take a quick jaunt over to one of the tiny, leapable creeks off to my left. I think I saw a duck and some fish. Maybe an orc, too.
I stopped to drink down a jug of Gatorade at one point. It was nice to just stand there with energy juice in one hand, a hunting knife (for protection, not muder) in the other, and watch the shadows of titanic cumulous clouds slowly, yet swiftly, float across the field like sleepwalking dinosaur ghosts.
I spotted some fellow hikers emerging from the curve that was my ultimate destination. They looked like professional trail walkers, so speedy were their strides. They were still a mile or so away, but I could tell they meant business. My suspicions were confirmed when, in what seemed like a scant amount of time given the distance that separated us, they practically appeared before me with steely determination wrought in their eyes. They had store-bought walking sticks. Yes; their hiking aids were purchased at a store, not foraged from the woods; not a gnarled, sturdy limb that had lain for decades under inches of forest litter. Not the type of hiking cane that every true-blue hiker acquires whilst hiking the mean trails of Anyforest, USA. I don't know why it bothered me, but it did. So I did what any highly opinionated loudmouth would do when confronted with similar feelings of distate: I gave them a friendly salutation and a convivial wave of the hand (making sure my hunting knife was discretely hid up the sleeve of my hiking jacket lest I startle the freeze dried Starbucks down the leg of their designer hiking slacks). The last thing I wanted to do was wildly wave a hunting knife at strangers as they came near me. Imagine the awkward scene that would have caused. Besides, my exposed genitalia frightened them just fine all on their own.
So I finally get to the point where the trail I'm on forks in the direction of the mysterious curving hillocks. If I were to instead follow the trail's natural course I would curve to my right and into a valley of brown, long grasses. I saw a coyote scampering across the field in that direction, along with telephone poles that utterly ruined the whole "I'm hiking into untamed wilderness" vibe I had going.
Whatever I felt, something made me decide to turn back. Maybe I was physically drained, I don't rightly recall. It's entirely possible that it was those damned telephone poles. At any rate, I turned back, hiked back to my car, got in, slid the key into the "ignition," turned said key, put the car into "drive," and drove merrily towards my next lily-livered adventure.
(For those of you keeping score, it's Paul - 0, Too Scared To Venture Into the Uknown - 2.)
Next, let's pretend I ate lunch at the Mammoth hotel. We can pretend with accuracy because it's really what happened, so choke on that swerve, suckers. It was a spacious, indoor eatery with windows aplenty. This was a very momentous day because it was the first time I ever ordered a cheese sandwich. Remember, I was a (relatively) newly christened vegetarian, so I was still learning the ins and outs of eating appropriately. The menu boasted precious few meatfree choices for my mouth to chomp upon, so I decided to test my luck with the cheese sandwich. My waitress, who was quite fetching in her bespeckled plainness, wore a name tag over her decidedly female breast that proclaimed her from Oregon. Knowing I would be traveling that way soon, and hoping she'd be all, "You're talking to me, cute boy? Wanna make out?" I asked if she knew a good place to go camping. She didn't, and she didn't, so consider that one a double strike out. Anyway, the cheese sandwich was a true delight (especially the pickle finger that came with it), so I was pleased as pie at having discovered a new food source.
With a belly full of bilious, mushy food, I proceeded to Mammoth's hottest, springiest attraction, Mammoth Hot Springs. It's basically an area dotted with all sorts of different hot spring formations. There are plateaus colored like the Ding-Ding Man's Bomb Pop spotted with pools of highly scalding liquids; walls of rounded, bubbled rock weeping similar liquids down its flank; cavern-entrance-like openings roiling with muddy water that have names like Belching Witch's Cauldron; and lots and lots of tittering Japanese she-tourists. Towards the latter half of my visit to the Hot Springs, my interest levels shifted from watching yet another suppurating hole in the ground to ogling a couple Asian girls who offered me a polite, cordial smile that I forthwith misinterpreted as, "Hey, mohawked commando, please follow us and linger near our bodies for the next ten minutes." It was great; both the hot springs and the pervy gawking. So huzzah on you!
Next I found myself taking a leisurely drive in a decidedly eastward direction towards Yellowstone's famously non-phallic petrified tree. But along the way I saw a chance for impromptu adventure! Blacktail Plateau Drive is a one-way, 8-mile drive that only the ruggedest of 4-wheel drive vehicles should attempt. Being the proud owner of a 4-wheel drive SUV for less than a month, I decided that I was the perfect candidate to "go off road" and "do the Dew." So I launched myself onto the trail.
It was mostly a very nice drive with only a few areas in need of some serious 4-Wheel drive domination. It was towards the end of the journey that I felt it necessary to stop and take my impromptu off-road excursion into on-foot territory. I parked at the base of a mighty hill that was bisected by a dry creek bed. The land rose upwards on either side of the ancient rill husk. My goal was to reach the top of the hill, following the creek corpse, to see what sort of view that elevated vantage point might offer.
I kept the creek bed relatively close to my right, walking along felled tree trunks as if they were toddler balance beams, or Mother Earth's many morning woods. About half way to the hill's apex I stopped to take a quick breather. As I leaned against a mossy oak, a slow movement ten feet in front of me demanded my sudden attention. Majestic moose antlers slowly swiveled in my general direction. It was then I most forcibly realized that I had come precariously close to stepping upon, or within feet of, a resting bull moose. My adrenaline shouted, "Do not fight; it is time for flight!" so I turned upon my heel like an imperious baron and proceeded to scrabbled back down the hill like a toddler run-falling down the balance beams he did so well in climbing, or like slimy semen dribbling down a dawn erection after a wake-me-up wank. But the lure of a fantastic photo ceased my frenzied flee about thirty yards into my retreat. Once I realized I was not being chased, and also realizing that I no longer had any sort of reliable photo opportunity, I calmly walked back down to my car so that I might mentally map out a route that would take me as close to the moose as possible without risking bodily death.
As I contemplated, I unsheathed my binoculars so as to espy the great beast from afar. During my nonmagical clairvoyance, a car happened to stop and its meaty passengers asked what it was I was watching. Boastfully (because I was proud of the fact that I alone located one of Yellowstone's most sought-after wildlife), I said, "A moose!" Squeals of glee were choked out between gasps of, "Oh my God, it's the only animal we haven't seen! Eeeee! Yay!" They - and by they I mean two foreign folks - got out and began their eager hunt to spy the moose. The man - I call shall him Bertrand - stealthily crept up the hill to snap a few close up photographs. (FYI, he is the man I will never be.) His wife - I shall call her Esmerelda - stayed with me and used her binoculars to view the creature. The two of us bonded (in my head only, mind you) as we discussed sundry topics. All the while more and more cars stopped to ask what all the hubbub was about. Pretty soon it was a regular Woodstock as literally hundreds of people teemed over the area in search of the Great Moose. And when I say "literally hundreds," I of course mean five or six carloads. Sorry for the sike out. (It should be noted that both of my trips to Yellowstone yielded a moose sighting [I did mention that I had previously visited the park when I was in sixth grade, right?] The first time was when my father, little sister and I were waiting for the car to be fixed at one of the in-park garages. We walked across the road and up onto a small hill that boasted one tree under which shady protection from the sun was well received. The landscape was a fairly barren plain of dead grass. Off in the distance my father spotted a moose grazing. So what does paterfamilias do? He lobs a huge rock at the thing, telling me and my sister that if it charges we should climb the tree. Queue the spooky foreshadowing music.)
Eventually the crowds dwindled to just me again. Having seen a small handful of manlier men than I creep up towards the moose's makeshift bed, I too decided it was high time for me to make my move. I traveled up along the opposite side of the creek bed, fairly confident that the moose would not jump ten feet down into the crevice, wriggle through thick foliage of dead tree branches, and leap up the opposite bank to gnash my bones with slavering fangs. I still gave the beast a wide berth, climbing the hill that rose from the creek bed and making my approach from that far-away ridge. The moose was still boringly resting on the ground. Well, I never! A resting bull does not an exciting picture make. So I threw some sticks at him (like father, like idiot son), hoping he'd at least stand up and walk around a bit. Considering my awful aim, and the fact that there were just recently other humans tramping near by, Monsieur Moose seemed very unconcerned and relaxed. Bastard!
Much to my delight, I soon spotted the answer to my photo-op prayers. Spanning both sides of the creek bed was a tree trunk. One of the tree-bridge's ends lay ten feet directly in front of the moose creature. I deemed the middle of the trunk to be the perfect spot to snap a few photos. I skidded down the hill, carefully butt-scooted my way onto the log, and found myself within 20 feet of the now-standing moose. And what glorious pictures they made! I was terrifically proud that I had come closer to the bull, both accidentally and purposefully, then any of the so-called "men" who were jockeying for position not 20 minutes earlier. Basically, I'm the guy every man wants to be, the brute hunk every woman desires, and the meddling asshole every moose detests.
Victory for me!
Speaking of the moose, he eventually grew bored with his whole "letting the human live" schtick and decided to walk up the hill away and out of my life forever. I never realized my goal of reaching the summit of that densely vegetated hill, but I think what happened instead was a spectacular consolation. I think I might jacked off as I watched the moose stroll away, but I can't remember.
The aforementioned petrified tree was my next stop. It was one of the very few attractions I distinctly remember visiting when I previously visited the Park with my family. It was rather enjoyable to come full circle, in a sense. I vaguely remember seeing one of the people from the moose sighting there - a woman - with whom I shared a convivial "hello" with.
On the drive back to homebase, I drove past a small, open glade that was cast aglow in dusk's blue-gray shine. I remembered the park ranger from the previous day saying that bears liked to come out at dawn and dusk, and it just so happened I was in the area she specifically pointed out as having had more than a few bear sightings. I pulled over (or possibly just drove by real slow) hoping beyond hope that I'd see a bear lumber out from the surrounding bushes and into the open meadow. And guess what! No such creature presented itself. So I continue on my weary way.
Back inside my tent, I detected a rather insidious odor wafting from my tennis shoes. Recall, if you will, my trek through the sulfuric landscape on the previous day, because apparently my blue running sneakers had absorbed the Park's entire molar mass of sulfur gas. They reeked tremendously, and I was so upset that I decided to go to bed. Oh, and some rude hooligans drove by my tent and shouted something rude at me. My pillow had theretofore never been so soaked with tears as it was that evening.
The End... or is it?