The Trip to Yellowstone

"On your first card try to think of a specific person, place or event that's special to you. I'm leaving your first writing assignment wide-open." So said the writing instructor. Well, after an entire year of trying to get my own students to write, the last thing I want to do is write. I'd like to be out in the wide-open instead of sitting inside writing about it. Wide-open outdoors, that is. My mind tries to click into gear as I hear a cohort murmur, "Just the bare facts." Click! I started to write "Yellowstone Park" as memories rushed in. Or is that "Fools rush in"?
In describing the beauty of the park, incidents kept crowding in and they were not serene, soul-satisfying ones, but, oddly, the times when itineraries went awry, times were tough, plans didn't "pan out," "the best-laid schemes gang aft agley." I found myself chuckling now as I chuckled then, though, admittedly, not as freely then and realized something about myself: missteps are more memorable. The beauty and majesty of Yellowstone only slightly outweighs the misadventures of my first trip there.
Yellowstone Park can be reached from four main entrances. The east has the flattest terrain while the north is the most beautiful. The road winds through the Big Horn Mountains and is one of the most scenic roads in the United States. After ascending to heights of 13,000 feet, it passes numerous lakes and rushing waterfalls, passes the Red Lodge Skiing area, and delivers the traveller to the front door of a quaint trading-post town. Meadows covered in yellow, purple, pink, and white wildflowers border lakes of dark blue and invite meditation. Grass covered fields are dotted with coyotes, elk and deer while streams sport an absurd looking animal with what appears to be a coat rack on his head. Startled by the sound of the motor, the moose looks up as if to comment, "I know it looks ridiculous, but it comes in so handy in improving posture." Of course, the park is noted for bears, especially Ursus horribilis, or grizzly.
As my husband, his parents and our two-year old son and I drove through the north entrance, Memaw kept spotting bears motor, the moose looks up as if to comment, "I know it looks ridiculous, but it comes in so handy in improving posture." Of course, the park is noted for bears, especially Ursus horribilis, or grizzly.

As my husband, his parents and our two-year old son and I drove through the north entrance, Memaw kept spotting bears every few miles. "Oh, there's another one behind the tree." The first seven or eight times our heads swivelled in unison only to see where a tree had been cut.
"Memaw, there's no bears over there," my husband said.
"What?" she replied.
"He said there's no bears over there." Grandfather reiterated.
Memaw was hard-of-hearing and this dialogue set the tone for the entire trip. While walking on slippery, wooden walkways built over the mud pot area, my husband and Grandfather took one route while Memaw, my son and I took another. When we merged on the mist-whitened path, my husband and I were stifling laughter. Grandfather had slipped on wet boards and performed a complete backward flip. So had Memaw.
Thankfully, they were not injured.
The pattern that started with Memaw seeing a bear behind every tree continued. The first night we camped at Fishing Creek and were awakened by the sounds of coolers being shaken and bare feet pounding the ground running. Next, we heard a low guttural grunting circling our tent. My husband looked out the front flap of our tent and spoke the oft-repeated words, "It's a bear!" Are hallucinations inherited?
"Are you sure?" I squeaked.
"Yes, it's a bear." Those words again.
"What's he doing?"
"Nothing. He's just standing in front of our tent looking at our picnic table."
"Oh, my Gosh. Did we cover the food? Maybe he'll leave and go somewhere else where there's food." I offered.
"There's food here. He's eating something."
"Oh, my gosh. We ate cookies in the tent!"
"Ssh. Don't wake the baby," he warned.
"What?" This from Memaw.
"He said don't wake the baby," Grandfather intoned.
"He's going to find those crumbs we brushed out last night and follow them in here."
"Bonnie, just calm down." His voice assumed male dominance.
Pleas for a knife to cut another exit produced no result and four terrified people sat and waited for the bear to leave the picnic so we could make it to the safety of our car. Steel is more secure than canvas. Finally, he wandered off and we grabbed the baby and dashed to the car. As we waited for dawn, it began to snow. Huge, white flakes floating downward soon cascaded over everything--car, tent, picnic table. We grew colder and periodically turned on the car engine and heater to warm ourselves and clear the windshield. At last,(good song title?) light began to filter into the car and we opened doors to look out on a white paradise. Trees were laden with clumps of snow, the tent sagged to the ground and every article on the table was blanketed and camouflaged.
We drove to a local store/restaurant to warm up and eat breakfast. Music was playing over loudspeakers--Christmas music! When we checked out, the cashier put our purchases in bags with Santa's face.
"What's going on? Why the music?" I asked the girl.
"Oh, we always celebrate Christmas in August. The weather gets so bad the park closes to the public at the end of the month. Merry Christmas."
This tone of anguished hilarity continued with a broken radio antenna and grand-finaled with the car's radiator bubbling over on the way up a mountain and having to be pulled down what we had cringed at on the way up at breakneck sped by a wrecker in the pouring rain.While stranded at the exact apex of the mountain , an old rattletrap of a car sputtered up and an old man peered at us. After querying us on the cause of our trouble, he offered this condemnation of our new Pontiac: "Why, just the other day I pushed one car and pulled another up this here mountain."
I looked at him trying not to hiss in his face.
"What did he say?" asked Memaw.
"Never mind," we chorused.