Day 9: Jackson Hole & Yellowstone

Well let's see, it's been about a year since an update; shame, shame. After a brief rumination, I remember we ended the previous post taking the road less traveled, i.e. the longer, Northern route through the Southeastern part of Yellowstone down into Jackson. If I hadn't emphasized enough, the Mountain West, beginning around central Wyoming, has what I consider a preternatural beauty unmatched in any other section of the nation. While I have had the good fortune of visiting nearly every region of the country, the Mountain West can only be described by its grand scale, endless skies, and the feeling one gets of being utterly alone and minuscule, enveloped by nature. Before hitting the Tetons in Western Wyoming, Yellowstone provides all of the necessary catalysts for feeling tiny, inconsequential, and most importantly, humbled by what feels like the last vestiges of a wild, ancient land. It was a no brainer purchasing the the annual National Park Pass--for Yellowstone alone--as we had about ten National Parks to explore in the near future with Yellowstone being the unanimous winner in terms of topographical and ecological diversity. Despite the unprecedented volume of tourism in Yellowstone during the summer months, our short drive through the park on this particular day was magically devoid of human contact, perhaps due to the fact that we entered and left during the extended twilight hours when many daytrippers have already exited for the night. 

Before even entering the park, one can ascertain the massive scale of Yellowstone by simply soaking up the the skeletal remains of the various forest fires of yore which, in many ways, actually contribute to the long-term vitality of the mountainous ecosystem. Despite the obvious destruction in the picture below, the fires and the ensuing charred debris actually reinvigorate the land and the (un)natural cycle of tree death/fecund rebirth which would be nearly impossible without the immolation of wood which has outlasted its use. Incredulous? I'd be too were it not for the sagacious wisdom of the park rangers. 

Within minutes of driving past the vast terrain of downed trees and entering the Eastern side of the park, the topography rapidly transitions from rolling mountains to the lush meadows and fertile hills which surround the pristine Yellowstone Lake.  The pictures--despite being prettay, prettay good--really can't do the park justice. It's remarkable more people don't inadvertently drive right into the drink while snapping pictures because Yellowstone Lake is unparalleled in color, serenity, and its ability to be photographed against an otherworldly, craggedy-peaked backdrop. Whether it's the lake from behind the gnarled tentacles of the marsh trees, the rocky outcroppings of the Maine-like coastline or the sharp precipices of the Tetons, Yellowstone Lake is a visual, visceral showstopper. 

Necessary, token view-ruining selfie.

Continue with ethereal imagery and extended metaphor of potent reaction to leaving park.

 25MPG in the hemi coming down this sexy piece of tar.

The lady that got away but always tickles my fancy, Ms. Teton.

Conclusion: made it back to Papa Littauer, the sweet nugget of Jackson cooked up in a masterful quad-percolated, multi chamber bong piece and the loving, macro embrace of white folks in plaid button downs, mustaches and PBR.

Day 8: Spearfish, SD to Jackson Hole, WY

Every new day of the road trip marked an exceedingly powerful and visceral euphoria, for there is truly nothing like experiencing the unknown and unfamiliar day in and day out. I don't like to dig into philosophy or psychology--two "sciences" which I am mostly unfamiliar with, but in certain circumstances it seems appropriate to venture down the path of ruminations which, though relating to sciences of the brain, are wholly personal. When this happens, I must indulge in my learned passion for Faulker-esque stream-of-consciousness. It may be redundant at this point, but as I ventured Westward, every new state provided the context for my favorite theme of travel--freedom. On this particular morning, waking up early in the midst of a crisp mountain sunrise was exhilarating, and despite such little time exploring the natural wonders of Spearfish, I knew that even greater adventures lay ahead. For one, we were driving from Spearfish, SD to Jackson Hole, Wyoming--undoubtedly my favorite town in the entire country. Although Wyoming is the least populous state in the country (which is shocking in of itself), the state is massive and we had a five hundred mile drive ahead of us across the first truly Western terrain of our trip. After a phenomenal feast at a local diner--one of those authentic, midwestern, 5 dollar greasy spoon diners right out of the 1950s--we hopped back on our favorite cross country highway--I-90. Within mere miles, the dynamic scenery of the Western states had created a dichotomy of colors and terrain--lush green forests to arid reddish-brown plains--which would periodically pop up every 100 miles or so. To say the least, the drive was beautiful and reminded me of the country's vast diversity--a fact one can only truly absorb when traveling via car. After leaving Spearfish and heading west, the majority of Wyoming from the Northeast tip through the central part of the state visually reflects the transition from the flat grasslands of the Great Plains to the harsh, often red, and topographically diverse expanse of the Mountain West. Within minutes, the scenery magically warped from grassy flatlands with mile-long sprinkler systems blasting away in the hot sun to expansive vistas of copper-tinted mountains overlooking distant rocky outcroppings. The sensory overload was both enchanting and exhilarating; even a staunch city-kid or a person who detests driving would have to agree that this was a blissful cruise.

Wyoming is truly a frontiersman state as vast plots of untouched land intermix with horses, cowboys, and saloons. Other than Devil's Tower in the Northeast part of the state, there are not many cultural attractions as the various "cities" across the state are minuscule, most of which are a shell of their former selves and literally appear to be Ghost towns. At one point during the drive, we cruised through the smallest town in the country, population 1--talk about a lonely existence. Soon after this, in the middle of a vast, arid plain, a huge field of decommissioned aircraft appeared in the distance. The "Museum of Flight and Aerial Firefighting" in Greybull, WY was not a museum in any sense of the word, but rather a military plane graveyard set in the foreground of a range of rolling, golden hills and snarled with barbed-wire protecting these once-glorious symbols of American military might. The "museum's" existence in this desolate and uninhabited section of northern Wyoming was an enigma as the nearest air force base was hundreds of miles east. Regardless, the scene was pretty incredible and I imagine it was a nice resting place for these old war horses:

I chose the longer, northern route to Jackson Hole because it meanders through some cool old ghost towns before entering the Eastern border of Yellowstone before turning sharply south out of the park and eventually into Jackson. I couldn't have been more excited as we cruised by Yellowstone airport and saw the sign pointing towards the park; despite spending many winter days in Jackson Hole, I had never had the opportunity to indulge in the plethora of natural wonders which encapsulates America's most popular National Park. In retrospect perhaps the best decision I made during the trip was to purchase an annual National Park pass which provides access to every park in the country for a mere $150 despite being having no idea that I would eventually cruise around nearly ten of them.

Day 7: Rapid City-->Black Hills--> Spearfish, SD

As explained earlier, Fran and I were very excited to fulfill our nerdy tourist needs in South Dakota after the previous night's fiasco. Rapid City is right to the east of the Black Hills National Forest, which includes an abundance of historical spots like Custer State Park named after the notorious General Custer who decided to get himself and all his men slaughtered by the legendary Indian chief Crazy Horse (whose grand, yet unfinished stone sculpture memorial lies within Custer's Park.) Crazy Horse's memorial, carved into the mountainside of the Black Hills, is quite remarkable, standing at over 500 feet in height, despite its unfinished condition. Despite the weak shots, you can get a sense of how massive the sculpture is:

Our drive from Rapid City to Spearfish--if it had been linear-- was only a mere 43 miles, yet we took the most roundabout path in existence in order to hit every site as you can see in this half-loaded map:

The day before, during our nighttime drive through the casual tornado, we had passed through Badlands National Park--which is a day trip in itself-- so we spent this day completely in the midst of the Black Hills. For fellow adventurers, a few other points of interest include the the Wind Cave National Park and Jewel Cave National Monument--both of which we merely glanced at due to the obnoxious crowds and exorbitant fees to simply walk around. I had mixed emotions by the time the famous mugs of Mt. Rushmore came into view, for I had expected South Dakota's local wonders to feel more...well, natural.  The issue is that just like with any other tourist attraction, the primary goal of the owner is to aggressively monetize the attraction. Every one of these famous spots in the Black Hills had been monetized to oblivion, and it literally cost money to breath in the air of the parking lots surrounding these sites. Mt. Rushmore was no different; so, after a quick loop of the parking lot with a few pauses for pictures and after being shooed out by both cops and angry masses of RVs trying to get prime spots, we left, feeling somewhat miffed at the experience. Nonetheless we got some great shots and crossed it off the "before I die" list:

 

 In retrospect, hands down the most exciting part of the morning was the outrageous roads which ascended and descended the 3,000 foot hills in treacherous fashion. We (I) had an absolute blast cruising along the switchbacks as we climbed up and down, through caves cut in the walls of the hills and over tiny bridges. The views and general scenery were absolutely phenomenal, and I daydreamed about cruising around on an old Harley as we were surrounded by hundreds of Bikers on a perfect summer morning.

 

As we finally descended out of the the hills, slowly headed northwest on our way to Spearfish, I noticed that my normally loquacious driving partner was dead silent and sickly looking. I had forgotten that the poor girl got carsick simply sitting in stop and go traffic, so this nonstop rollercoaster of switchbacks must have been a nightmare. Luckily Fran maintained her composure and I enjoyed the quiet time to absorb the incredible, ever-changing scenery. A spooky site caught my attention as we continued downward: 

As far as the eye could see and on both sides of the mountain, the entire tree population had been uprooted and completely decimated. Thousands of acres of forest had been turned into frail toothpicks by what appeared to be a large forest fire. I would learn later in the day that this phenomenon was not only natural, but desirable in order to recycle dead wood and replenish the soil...who woulda thunk??? Within minutes, the landscape had drastically transformed from charred death to gorgeous, crystal-clear lakes protected by jagged, red-tinted peaks, some even maintaining snow that had resisted the mid-summer runoff.

 

I realized, for about the fifth time, that I was in the West, and the thought absolutely floored me--for there is truly nothing like the expansive and dynamic vistas of every single state west of the Great Plains. During a brief spell of flat highway similar to the 500 mile cruise of the day prior (which started to look very similar to the flat, scorched earth of eastern Wyoming) we cruised through the funky little cowboy town of Custer in the heart of the the Black Hills

Again, as you can see, the Harley's outnumbered the cars by about a 10:1 ratio which I simply equated to the perfect riding conditions and the biker-heavy population of the state. As we left Custer, we were immediately reintroduced to the mainly mountainous conditions of the massive National Park. I caught this gem, which actually got me thinking, on the outskirts of Custer:

hmmmm, I wonder what they think of planned parenthood? Obamacare? Liberals? Tax?

Anywhooo, as we cruised North towards Spearfish the pristine blue sky of the morning had transitioned into a visually pleasant contrast of pure blue and the preternatural, seemingly fake white of a puffy cloud which reminded me of the region's propensity for rapidly developing storm cells. This massive, low-hanging and deceivingly innocent looking puffer was almost palpable and required documenting:

Out of the National Park we cruised through Lead, an old mining town on an extremely high incline--similar to the hills of San Francisco, yet at the same time, not at all similar? Lead evoked images of the quintessential Western town with its small wooden frame buildings, saloons, and local stores. The town marked the fringe of the heavily wooded mountains of Western South Dakota, and, as I've said probably five times (prematurely) symbolized the gateway to the immeasurably massive and dry, iron-tinted landscape of Western third of the country. 

Despite being outside of the green area on googlemaps which I associate with National Parks and wild terrain, our destination for the night, Spearfish SD, was certainly not flat, nor barren, nor un-picturesque . Our abode for the night, the Spearfish Lodge, was absolutely gorgeous. The lodge lay in the valley of the Western Black Hills and was surrounded by hills, forest, lakes and an abundance of wildlife. As we rolled in, I finally learned why we had been traveling with thousands of motorcycles for the entirety of our time in South Dakota. My naivety brought wonderment to the front desk attendant, for it seemed everyone except Fran and I knew that Sturgis, the infamous annual motorcycle rally which brought 500,000 enthusiasts from around the world, to the surrounding towns. Each and every lodge, hotel, motel, and trailer park in the vicinity was packed to the brim with massive bearded men, their female companions, and Harleys of all shapes and sizes. We were truly foreigners in the land of Sturgis, yet I thoroughly enjoyed mingling amongst these wild modern day cowboys. Instead of attempting to ask lame questions and make my motorcycle ignorance more obvious, Fran and I took the opportunity to hike around the area; we were not disappointed. Along with some epic natural wonders, we stumbled upon the filming area for the equally-epic film site of "Dances with Wolves:"

After an excellent hike we settled into the lodge and enjoyed a phenomenal dinner of local game meat. I was so pleased with the meal that I was compelled to commemorate our time in South Dakota with a realist drawing of the State's license plate:

Despite our distended stomachs, we decided a dip in the outdoor hottub under the preternatural star-scape of a perfectly clear night. We ended up enjoying some champagne with a hysterical couple from Kansas City who both gave us a detailed itinerary for our time in the city about three weeks later and helped clarify the stark differences between riders of Harleys and BMW bikes (to sum it up, they begrudgingly follow the adage of separate but equal despite their pointed opinions of each other.)

Finally, I fell into a deep slumber with the purrrrrr of Harley engines coloring my dreams.