STONEFACED

We left Osea and Emily and motored east for the last leg of our trip in that direction.  Strange things began to happen.  First the engine died and we were stopped dead in the road.  Then a roadside sign began to spin around rapidly.  The sun disappeared.  A bright light illuminated the rig from above, and strange musical notes began to repeat, over and over, and a gigantic rumbling filled the air.  Yikes, we were having a proximate face-to-face of the tertiary persuasion.

Well, that explained most of it.  The rumbling source was revealed a little further on.

You encounter the most bizarre things on the road.  And Devil’s Tower has to rank right up there.  Formed by erosion of the softer materials, leaving the harder rock, it reminded us most of Devil’s Postpile near Mammoth, CA.  The vertical columns are really neat, and change colors depending upon the sun and angle.  Spielberg made a good choice of venues.  I’d like to fatten this entry up with a few more factoids about the place, but I’m writing this about 3 weeks after the fact, and 6,000 miles away from my pamphlets and maps.  Sorry, the pics will have to do the talking.  Although this mountain is sacred to the local tribes, one still is able to climb it with permits.  A group was just starting up as we arrived, and clearly they weren’t going to make it to the top today.  As the wind was rising and the temps dropping, I didn’t envy them this night on the rock.

We got here fairly late in the afternoon, so we opted to spend the night nearby rather than try to push on to the Black Hills.  We ended up in the tiny town of Sundance, where SR14 and I-90 meet.  Nothing much there, but it was quiet and a good park to stay in.  We took off the next morning for our final destination of the trip, Mount Rushmore and its surrounds.  The town of Custer seemed to be the best central location for getting around on the scoot to the various attractions, so we headed there.  It’s a one-street town, easy to walk around.  They celebrate the local bison herds that dot the area by placing fiberglass buffs all around the town, painted by various local artists.  They look pretty neat.

We got settled into the campground, which was located about a mile out of town, down a back road, offloaded the scoot and took off for Rushmore.  We took the scenic route (well, they all are, but this was pretty good) along the Iron Mountain road.  Scoot heaven.  Twists, turns, and pretzel portions where the road doubled back under itself.  Nice!  This is the preferred route because it goes through three tunnels hewn out of the rock, and through each of them you get a framed view of Rushmore in the distance.  Well, at least with the naked eye.  I couldn’t get a shot that showed it clearly, so use your imagination.

You can sorta make out Washington’s mug on the left.  It’s smaller than you think in this pic.  His head is just below the ridge line.  This road is absolutely verboten to RV’s, trucks, etc.  The tunnels are neither wide nor tall enough.  From the marks at the entry edges, it would appear that some clown (s ) didn’t get the word.  We got to the park and found that this was the one national monument in the country where the geezer pass didn’t get us in free.  The monument technically didn’t cost anything, but parking did.  It’s a private concession that paid for the parking lots to be built and maintained.  Oh, well.  We’ll be outsourcing Congress before we know it.  Anyway, the monument is pretty impressive, and has a good museum/interpretive center.  Here’s the five great heads:

Okay, okay, just four.

As we were leaving, the exit road sort of wound around the monument’s left side and we got an unexpected profile.

As we rode back to Custer, we passed the entrance road to the Crazy Horse monument and debated going in.  We could see it from the road, and it wasn’t all that impressive.  It’s about 90% incomplete, and since the guy whose idea it was, and who did most of the original work, is long dead, it seems his family is just milking the tourist trade for something that will never be finished.  Maybe that’s a bit unfair, but we didn’t bother going in.  Back at the RV, we had just collapsed on the couches when our neighbor returned with his tow vehicle.

Well, this IS the wild west.

All that hard scooting wore us out, so it was time to sit back with a game on the tube, emails on the laptop, Loni’s wonderful chicken risotto and . . . a PIE from the local bakery.  Life IS good.

The next day we lit out for the Wind Cave National Park.  This is one of the oldest in the park system, and was discovered in 1881 by a cowpoke who happened to hear wind wooshing out of a hole in the ground, barely big enough for a man to crawl into.  It seems that the wind is a function of the air in the cave seeking to equalize pressure with the air above ground.  American Indian stories dating back centuries spoke of a "hole that breathes cool air." The exploration of Wind Cave began. In 1903 Wind Cave became the first cave anywhere in the world to be designated a national park. Cave explorers are still finding new rooms and passages, and currently it is ranked the fifth longest cave in the world.  We only got to go into about a half mile of it, but it was pretty good stuff.  No, Loni, I think it’s this way.

It’s a “dry” cave, with minimal water seepage, and is best known as holding 95% of the known “box” formations, which are formed when the softer inner materials erode away, leaving the harder “walls” behind.

We’ve been in a number of caves around the country, but haven’t ever seen formations like these.  They’re not as spectacular as stalagmites/tites, but pretty interesting nonetheless.

As it was the major football (World style) weekend of the year (Manchester United v. Chelsea), we decided to just vegetate our last day here in the rig.  We have a lovely spot to ourselves, and all the comforts of home.  Just what RVing should be!

Like all of our trips, this has been a great one.  I got to see parts of the country I’ve never been to, and Loni got to re-live some favorite childhood memories of her family vacations.  Now for the long slog back home.  Through endless promos for Little America, the world’s biggest truck stop in the middle of nowhere, past the weird otherworldliness of the Bonneville Salt Flats, across the endless tracks of central Nevada, punctuated by truth-in-advertising, and then to a brief get-together with LazyDaze friends near Tom’s Place in the Eastern Sierras.

After a couple of days with the gang, we did our farewells and headed south along 395, going down the long, steep Sherwin Grade descending into Bishop and the Owens Valley.  This is a sight we could never tire of.

Only to be confounded by a sight we never expected to see.  After a month on the road in the high country, with only one rainfall during a single night, we never expected to get a wet greeting back to California!  But it was beautiful, and a fine end to our trip.

OSEA and EMILY, HOSTS EXTRAORDINAIRES

Our destination on this leg was the small town on the far side of the Sawtooths, Sheridan, Wyoming.  There’s not much there to attract the average tourist, but we were after a couple of special items:  Osea and Emily.

I first met Osea when we were freshman at Stanford, occupying the same dorm floor in Trancos House, drinking (and then cutting with water for resale) RonRico 151 (as in proof) rum.  Oh, the hangovers!  Later, when we were both juniors, we were roommates at Stanford’s France campus at Tours for six months.  The campus consisted of a former hotel that had been modified somewhat as a dorm and classrooms setup.  Being French, each room of course had a bidet, a foreign concept to we less-than-savoir-faire American students.  What the rooms did not have were ensuite bathrooms.  Osea rectified that oversight: the bidet became a urinal.  Fast forward 40-odd years, during which we had no contact, me being in California the whole time, and Osea lost in the wilds of darkest Wyoming, teaching English to college students.  Osea was coming to Los Angeles for a few days, and we got together for dinner at the house.  We looked at slides of our days in France and generally reminisced.  But Emily had not come along on that trip, so we were yet to meet her.  I think we spent nearly half of our total time there around this table, either eating with gusto or gabbing endlessly.  I swear we talked nonstop for two days, and still had words left over.

Osea and Em live in a small house that they’ve added to and remodeled over the many years there.  It is a gem.  I was particularly impressed with Osea’s carpenter skills evidenced in the huge back porch he designed and built himself.  Yikes.  I can’t even assemble a decent bookcase.

There are steps that meet and lead off both the right back and right side.  Very nifty.  Their lot is a couple of hundred feet deep, with plenty of room for Albatross to hide at the very back.  We were even provided with an electrical hookup!  Ah, but the real hosting took place in the kitchen.  In a word, we ate like pigs.  Happy pigs.  Osea does most of the manning of the stove, except for Em’s homemade breads.  And what a cool stove it is.  I love it.

Osea made “garage chicken” the first night, so named because, well, he cooks it in the garage so that it doesn’t smoke up the house.  Heck, he could cook it on his engine manifold for all I care.  It was good!  The next night was his famous 7-layered casserole, this time whipped up inside.  The chef gets to eat while he works.

Way too much food.  W-A-Y too much food!

On the right is breakfast the next morning.  Em’s homemade bread topped by poached eggs, backed by sausage patties.  Oh, yeah, there’s a fruit salad hiding out of the picture.  I don’t think Loni and I ate for the next two days after leaving Sheridan.  Except to have the homemade pumpkin bread that Em gave us before we left.  Yum.

Sheridan may be a small town in the middle of nowhere, but it is the beneficiary of some sort of trust fund grants that allow it to do things not available to the rest of the cash-strapped cities in this country.  Like nifty new public buildings and college facilities, and public art.  We thought these were very cool.  Note the water dripping off the cowboy’s hat.  Nice touch.

While walking around the main street in town, we stopped in at a shoe store as Loni was still looking for a comfortable pair to wear around Paris next month.  Unfortunately, she found a brand she really liked.  Fortunately, they were out of her size.  But now she had the bug, and we would spend time later investigating outlets of the same brand (SAS) looking for her size.  She found them at last at a store in West L.A., at Paris prices.  Ouch!

We were sorry to have to move on, but for once we did have a real timetable to keep to in order to see what we wanted and still get back with sufficient time to prepare for our next jaunt.  So, to Osea and Em, a bientot (and sorry for the yellowish skin tones that I can’t figure out how to get rid of). 

THE EXTRAORDINARY BUFFALO BILL

We headed out of Yellowstone via Fishing Bridge, skirting the north end of the lake, while keeping an eye on the smoke from the fire on the east side.  We climbed up to Sylvan Pass, on the way viewing the superb little lake at the top of the climb.   I’m glad we did it from West to East, as the grade from the top down to the East entrance of the park is long and steep.  It’s nice to be going downhill for a change.  Our destination was Cody, founded by and home to William Cody, aka Buffalo Bill.  We opted for a nice RV park that was within walking distance of the Cody Museum, and it turned out to be a good choice.  Under the pick-your-spot program, we opted for a nice site with no one to the left or right, and under some trees for shade.  Turns out this wasn’t such a bright idea.

It seems that the nice trees are home to the bad birds.  The next morning . . . but I digress.

We walked up the street to the Cody Historical Center, a sprawling museum that is split into 4 or 5 submuseums on Cody’s life, local Indian tribes, guns, pioneers, etc.  Each of them would be fine museums on their own.  Together, they’re almost too much unless you have plenty of time.  Fortunately, we did, and also fortunately the museum entrance is good for two days, which we made use of.

Buffalo Bill has always been a sort of cartoon character for me, which is simply ignorance talking.  Once we started getting into his life part of the museum, my opinion of him changed completely.  This was a remarkable guy, ahead of his time in many ways.  We know him best for his Wild West Show that he organized, promoted, and starred in for decades.

 

I hadn’t known that he not only put this on here in the States, but he took it to Europe where he toured it, off and on, for almost a decade.  It was a great hit over there, and he was feted by heads of state in England and Europe.  The production was massive, with over 500 performers and support staff.  The Kaiser once sent his senior generals to study Cody’s organization to see how he managed to feed, house, and move such a large company, so as to apply it to the military.  Queen Victoria was so enamored of the show, and Cody, that she made a gift to him of a giant bar, that is still in use today in the Erma restaurant and hotel in Cody. 

The pioneer and Indian areas are extensive and interesting, if a little bizarre at times, like the diorama with the tipi, and the taxidermy collection.  And what’s with the beaded baseball cap?

Quibbles at oddities aside, we had a great time here.  The gun museum, however, was just too much.  A true aficionado of weapons could spend a week here, but for the layperson it’s just too much.  It goes on forever, thousands of guns on display.  Our eyeballs glazed over and we exited after about a quarter of the way in.

Cody was not only a great showman, but he was ahead of the curve politically as well.  He was an early advocate of women’s rights, long before the suffragettes got going.  In his treatment of the Indians, he was leagues ahead of his contemporaries.  Those that were in his show said that they were always treated with respect and enjoyed every equality with the Caucasian cast members.  He campaigned for various Indian causes in Congress and was welcomed as a brother by the various tribes.  This was in stark contrast to the government’s generally abysmal treatment of native Americans.

Cody started a hotel in his town, called the Irma after one of his daughters.  The hotel’s not much these days, but is still operating.  More famous now is the adjacent Irma restaurant, also dating back to Cody’s days, wherein is housed the bar given to him by Queen Victoria.  They make pretty good lunches, too!

I have to say, that clam chowder was one of the best I’ve ever had, with big pieces of clam throughout.  In Wyoming???

From Cody, we continued East

to eventually wind our way up through the Sawtooth mountains, a very pretty drive full of switchback roads and (another) high pass.  This would have been another good scooting road, but was fairly slow going in the rig.  The sage was blooming everywhere, just as it had been in many other areas.

Oh, yeah.  About that shade tree in Cody.  Well, the bird family that occupied it had their nest(s?) directly above the rear of the rig.  The next morning I came out to find it just covered in copious amounts of guano.  I couldn’t believe all that could have rained down in just one night.  I had to get a bucket and sponge and climb up on the roof to wash the junk off, all the while wondering if I was going to be the next target.  Nope.  But we moved forward so as to avoid a repeat the next night. 

YS, PART 5: WHERE’S BILL CODY WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

“Members of the genus Bison are large, even-toed ungulates within the subfamily Bovinae.

“The bison's temperament is often unpredictable. They usually appear peaceful, unconcerned, even lazy, yet they may attack anything, often without warning or apparent reason. They can move at speeds of up to 35 mph (56 km/h) and cover long distances at a lumbering gallop.^[11]

“Their most obvious weapons are the horns borne by both males and females, but their massive heads can be used as battering rams, effectively using the momentum produced by 2,000 pounds (900 kg) moving at 30 mph (50 km/h). The hind legs can also be used to kill or maim with devastating effect. At the time bison ran wild, they were rated second only to the Alaska brown bear as a potential killer, more dangerous than the grizzly bear. In the words of early naturalists, they were a dangerous, savage animal that feared no other animal and in prime condition could best any foe.”

 

Well, I’m glad we didn’t read THAT before we went scooting with the buffs.  We were frightened enough as it was.

For our last day in YS, we opted for a long day in the saddle, planning to travel the entire upper loop from our base in Bridge Bay.  I think the total was to be about 114 miles, but Loni really wanted to see Mammoth Hot Springs again to relive her childhood memories of the place.  I remembered, a day late, that we did have some photo-taking capability with our iPod, although with a super-wide-angle lens and relatively few pixels.  Better than nothing.

We scooted through the Fishing Bridge camp area and headed north again along the river.  But not for long.  We soon came upon a line of stopped cars:  a bison jam!

A bunch of them are in the woods on the left; a big one is standing in the oncoming roadway just in front of the white car.  Another big one is on the shoulder on our side of the road, out of this picture, but blocking the lead car in our lane.  This stalemate went on for many minutes, with no one making a move.  Finally, our lane began to move forward, so we followed.  This went well until we crept up even with the big guy on the left, and the damn cars ahead STOPPED so they could take pictures.  Well, let me tell ya, the bikers ahead of us and we were hollering our heads off to GET MOVING!  You simply can’t imagine how vulnerable you feel sitting right there with buffs on both sides just feet away.  We were looking UP at their heads.  Yikes ain’t the word!  This is the guy who was on our shoulder, but had moved off a bit allowing the line to move forward.  We weren’t too happy sitting where we were.

 Eventually the clowns in the cars ahead got the picture, and we were able to move off.  We didn’t get a shot of the big bull that was in the oncoming lane while we were sitting next to it.  Loni was getting ready to jump off if he moved a muscle, and I was too busy trying to get us going.  This was more up close and personal than we wanted.

Having escaped violent death, we scooted north and passed through a beautiful grassy plain with the river far below and hundreds of buffalo grazing as if they were on an 1850 prairie.  This was a magnificent sight, and I longed for my camera.  The little iPod lens just doesn’t do it justice.  The little black specks are the bison;  there’s lots more out of the picture to the right and left, and behind us on the other side of the road.  This really was like a step back in time.

We came upon another herd just a bit farther on, this time all of them on the other side of the water, so we walked down from the roadway to get a closer shot.  This picture could have been taken thousands of years ago, with little unchanged.

Our first destination on the northern loop was Tower Falls.  What I found interesting about these was that they seemed to simply spring out of the face of the mountain.  There’s a road that traverses just above them, which we later crossed, and we didn’t see any river feeding the falls.  Does it travel underground?  Dunno.

Leaving Tower, the road to Mammoth Junction involved a lot of climbing before it descended into the Junction, which is the lowest spot in the park.  This is where the Army set up headquarters back in the early days of the park.  The old buildings are still standing, and the place has the air of the military about it.  We took a shot of the place from a high point, but it doesn’t show a lot.

All this white stuff in the foreground was the area that Loni had remembered as being beautifully colored.  This was, then, a springs area, with gorgeous flows cascading down the hills.  but 55 years brings a lot of change, especially after the 1960 earthquake that disrupted a lot of the geothermal processes.  A ranger we spoke to said that these particular springs stopped flowing only about 5-6 years ago, and the colorful deposits had since been bleached white in most areas.  Not pretty at all. We did noodle around some on the side roads, and found a couple of interesting features, this being the best. But, unless you are entering the park from this NW entrance, I would advise skipping the long trip up to this corner. 

The remainder of the trip back, down to Norris, across to Canyon, then back down to Bridge Bay, was unremarkable . . . except for the buffs.

We encountered another bison jam, this time a huge one.  With nothing coming in the oncoming lane, I crossed the double yellow and cruised past at least a half mile of stopped cars before coming to the stoppage point.  Buffs were all over the place, blocking both lanes, crossing back and forth to the grazing areas on both sides.  There was a pullout on the left, so we stopped there next to a pair of Harleys that had been overheating while idling in the line.  We all turned off our engines to wait.  Loni snapped this shot of a bull getting up from a dust bath just to our right.

While we were waiting, a crowd started to form up around us, with people getting out of their cars and coming up to get pictures.  That wasn’t a problem until three of the buffs came up an embankment and, finding cars across the road in front of them, decided we would be easier to move out of the way, and started coming towards us.  SAY WHAT!?! 

Feet, don’t fail me now!  With the scoot dead-stick, I tried the back-pedal foot shuffle, with Loni still aboard, and promptly ran smack into the jerk who had set up his tripod right behind us.  Yahhh.  They’re still coming our way.  It was Monty Python time.  Run away, run away!  I tried starting the scoot, realizing instantly that the safety interlock prevents starting it unless the left brake is full on.  But that means stopping.  And they’re still coming.  Shuffle shuffle shuffle.  The tripod clown beats a retreat and we keep backing up along with a sea of drivers trying to get back to their cars.  But then the buffs stop, and just stand there.  Faceoff!

Finally, “our” buffs turn around and go across the road.

The oncoming line of cars crept past for a while, then stopped again about 100 yards up, about where the top of that RV is in the picture above.  Our line moved forward to that spot, and stopped as well.  Another big bull was playing statue in front of the lead car in our line, and the oncomings were reluctant to move forward as well.  This went on for another five minutes.  I looked at the Harleys, but they didn’t seem inclined to budge, so I told Loni, “Let’s go for it.”  We crept forward in the oncoming lane until we got to the lead car in our lane, with the buff right in front of it across the lane, with its head facing the center line.  Do we?  Don’t we?  They’re used to people by now, right?  They don’t charge like fighting bulls, do they?  Fortunately we hadn’t read the passage cited at the beginning of this post, and ignorance was a sort of bliss.  We gunned it past him in the oncoming lane, then swerved right around him and, victory pumps in the air, we sped away.  I don’t know how long the cars sat there, but no one came up behind us the whole way home.

Too much adrenaline for cooking, we opted for the lodge at Fishing Bridge, eschewed the buffalo burgers, and had a very nice dinner of pork chops.  And, of course, berry cobbler a la mode.  Sorry, no pics.

I have to say that the 17 miles or so between Fishing Bridge and Canyon are some of the most scenic we have ever been on.  Seeing the buffs spread out all over the place, in that beautiful setting, was like stepping back in time.  We had the feeling that the wild west was alive and well in this small corner of the country.

YS, PART 4: SHAMELESS COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT

So now it’s Thursday, time to break camp at Grant and move a bit north to Bridge Bay Campground.  We would have preferred to go to Canyon Campground, but it closed for the season a couple of days ago.  BB will be the next best bet as a base for exploring the upper loop.  Plus, it has full sun sites, so we won’t have to worry about recharging the batteries.  We got ourselves set up, after changing sites due to inadequate space in the first one, and took off on the scoot for the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.  Without a camera.

Not to worry.  There are plenty of photos available online to document what we saw, most of them a lot better than I can take.  So, what you see in this post are cadged from the internet.  Thanks, photographers!

On the way up just out of BB, there was a lot of haze coming across the lake from a fire that was burning on the east shore.  We were hoping that it wouldn’t affect our eastern exit in a couple of days.  Once past the lake, the haze disappeared and the skies were a perfect blue.  The drive up this way follows the Yellowstone River north towards Canyon Village.  Wow.  For sheer beauty, this is hard to beat.  And, it had bison!  More on that later.  Suffice to say for now that encountering 2,000 lb bison, up close and personal, without the benefit of a steel car around you, is, uh, exhilarating.  Yeah, that’s the word I’ll use for all that rapid heartbeat and sweaty pits!

At the Canyon, there are north and south drives, and we did them both, each with great views.  This truly is a “grand” canyon, with sheer walls v-ing down to the river far below.  We had read about a ranger walk along “Uncle Tom’s Trail” to a view of the falls, so we headed to the meeting spot at the trailhead.  The name has nothing to do with H.B. Stowe, but rather for a pioneer tour guide at the turn of the last century.

Them tourists were made of stern stuff!

Ranger Dan was Tim Conway with a mustache and goatee, doing his best to ease off his Boston accent.  Like the other rangers we dealt with, he was passionate about the park and almost evangelical in his zeal to protect and display it.

While we might not have had to use ropes and ladders, the hike down nevertheless was a doozy.  Part of it is via steel mesh stairs and bridges.  They were strong enough, but you could see right through them to the great void below.

My acrophobia kicked in big time, and I was squeezing those railings until they bent.  Oye.

But the viewpoint, once we got there, was well worth the terror.  The falls lived up to their billing.  Tons of water was coming over, even in mid-September.  That’s a testament to the huge winter this year.  There was a notch in the rocks that formed the lip of the falls, and the water flowing through the “V” was a bright green in contrast to the white water everywhere else.  Very cool effect.  Oh, for my camera.  Curse you, Duracell charger!

YS, PART 3: WITCHES’ BREW AND BAD KARMA

The variety of the geothermal attractions in YS is mind-blowing.  Geysers, steam vents, mudpots, calm holes, bubbling holes.  But some of the most spectacular are the boiling lakes and streams.  The roads in YS form a large figure 8, with “arms” going out to the various entrances. 

We had pretty much covered the Upper Geyser Basin around Old Faithful (SW end of the lower loop), so we decided to do the west-central part of the lower loop and head to the Norris Basin from our camp at Grant Village.  Along the way we stopped at the utterly wild Midway Geyser Basin, home to the Grand Prismatic Spring and Excelsior Geyser.  It lies just below the “16” mileage number above O.F. on the map.

You reach the features by crossing the river on a bridge.  Next to the bridge is a boiling water cascade that comes down from the Excelsior above.

The colors in these features were unbelievable.  I haven’t doctored these photos a bit except to increase the contrast a bit in order to make them more like what our eyes actually saw.  This is what feeds the cascade:

The Excelsior, which seems to be misnamed, as it didn’t act like a geyser at all.  No eruptions, just a lot of boiling and mist.

But the best was the Grand Prismatic Spring.  Oh, the hues!

We were reluctant to leave, but got back on the scoot and headed north towards Madison Junction.  Not much there other than a small interpretive display and a bookstore run by the Yellowstone Association.  They sell many excellent books and guides, and we bought their “Official Guide” which was well worth the absurdly low $9.95 price.  We then followed the Gibbon River NE towards Noris.  All of these riverside drives in the park are splendid.  Great scooter venues!  We did the side road to the Artists’ Paintpots.  Skip it.  Everything we saw was dried up and white, one of the very few duds we came upon.  At Norris, we enjoyed the overlook viewing the Norris Geyser Basin, but didn’t feel compelled to go down and wander the boardwalks.  Jaded?  Perhaps, but more likely lazy. 

We did visit the small but interesting Museum of the Park Ranger at Norris, which gave a history of the Park Service and the evolution of ranger duties.  YS was the first National Park, created in 1872 by president U.S. Grant.  In the early days, it was protected from exploitation for about 30 years by the Army, based at Mammoth Hot Springs in the NW corner.  Is is from the Army’s campaign hats that the iconic Smoky Bear Ranger Hat was derived.  It has remained largely unchanged for over 100 years.

We retraced our steps along the route back to Grant, and made a stop at the pretty Gibbon Falls.  They are 84 feet high, and fall over what is part of the rim of the 640,000 year-old Yellowstone Caldera.  Yellowstone is actually one giant caldera, 30 x 40 miles across.  All the mountains you see encircling the park are actually the caldera rim.  That must have been one huge eruption!

Just after the Madison Junction, we pulled off onto the Firehole Canyon Drive.  Don’t miss this!  I rate it as the prettiest mile of canyon river I’ve ever seen.  Sheer cliff walls, serpentine river, multiple rapids and falls, all compressed into this short loop drive.  Outstanding.

Unfortunately, this is where our luck ran out.  The camera battery died.  And, of course, my spare was left at Mike’s house in San Francisco.  However, I did have my newly-purchased-at-Walmart dual voltage Duracell charger.  Right?  Well, back at the rig, long story short, the either the charger or the battery was bad, as I couldn’t get a charge on either the rig’s 12-volt system, nor the 120v outlet in the lady’s bathroom.  AUGH!  The battery is one of those square, flat, Canon-specific jobs that can only be purchased at a large store, like W-M, Best Buy, etc.  Over the next few days I searched every camp store we encountered, but nada.  Great.  We have yet to view the buffaloes and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, and now it’ll be without a camera.  I’m ready to follow that kid into one of those “cool” pools.