Yellowstoned Field Tripping: The Black Canyon Backpack Attack

While there's plenty of feasible routes for a youth to prove his manhood to himself & whichever sort of society he aims to impress, nothing quite makes the full, proud weight of the scrotum felt like the first overnight hike through grizzly country.  Bark Scarz, Todd "Bottled-Up-Whine" Jackson, and I set out to conquer the Black Canyon of the Yellowstone River.  Besides the rite-of-passage aspect, this would also be the first opportunity for Todd (a professional photographer & a decade or so our senior) to begin mentoring Bark on wildlife & landscape lens-capture (all photo-credit in this entry goes to Todd & the Camry-priced, keg-sized Canon that survived the second-day storm.  I'm quite grateful, as this adventure preceded the purchase of my own Kia-priced, credit-card sized Canon by a few months).

Bark & Peer soak in a grandiose view of The Yellowstone River, strapped with tell-tale low-tech packs of UYNP freshmen.

In 2009 the trail was fair game, in that the ground it covered shared space between YNP land & neutral Montana ground.  We chose it based on hearing that it'd be clear of snow well enough that early in the season, and receiving a ranger-guarantee that we'd encounter at least one bear.  I've heard rumor since '09 about how some of that neutral land's become privatized in some manner, and thus the trail is now compromised to an extent.  Damn shame, because it's some kinda spectacular 18.5 mile traverse.

An ornery guardian-shaman of the back-country hints his displeasure at our presence with raised-tail.

 Bark and I learned that even though Todd whined like a dashboard's confessions, he could keep up well enough and wasn't afraid to face the fears we were well-versed in from the automatic bitch-fountain that warbled in a cloud around most of his contributions to conversation, almost as if he were perfecting some sort of "cry-baby sheik" of tough-guyism.  Luckily it flipped on-&-off appropriately, and proved to be a decent gauge for how stormy the skies were or muddy the ground really was.  Todd's overly-voiced doubts that we'd never see a bear, as we'd been promised, made it all the more thrilling when we caught sight of a momma black bear & three playful cubs across the river in the last couple miles of the journey:

Motherhood

Spotting a bull-snake, Bark is torn between his rural Louisiana urges to cook it for supper & the National Park law to leave wildlife well alone.

Drunk with wanderlust, I disturb the sacred skull of a fallen shaman.

          

 

Dorm It Creatures

Personnel assigned me & Bark to the Juniper dorm, room 17.  Before we could unpack & settle into our new abode, the resident coordinator (or "RC"), Kraster, needed to "give us the spiel."  This "spiel" unwound into a rather lengthy monologue, becoming a parody of itself as it progressed past the expected information concerning bathrooms & fire-drills, to overstated directions on trapping mice.  The RCs are a special breed for sure, fulfilling the niche of hallway patrol & vacuum technician on-the-clock, while gathering with one another for Dungeons & Dragons whilst off the clock (assuming, that is, that they can evacuate their World of Warcraft thrones every now & again for some in-the-flesh interaction).  No, not exactly the type of folks many of us had imagined would abandon their native hamlets for Yellowstone. . . but as we freshman were soon to discover, it takes a gumbo-pot of personalities to pamper the 4 million or so tourists that filter through The Park each year.  While some UYNP students were young die-hards like me & Bark, disenchanted with suburban life after our experience at accredited universities, & thus pursuing the pilgrimage to the great Rocky region of America's West, others were there on vastly different account.  For some, The University of Yellowstone served as a respite from the demands of "elsewhere" society.  For others, a place for steady employment.  And for one, it just might be a spot zany enough to manifest her deepest desire of shaving symbols into boys' chest-hair.  As it turned out, the Mammoth Hot Springs campus was rampant with man-canvas:

What appears as a polyandrous tagging system was merely Iona's way of saying "Nice to meet you." (from left to right: Bark Scarz, Peer "me" Broozer, Tweed Allen.  Iona Del Toona crouches crotch-level center).

This femme fatale with the gift for giving voice to epidermises that lay shy within the pelts of Yellowstone newbs was none other than the legendary Iona (pronounced YO-nuh) Del Toona.  Although Bark & I had had separate first encounters with this fellow UYNP freshman who haled from southern Cali, she'd inquired with each of us as to whether she might "shave some shit" into our chest-hair during introductory small-chat.  While we each had initially felt taken aback by such an advance, it took only a few days into the season (and few beers down one evening) to coax us into follicle-freeing festivity.  By the end of the hoopla, Bark's torso read "YNP" for Yellowstone National Park, while I represented our Mammoth Hot Springs campus with "MHS" across my chest, and our docile Utah-bred friend, Tweed Allen, bore JPR from tit-to-tit, for our beloved Juniper (and yes, that's a bison atop his navel^).

Iona beams with satisfaction as fresh flies willingly heave themselves into her web of perversions.

We didn't have any real intention for the dorm room.  I took it Bark wasn't in the pattern of partying so much, and I've always been the type to enjoy having a quiet place to hibernate at night.  Yet eventually, after many-a-shindig and the addition of our girlfriends to the room's resident count, Juniper # 17 became this:

If you're wondering, "Is that thing in the back-corner holding a fan & empty Twisted Tea bottles a. . . bar?"  Well, the answer is yes. . . of course it is.  It found us though, really.  At one of Bozeman, MT's well-stocked pawn shops we'd spotted it.  I thought it was cool but didn't really consider buying it. . . it was Bark who couldn't get it out of his head.  The treasure needed a home. . . and Juniper needed a bar (even if the employee pub was only 20 yards away, which it was).  And this micro-bar was the uber-steazey prize of the era: a snowboard had been cut into 3 pieces to act as the top bar & lower citrus-cutting counter, a clear glass Oakley case stood tall in the center for bottle storage, while plywood filled in the front walls & multi-tiered side shelves to hold margarita salt, shot glasses, zesters, whatevers.  Notice also the mini-fridge to the left of the bar, advertising the delicious Montana brews it likely held within (and Twisted Tea. . . Jimmy Pauly of Jersey had turned us all on to the Brisk-with-a-Bite sensation, and taught us that it wasn't some foo-foo concoction our sense of manhood would be threatened by sip-after-sip).  We dubbed our bar "The Juniper Berry" but never managed to set strict opening & closing hours.  It was mostly open:

A spontaneous rave erupts at The Juniper Berry (Randy Ammerd, left, boasts his glowstick fondling skills to the crowd).

Approving the evening's progression.

"Slap-the-sack," a game already inherently wrought with danger, devolves into its violent doppelganger "Get-slapped-by-the-sack."  (from left to right: Austin Mest, Mary Schenken, Gareth Mastodon, Peer Broozer).

Action.

Reaction (can't mess with the classics).

The glory days of freshmen Yellowstoning:  We didn't really sleep at all the first month.  The ecstatic energy derived from everything happening during this paradigm shift into citizens of Yellowstone was enough make a super-volcano surge forth (which it didn't, thankfully).  And even though the time spent in-dorm was fractional compared to the time spent at our jobs, or in the pub, or out at town, or traversing the wild yonder, we sure as hell couldn't waste it with slumber. 

Fill the Tank, Take the Ride

Gardiner, Montana.  I'd made it!  The long-haul solo-venture from suburban south-central Pennsylvania to the northern portal of Yellowstone National Park in this April of '09 was not as tedious as it might have been, given that my dear sister & brother conveniently reside in Chicago, IL & Fort Collins, CO, respectfully (although my sanity threatened abandonment at an exponential rate as I made the suicide-drive through Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, and parts of Wyoming & Colorado in a single day.  The ChiTown-to-FoCo drive becomes particularly  testy when the blazing, setting sun sits nonchalantly beneath one's visor, yet still above the horizon, as one's windshield points west).  My administration building at UYNP (which is to say, the HR shack for the company that hired me) would collect both freshman & return students alike the following morning for a session of beloved paperwork and then send us out to our designated campuses for orientation.  I'd checked into my hotel room for the evening and set out on-a-wander through the tiny town, my awe never ceasing at the Absaroka & Gallatin ranges above, nor at the rushing Yellowstone River below.

A view of The Gallatin Range from the rooftops of Gardiner.

The evening proved fruitful. . . an up-&-down stroll of The Gardiner Strip quickly reveals Red's Blue Goose Saloon as the hoppin' joint in town.  Didn't take long to throw a sheet or two to the wind, beaming with satisfaction at how much Tanqueray the bartender could smother the tonic with relative to how little he charged for the beverage (ahhh, Montana!).  I milled around the floor of "The Goose," enchanted by conversation with locals & long-time Yellowstoners.

Reveling in the back billiards section of Gardiner's Blue Goose Saloon - a hot-spot for fellowship & forgetting.

The saloon wasn't too packed that night. . .I found myself at the back billiards-table, schmoozing excitedly with two other incoming freshmen & a returning sophomore, sharing expectations and back-stories as cue ball clashed with coloreds on a green-slate range.  I could immediately sense that the other fella in the group, Bark Scarz of Baton Rouge, was a winner.  Not that he'd visibly obtained any trophy or ribbon, but here's a guy who set out from his native land, just like me, and was ready to CarpeDiem-the-fuck out of our incoming Yellowstone experience.   "So Bark. . . you seem cool, wanna be my roommate?"  His what-would-become trademark expressionless face told little as to whether he felt any immediate apprehension.  "Sure. . . just one question:  Do you drink much?"   Well hell. . . maybe it was my 3rd or 4th rum-n'-coke after 2 or 3-ish gin-n'-tonics, but I was just melting the ice to meet people really. I had definitely majored in binge-drinking at my last college. . . but that was a state university. . . this was Yellowstone!  The wide open air, the trails to wander, the geysers to gaze upon, the bears to brawl with - I wasn't planning to keep up the party-life, not here.  There was so much ELSE to do. . . so much wholesome, sober nature to soak in.  I responded in all honesty of intention, "Nah. . . I used to in college, but not much anymore."  "Cool, sounds good," responded Bark.  Directive achieved:  destroy roommate anticipation anxiety.

The Force leads me to Bark Scarz.

 

After the charade of checking-in & fitting for uniforms the following morning, we were gifted with a pass to get into the park and directed to the Mammoth Hot Springs campus for lunch & orientation (also, as Bark & I were both assigned to be living & working on this campus, we'd seek out our living-quarters as well).  The five-mile drive from Yellowstone's northern gateway in Gardiner to Mammoth Hot Springs was most staggering for us newbies.  Cliffs, rivers, bison, big-horned sheep, crossing from MT to WY, magic geo-steam. . . much of what appealed to people about The Park was included in this short trek.  We arrived at Mammoth Hot Springs and took an earful of freshmen orientation. . . mostly stressing the "dos" & "don'ts" of flirting with grizzly bears in the back-country.  After a satisfactory lunch of some chicken at the employee dining room (or "EDR") it was time to fill the empty residential halls with our eager clangs & clatters.  Giddy-up.

Arriving at the Mammoth Hot Springs campus.

       

The Call of the Whistle Pig

There are countless schools out in this wide world, yet only few of them are "accredited" in the traditional sense of the term.  After graduating from West Chester University in the Spring of 2007, I lived on my own for a year in West Chester, and then a year back at home in Lancaster, waiting for the "real world" to come to me.  "Come on!" I raged in my head, "I'm ready. . . give me my career, give me the love of my life, at least give me some direction or hope, Captain Real World. . . school's out, I'm ready!"  Nothing doing.  The economy, having just shit the bed on a whole new level, was preventing Captain Real World from prosperously handing out jobs to college grads like he had in former years. . . and thus, my B.S. in Liberal Studies was feeling extra. . .b.s.-y

Seemingly churning with hometown pride, but yearning for The Wild West.

At some point in my first year as a graduate barely making rent each month,  feeling more existentially drained as each day passed, I rented Into the Wild from "Blockbuster" (the what?) and was absolutely transformed by the protagonist's journey:  here's a guy who graduated from a highly esteemed school, chucked his life savings to charity, even went so far as to ditch his car in the desert, only to embark on the quintessential American tramp-out.  What liberation!. . . I couldn't get enough.  And it's a true story (albeit Sean Penn's film is bit rosier than Jon Krakauer's printed account of Chris McCandless' expedition).  Into the Wild is the only flick I ever watched an encore-presentation of immediately after seeing it for the first time.  I bought the soundtrack (all original Eddie Vedder tracks which capture the soul of the epic in a both eerie & inspiring manner), I read the book. . . and now I didn't just want to escape the post-graduation "where's-the-soul-at?" blues, I needed to. . . I needed to get west where the mountains tower above the rest of us and wide open skies beckon the bold to gather beneath and take a shower of unadulterated starlight.

Inspired by the tale of Chris McCandless, though I knew adventure wouldn't be all KristenStewart-n'-puppies.

 A friend told me about how he'd applied to work in Yellowstone National Park for the coming summer through a company that runs most of the concessions in The Park.  Turns out they hire over 3,000 seasonal workers to run the hotels & restaurants in 7 locations throughout all of the 2.2 million acres of Yellowstone National Park.  "Perfect!" I thought. . . can't be that difficult to get on with this gig.  I hadn't worked in restaurants at all before, and was curious to do so.  Also, I'd been nostalgic for Yellowstone ever since our family road trip that landed us out there in 1989 (at age 4).  I applied for an entry-level position as a busboy (or "server-assistant" as it was termed).  By December of 2008, I'd received my letter of acceptance to work & live in the Mammoth Hot Springs location of The Park.  My head could barely contain the "!!!!!!."  My days mindlessly picking items in a warehouse were numbered - imagination could never conjure what awaited me as a freshman at "The University of Yellowstone."  Never had an individual, a year-and-half past college graduation, been so thrilled to be hired as a busboy.  Soon enough I'd be scooping up dirty dishes - with destiny!

My Yellowstone sophomore self, the finely-tuned mountain-machine that resulted from the eager, eastern past-self embarking westward for his frolicking freshman days at UYNP.

   

Follow my retrospective account of times & spaces atop the bison-ridden, tourist-tickling super-volcano that is Yellowstone in this brand new blog extravaganza.  Give my memoirs an instant audience, for your own entertainment as much as to validate this late 20-something's current post-vagabond existence in his parents' basement.   There will be dames, dorms, debauchery, danger, drifters. . . and other enticing "D" words that fit the part.  Let's go.

*insert Heraclitus quote*