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*