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Yellowstone: world’s first national park

Yellowstone National Park



imageHardened mountain men and explorers like Jim Bridger, and John Colter, a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition, were dismissed as crackpots and whack jobs during the early 1800s when they emerged from the northern Rocky Mountain wilds spinning fanciful tales of gushing geysers, misty psychedelic hot springs, an earth that rumbled like thunder and belched scalding water, and pots of boiling mud bubbling like oatmeal. It wasn’t until the 1870s that the director of the U.S. Geological and Geographical Survey of the Territories, Dr. Ferdinand Hayden, along with the renowned artist Thomas Moran, the famous landscape photographer William Henry Jackson, and others, embarked on an official expedition to verify the fanciful accounts of this otherworldly planet. After they returned with their findings, Congress got the point and designated 2.1 million acres of this wilderness wonderland as Yellowstone National Park on March 1, 1872. Since then, outdoor recreation in America has never been the same.

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By designating Yellowstone as the world’s first national park, mankind at large, at least the ones who can afford a visit, owes its gratitude to those forward-thinking “environmentalists” who were captivated by Yellowstone’s endearing spell. Drawing a big square around these rocky mountains, verdant meadows, large bodies of water and abundant wildlife, and posting a “Hands Off” sign at the front gate was one of the great legislative undertakings of the time and has served as a model for nations the world over. Lately though, I’ve been wondering if maybe the sign should have read “Keep Out!” instead. image Forested Yellowstone occupies the northwest corner of Wyoming and spills over into the great states of Idaho and Montana. Although Yellowstone comes with mountains, they are generally smaller and hardly compete with those massive, craggy pinnacles like the Grand Teton Range to the south, or Glacier National Park near the Canadian border. But what Yellowstone lacks in rugged alpine terrain it makes up with superb wildlife habitat, large sprawling plateaus, and the lush, broad shrub and grasslands of the Hayden and Lamar valleys which are a natural draw for large meandering herds of shaggy buffalo, also known as bison, the stately aloof elk and predators like the grizzly bear and the recently reintroduced gray wolf. As much as I enjoy the monstrous cascading waterfalls at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, 132-square-mile deep-blue Yellowstone Lake, that long steamy corridor of hydrothermal features that stretches along the western perimeter, or those slow-going trout-laden currents of the Madison and Firehole rivers, it’s the abundant wildlife that brings me back. Judging by the excitement generated at sighting a lone elk in repose on the deep grass, or a coyote slinking across the road into the underbrush, or gigantic moose so ugly they’re beautiful, or a 500-pound grizzly so close you can almost reach out your car’s window and touch her, I’m not the only one who becomes childishly giddy when I visit. If you venture into the big land that is Yellowstone at the right time and season, you will see the ancient status quo that is wild country, the way it used to be, sort of. And if you pay close attention and know where to look you will spot wildlife, and plenty of it, up close. I can almost guarantee that. I stood dumfounded under a blue Yellowstone sky, breathing deep the thin mountain air and gazing off at the horizon. Shielding the blazing sun with my hand, I slowly turned in circles intently studying the great distances, patiently searching and squinting and sweating, peering left then right, then scratching my head in utter frustration because I knew with absolute certainty, I was absolutely positive, that I parked my car right over there next to that ocean of RVs, to the left of that truck stop of Asian tour buses, about halfway between the cornfield of sport utility vehicles and that football field of oriental imports, just this side of those shiny rental sedans. Oh my goodness, I thought, thinking I was about to have another one as I wandered to-and-fro between the endless rows of combustibles. Where did all these people come from? I pondered the horror as I huffed and shuffled across the grotesquely-crowded parking lot at the Old Faithful Inn and Lodge, where they arrive from the four corners of planet earth to pay homage to that old and faithful geyser, or as I call it, the “Big Squirt.” image The crowds will drive you up a wall if you’re not used to them. Unless you get out of your car and hit some of the 950 miles of trails that weave cross-country, don’t expect the peace and quiet your soul craved back at the office. On the other hand, if you’re from Los Angeles or Miami or Boston I suspect you’ll feel right at home stuck in traffic. You might even think it’s deserted. The prudent visitor will select his or her hours for traversing this wonderful park and preserve with great care. Evenings are good, but early mornings best as the seething masses are just beginning to stir at the campgrounds and numerous lodges that are ALWAYS full during summer. Nearly half the park burned down twenty years ago, so brace yourself for this regenerative fact of life. True, the raging inferno of ‘88 opened up the view in a big way, but what were once deep and welcoming forests of pine, spruce and fir are now dead telephone poles waiting to topple. The good news for your great-great-great-great-grandchildren is that miles of forest lands are just now showing signs of new life. Dense little pines cover the ground like overcrowded Christmas tree farms continuing the inevitable cycle of death and rebirth into posterity. Occasionally, you’ll be driving down a winding road through endless stands of dead lodge pole and won’t see another vehicle for at least a minute, maybe two, giving you a false sense of solitude because they’re right behind you, or up ahead swerving back and forth across the double-yellow line, strung out in long bumper-to-bumper convoys that don’t stop or slow down unless there’s something worth stopping for. And when they do, watch out! imageNot long ago we happened to be driving north of Lake Village through just such a stand of dead trees. Two cars were parked off the side of the road, their excited occupants running for the forest with cameras in hand. And there, off to my right I spotted the object of their conniption - a small reddish-brown black bear with the pointy snout and sleek design, traipsing pigeon-toed up and over fallen logs, moving gently on padded paws as it sniffed and scratched and satisfied its endless curiosity. It sensed me with cautious indifference as I exited the vehicle, hitched up my pants and ran after my prey, snapping blurry digital memories and wishing that this bear would stop, turn toward the camera, stand up on its hind legs and wave just long enough for me to point and shoot. But the bear was as oblivious of me as I was of the paparazzi that screeched to a noisy halt. Within seconds they converged from both directions, 30 cars, maybe 40, blocking traffic, doors slamming, feet slapping across the asphalt, grown men in feverish pitch fumbling with their Nikons yelling, “Griz! It’s a griz!” as that little black bear made like a furry Tom Cruise and bolted for the brush. I believe the scientific term for such a human-bear encounter is “ursus americanus cinnamomum encounteritus humanoidusticus.” Or as those in a hurry to race back to the lodge for happy hour put it, “another lousy bear jam.” Yellowstone is Yellowstone due to enormous volcanic eruptions that occurred 2 million, 1.3 million and 640,000 years ago, the latest explosion hurling 240 cubic miles of rock, ash and debris into the atmosphere forming a collapsed 30-by-45 mile basin, or caldera, that dominates the south central regions of the park. Consequently, hot molten rock lies near the surface of the earth, possibly 3 to 8 miles down. And it is due to this tremendous heat source that Yellowstone possesses the largest collection of hydrothermal features on Earth. Of the 10,000 hydrothermal features you will find hot springs made colorful by microscopic organisms, mineral particles and light refraction. Geysers are similar to hot springs. Old Faithful is the most renowned geyser of the 300 geysers found in the park. Rain and snowmelt seeps into the ground, overheats and shoots through a narrow constriction much like a busted hot water main. Fumaroles are steam vents of sorts, or “dry geysers” which cause the ground to tremble and the air to roar like thunder when they go off. Think of the teapot. Mud pots are “acidic hot springs with a limited water supply.” They stink like rotten eggs especially near Sulphur Caldron and Mud Volcano south of Canyon Village. Smelly gas is converted to sulfuric acid which breaks down rock into clay. Hold your breath and pinch your nose if you know what’s good for you. You can’t help notice, but hydrothermal phenomena are all over the place. To protect the fragile crust and prevent the dumb-at-heart from death-by-scalding, boardwalks have been constructed in many places for your safety and convenience. image Here are a few rules one should observe while visiting the park. First, there’s no fishing from Fishing Bridge if you make it to the north end of Yellowstone Lake, and if you do land the big one, don’t do like the old-timers and boil your catch in one of those steamy hot springs. Secondly, as much as you like bubbles, don’t set off the geysers by tossing in a box of Tide like the early pioneers when they did their wash. If those park cops catch you they’ll taze you until your heart stops and enjoy every minute of it. If you drive north to the small tourist community of Gardiner in Montana, don’t miss out on Mammoth Hot Springs where the travertine (calcium carbonate deposits) have formed dripping, spectacular terraces that will make you wish you brought more batteries for the camera. Also, look for bighorn sheep east of the highway. As for the small herd of elk grazing the green lawns near the lodge at Mammoth, do as the sign says and don’t approach. They’ve been known to stomp the stupid. Anyone visiting the park should make the effort to see the narrow and plunging Great Canyon of the Yellowstone, a very impressive 20-mile-long, 1,000-foot-deep gash carved mostly by the turbulent forces of the Yellowstone River that roars 109 feet over Upper Falls and 308 feet over Lower Falls. Most of the eroded canyon was composed of hydrothermally altered and weakened lava deposited by the great volcanic eruption 640,000 years ago. Water eroded the softer rhyolite and sediments relatively quickly, sculpting a colorful multi-hued window of the geological past. You’ll see dark orange, brown and green areas down by the river. The massive canyon walls appear golden, silver, tan and yellow, particularly when the sunlight cooperates. Overlooks are easily accessible on both sides of the abyss. Cross over to the east side of the canyon at Chittenden Bridge to reach the Upper Falls Viewpoint, and a little farther down the road, magnificent Artist Point from where you can take great photos of the Lower Falls and the spectacular canyon trailing off to the northeast. Don’t be dismayed by the crowds. If you stand patiently in line you should be rewarded with some great images. As I waited my turn I practiced being polite. “Buenas tardes” “Gutten tag” “G‘day” “Ciao” “Mingalarba” “Salaam Alekum“ “Lei ho.” I’m smiling and bobbing like a rocking horse as the line inches toward the rim of the overlook. “Konnichi wa” “Ahn nyeong ha se yo” “Hey man, what’s up” “Aloha” “Shalom” “Oodgay afteray noonay.” I reach the edge of the cliff, jostled from behind. I point. I click. I get elbowed out of line. image Buffalo meat shall never pass over these chapped lips of mine as long as I have a say about it. Unless starvation is an issue, certain mammals are not meant to be devoured by 21st century man. I’m sure it tastes just fine, and is a darn sight healthier than the mystery meat fast-food chains are slipping us, but I decline out of a sense of ancestral guilt even though I didn’t actually participate in the great holocaust of the white man’s buffalo hunts of the 19th century that saw the senseless decimation of millions of these unpredictable beasts and drove them to the brink of extinction. During the winter of 2007/2008, 1,616 Yellowstone buffalo were killed. They were descendants of a small herd of 23 that survived the great 19th century slaughter by hiding out in the remotest corners of the park. To slaughter or not to slaughter the great wild American buffalo is still a point of virulent contention in and around Yellowstone today. According to the Buffalo Field Campaign, at the behest of Montana’s livestock industry and in conjunction with the Montana Department of Livestock, Yellowstone buffalo who leave the deep snows of the park each winter to forage beyond the park’s boundaries are routinely slaughtered. Their rationale is the fear of brucellosis, a European livestock disease they claim spreads from buffalo to cattle. The controversy became heated, and violent, after the bloody '96-‘97 slaughter when 1,100 buffalo were killed after they crossed Montana’s park boundary. Those opposed to the killings argue there has not been a single documented case of the disease transmitted to livestock. Furthermore, they claim Yellowstone elk also carry brucellosis but are permitted to migrate outside the park without threat of being killed … until hunting season. And even if transmission were biologically feasible, during winter cattle are no longer in the buffalo wintering grounds so infection would be highly unlikely. image I love the stoic American buffalo, even when the surviving herds amble onto the road in Lamar Valley at dusk and shut down traffic for a half hour, the big shaggy ones standing inches from the car staring eyeball-to-eyeball waiting for you to blink. What I don’t like so much are those dumb tourists deceived by their passive demeanor who risk life and limb to get that perfect shot, that close-up surely to garner bragging rights back in Cleveland. Don’t they read the warning signs? Don’t they know how dangerous these front-loaded tanks can be, how unpredictable? That many of their fellow dumb tourists have been pulverized by 2,000 pounds of very lean buffalo flesh and bones? That at 37 miles an hour a buffalo can run you down in a flash and either crush you into the rocky soil with its battering ram of a forehead, kick you to death with those hind hooves, or gore you into the next life? The friendly big buffalo stood waiting for me on a low ridge grazing large clumps of dry grass without a care in the world. Dressed in sandals and shorts, I was determined to snap a few before the sun slipped behind the clouds, but to do that I was forced to step out of the vehicle and walk, slowly, carefully, toward that dung-splattered curly brown mass of matted fur. “Raise your head you stupid cow,” I muttered as I snapped and stalked. “Come on, man, look at the camera, over here. Yo! Lift your head up!” He continued grazing as I approached, step by careful step, treading gingerly over lichen-covered rocks and around low sage and over prickly pear cactus until I stood 23 feet from that big black nose. Then I took one final step and wouldn’t you know, I jammed my right foot into a cluster of cactus that sent me hopping, juggling my camera with one hand and plucking a dozen thorns out of my big toe with the other. image My buffalo stopped eating and raised its massive head just like I asked, then took one step forward. I stopped hopping and wet my pants. I looked back at the car down the hill and back at the buffalo who took another step forward. I hopped back a hop, and again looked longingly at the safety of all that steel and glass and rubber, then back at Buffalo Bill who probably thought I’m the one who slaughtered his extended family two winters ago. It didn’t take much to figure out I was a lot closer to this even-toed ungulate than the car and calculated I had about 2.7 seconds of life remaining in this cholesterol-clogged body once he charged, crushed me into the ground and poked holes in me with those pointy things growing out of the side of his thick skull. And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning, an epiphany, a realization of such clarity, such profundity that it made my knee quiver and sweat pour off my upper lip. It finally dawned on me after all these years that I’m just another dumb tourist in damp underwear standing on one leg clutching my dirty foot in the crowded Wyoming “wilderness” watching gratefully as the paparazzi raced up and screeched to a noisy halt. image Clippings


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John Treadwell Dunbar -- Bio and Archives

John Treadwell Dunbar is a freelance writer


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