Feedin’ the Yellowstone Jones

By Kathleen Stachowski, New West Unfiltered 10-27-05

By K. Stachowski

We are Yellowstoners, my husband and I – emphasis on stoners. We are addicted to the place. Isn’t admitting it an essential first step?

“Hi, I’m K., and I’m a Yellowstoner. When I’m not actually doing Yellowstone, I’m planning my next trip. Since I found Yellowstone, it has dominated my life.�

I can imagine heads bobbing in nods of recognition. Come on, admit it! I’m confident that Chris and I are not alone in this. Hey, I’ve seen you out there on the boardwalk, coming down from your Prismatic Pool high!

How do I know we’re hopeless Yellowstoners?

Well, there’s the 38 x 42 inch topographical map of the park, lovingly displayed in a hand-crafted frame (Chris’s hands, of course) on our bedroom wall. We gaze at the park’s comely figure first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Bison art adorns other walls. Framed postcard versions of the old WPA posters promoting the national parks – these of Old Faithful and Yellowstone Falls – hang near the kitchen, along with a narrow felt banner in orange and black, simply and boldly proclaiming YELLOWSTONE PARK. It is a bit of memorabilia from a by-gone era – a souvenir purchased there by Chris’s long-gone father in 1929. A basket in the living room holds hiking guides and maps, and I’m scouting a prominent location to feature our growing collection of books on the park. (Hmmm, bison-head bookends…yeah, that’s what I need!)

And let’s face it, folks, only Yellowstoners appreciate – nay, cherish – the tantalizing aroma of sulfur. We enter the park and, at the first sign of steam, roll down the window and hang our heads out for a big, juicy snort, then sink back into the seat, eyes closed, grinning blissfully. Out there on the thermal basin boardwalk, enveloped in a dense, moist, sulfur-laden cloud, we embrace it like a baptism while lesser beings and common tourists gag, cough, and scuttle away – yes, these are the times that separate the stoners from the posers!

I don’t know about you, but wherever I am when I catch a hint of sulfurous fumes – whether sitting in Missoula’s heinous traffic or on my own couch with the dog sleeping nearby (if you get my drift) – I am immediately transported to my special place.

Chris and I have our own 12-step program, of sorts, to help us cope (recovery is not the goal). If it were feasible, steps one through twelve would be monthly trips to Yellowstone, each trip lasting about, oh, say, a month. But that’s not realistic, and besides, we do avoid the “nuisance season� – that time when both mosquitoes and tourists are buzzing about by the millions.

Our coping mechanisms include four or more trips a year to the hallowed wonderland (exactly 299 miles – and those are Prius miles -- from our driveway to the Roosevelt Arch); poring over maps and guidebooks; and reading Yellowstone literature. Other strategies include perusing photos and slides; listening to “Yellowstone Soundscapes,� a CD recording of park animal and geyser sounds; and going on-line to view the Mammoth and Old Faithful webcams (yes, you can watch the geyser erupt in 30-second intervals). Let’s not forget the Yellowstone screensaver, sweatshirt, and specialty license plate.

We recently returned from a four-day, three-night backpacking trip heavy on backcountry thermal basins, bugling elk, laughing loons, fresh grizzly tracks, and two chilling fords of the Snake River. This will hold us for awhile. But inevitably, and with the reliability of Old Faithful, our Yellowstone jones will kick in. And since (like most other addictive entities) the more you do, the more you need, I’m planning a multi-pronged approach for my next at-home fix.

First I’ll feed the dog some leftover beans, then pop in the soundscapes CD, grab some trail mix, and kick back with a Yellowstone map or book. Yellowstoned again, and good to go. [End of article]