On the Road, Yellowstone Park
Montana buttes stand forlorn and send
messages to one another by hawk,
colors blanch except green hues painted
on irrigated corn. Black cows are pencil smears
on dry parchment and contradict
a sign proclaiming Better Bred Red.
Fences climb hills like goats. Bear
Tooth Pass lifts us two miles into
the sky, above tree line, through alpine
meadows, then lets us drive to our destination.
More signs: This is Grizzly Bear Country ... we see
none; Open Range, Expect Cows on Road ...
we slow to let them cross. Rocks laying prone
fool Mary, "Out there, buffalo, they're all
over out there!" Cooke City appears, a small
shop attracts us for coffee and ice cream. Old
books and classic albums line the walls. The
proprietor, "I have chess tournaments in winter."
Gardiner's restaurants and motels lure,
but senior citizens swarm, all wanting rooms.
Lulled into September complacency, minus
a room, we head north to Livingston. Late day
shadows soften the outline of fly fishermen
wading the Gallatin, a sport that compels, they
say. Rich homes line the valley --- artists,
authors, and actors live here. Next day we
repeat the highway south through the morning
shadows to enter the park at the Roosevelt
Arch. The sites remain eons old. We've
encountered them before - Old Faithful, lakes
canyons, falls, hot springs, pools, fumaroles,
buffalo grazing in ditches, elk in meadows, and
cameras, cameras everywhere with long lenses
set on tripods. Ravaged forests from old fires
grow, though, and restore themselves anew.
The map tells us to exit at the west
side, then we turn north to follow canyons
carved by the Madison River where more
fishermen cast their flies. I recall McLean's A
River Runs Through It, I hear the Redford
voice, I see the brothers fishing their stream the
last time before the errant brother is murdered,
I will resolve to read the story once again.
Here a person feels small. The rock walls
announce ancient reality and predict their
survival long after I am gone. Tomorrow?
We are sated, we can go home again satisfied with
renewal. We turn our car east and enter our
world again. In a Miles City cafe ranchers talk
cattle prices. At a Glendive gas stop the
manager says old folks moved away when they
built the penitentiary. "Taxes went up." East
of Medora a westbound load of hay bales sits
burning on the road. Back home Mary works
in her garden, and I sit at my desk ... writing.
