(Ed: Written June 16th)
Today is the last day on the Southwestern leg of our roadtrip. We started at Las Vegas (alternatively described as “an American treasure” and “an American wasteland”), toured the natural wonders Zion, Bryce Canyon and the Grand Canyon, stood in awe before the Ancestral Puebloan (formerly known as Anasazi) ruins of Mesa Verde, and are on the search for the truth about what’s really out there, by visiting the Very Large Array and Roswell today.
We arrived in Las Vegas on Wednesday afternoon, after a long drive from Yosemite. Perhaps I had simply developed overblown expectations of Las Vegas, but I was a little disappointed by our experience there. It certainly had all the glitz, but lacked the expected glamour. As a result, it seemed like no more than a poor parody of itself. We stayed inside the glass pyramid at the Luxor, and the excesses of Las Vegas were apparent as soon as we arrived at the check-in counter. We were told that the elevator was to be found by turning at the Starbucks, going down the hallway, and turning at a second Starbucks. Why exactly the Luxor needs two Starbucks on the same hallway escaped us. After refreshing ourselves, we went out to see the sights.
The Strip was impressive. There are these overpasses which allow you to go from casino to casino without ever stepping foot on the sidewalk. We walked past a replica of the New York skyline (complete with roller coaster in front) and saw the MGM Grande, which had a live lion exhibit (unfortunately the lions were absent), and an absolutely huge mall section complete with 5th Avenue boutiques and restaurants (which were completely beyond our means), as well as the ubiquitous slot machine. The glitz was very exciting for a while: we were awestruck by the amazing water show at the Bellagio, as well as it’s elegant, if quirky decorations (we also dined there since it was not too expensive), the replica classical statues and marblework of Caesar’s, the fake Paris complete with Eiffel Tower and a recreation of the Doge’s Palace at the Venetian. Everything was larger than life; even Walgreens and McDonald’s had large flashy neon signs, and the cab drivers charged for every 1/12th of a mile (133 meters). Unfortunately, as we proceeded up the Strip, we realized that beyond the décor, there was little difference between any of the casinos. They all had the same combination of slot machines, card tables, expensive restaurants, high-end boutiques, not-very-happening bars and for some reason, giant TVs with rows of seating.
What we found lacking was the glamorous spirit of the place. The shows were far, far beyond our means, and there was a lack of the colourful figures we expected. We didn’t see a single showgirl, not even one of those gladiators at Caesar’s we expected to be wandering around (the closest we saw were the Xena-like performers at Treasure Island). If there is an America to be found, perhaps it was found on the streets and in the rows of slot machines; families both awed by the spectacle and disgusted by the seediness, the blank, desperate look on the faces of the gamblers, the resignation of the Mexicans who filled the streets, paid to hand out cards for escort services.
The polish did not completely hide the seediness of Las Vegas. While sensuality is part of the spirit of the city, it seemed far too overt and too omnipresent. Gigantic posters advertised strip clubs, while cars paraded up and down the Strip, dragging giant banners depicting naked women and promising a good time. Even the magazine boxes (where one might normally find Renter’s Weekly and the like) were filled with porn magazines. The ground was covered in the glossy cards (depicting nudes) being handed out by aforementioned Mexicans, who made a constant twacking sound as they smacked the cards against their hands to draw attention. The models themselves seemed to embody the spirit of the town: tired and desperate, as if worn down by the constant need to seem upbeat.
Unfortunately, Ricardo had to return to New York after our night out in Las Vegas. The car seems emptier with just the two of us, perhaps made worse by the miles and miles of desolation we’re driving through. If you’re reading this buddy, we hope you’re doing well in New York.
Before completely leaving the Las Vegas area, we made a short detour on Monday morning to see Hoover Dam. The approach was quite impressive. There was a partly-completed arch bridge under construction across the canyon where the dam stood (we were disappointed to learn that the photogenic supporting cables were to be removed). The dam itself was surprisingly graceful, with gentle, sweeping curves that belied its monolithic nature. Behind the dam, Lake Mead stretched out to the horizon, although water levels seemed worryingly low (the historic waterline was marked out in the rock by mineral deposits, and was significantly higher than the lake’s height).
The dam itself proved to be something of a tourist trap. You could walk around on top and take pictures for free (which we did), but we wanted to learn more so we went on the tour. At least we only paid for the generator tour as opposed to the full tour, which was more expensive although we’re not certain why. The tour started with one of those slick documentary videos (which every national park seems to have these days), which extolled the virtues of the dam. We waited in line for an elevator for a long time, before the tour group descended to a room that overlooked a tunnel taking the water to the generators. After a brief spiel from the tour guide (we felt the tour would have been much more interesting if she didn’t seem to be reciting from a prepared script), we went back to the elevators and were herded down to see the generators themselves. It was pretty cool to see eight massive turbines driven by the power of the Colorado river, but the problem was that that was all that there was to see. The tour ended there, dropping us off into the museum.
Leaving the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas, we embarked on a three-day tour of the national parks of the Southwest. A huge swath of southern Utah and Northern Arizona is federal land, divided among a patchwork of national parks and forests. We only got the chance to see a small slice of the region, but as we later learned it was a very well chosen slice. The canyons and mesas form the edge of the Colorado Plateau, with the hoodoos of Bryce representing the highest layers, the Zion sandstones representing the middle layers, and the Grand Canyon at the bottom of the formation.
We drove up to Zion National Park on Thursday, and spent that evening and Friday morning there. Our time there proved to be an invaluable introduction: we learned about the different layers of rock that date back to Precambrian times, and how the flow of rivers carves the deep, scenic canyons. The main part of Zion is actually a single valley around the Virgin River. To reduce traffic, there is a bus system that picks up visitors and drops them off at different scenic overlooks and trailheads. That evening, we hiked up the Watchman trail to an overlook above the southern end of the valley, taking in the stunning view, with its contrasting red and white stone peaks and vivid green trees. Unable to secure a campground, we pitched our tent at a camping ranch a little distance from the park. Feeling lethargic on Friday morning, we only walked a few short trails; one followed the river up to a narrowing of the canyons (until we could go no further, since the river took up the canyon and we had no wading boots), another led to a disappointingly small waterfall (probably because we came after the meltwaters had vanished).
On Friday afternoon, we drove over to Bryce Canyon. The drive is particularly scenic, since there’s a mile-long tunnel (to which one must climb some particularly scenic switchbacks) in Zion we had to pass through to get there (actually, we went through three times, since our campground was on the other side of the tunnel). The main attraction of Bryce Canyon were the hoodoos, wind-carved pillars of red rock that bear more than a passing resemblance to statues (the little introduction video told us that according to Paiute legend, the hoodoos are people transformed by the Coyote). The entire park lies along a cliff face, with the hoodoos standing below the rim. That evening, we drove down to the overlook at Rainbow Point, arriving at sunset. The effect of the sun on the breathtaking landscape of hoodoos, surprisingly large trees and distant mesas was incredible. We stopped at most of the overlooks on the way back to our campground, taking pictures of the hoodoos and natural arches below.
The following morning, we hiked into the canyon itself. We chose a 6 mile (10 km) trail with a 1700 foot (about 500 meter) elevation change, combining the Queen’s Garden, Navajo Loop and Peekaboo Loop trails. The descent into the canyon was surprisingly gentle, and we quickly arrived at the Queen’s Garden, which was a hoodoo which bore a surprisingly resemblance to Queen Victoria in profile. From there, we went to the Peekaboo Loop, so named for the many tunnels through the rock which hides the profile of the hoodoos and cliff face. The trail kept on climbing and descending; on every descent you thought that the loop would end, only to find that there was another hill to climb. As if this wasn’t difficult enough, there were also horseback tours along that trail, and the horses left a plentiful supply of waste products to fertilise the trail in their wake. This was not the end though, because we still had to climb up to the top of the canyon through the bottom half of the Navajo loop. This proved to be nearly vertical, as the trail used a combination of switch-backs and stairs to climb what must have been the equivalent of thirty stories.
Satisfied with ourselves after a morning of hiking at Bryce Canyon, we drove down to the north rim of the Grand Canyon on Saturday evening. We stopped briefly at the Pipe Spring National Monument, where there was an old Mormon ranch, and a little museum describing both the Paiute and Mormon experiences. Campgrounds at the Grand Canyon were filled up far in advance, leaving us to pitch our tent at a more distant campsite in the Kaibab National Forest. Somewhat surreally, the northern rim of the Grand Canyon is covered in thick forest (I wouldn’t be able to distinguish this from say, Wisconsin), which upended our expectations of what the Southwest should look like. We later learned that the higher altitude of the North Rim meant more precipitation fell there, leaving a lush forest surrounded by scrub desert too barren to graze cattle.
Perhaps it’s a little redundant to say this, but the Grand Canyon is big. Really, really big. The distant canyon walls seem like mountains on the horizon, the canyons themselves like descents into the underworld. It made the impressive canyons at Zion and Bryce seem like scale models. Sadly, this kind of scale doesn’t really come out well in photographs, but I suppose that we could hardly take better shots than those which have already been taken. Our canyon-hiking experience at Bryce did not prepare us at all for hiking the Grand Canyon. From the North Rim, the North Kaibab trail leads from the edge of the canyon, right down to the Colorado River, some 14 miles away (and about a mile down). The distances themselves were not really all that far, but the elevation change made the trek incredibly difficult. We only went down to the Redstone Bridge, which is less than 3 miles from the rim, but dropped more than 2000 feet. This still took us 5-6 hours to do. Going down was really easy: the trail is inviting and full of fellow hikers. We really didn’t take into account the strained faces of the hikers coming up (some people camp in the canyon, since it’s the only way to get to the river and back. The National Park Service warns against trying to get to the river and back in a day, for good reason). The rock change going down is amazingly sharp: we noticed the white stone at the top of the canyon give way to the red sandstone of the Supai formation on the trail itself. The views are amazing as you go down: you can see the far side of the canyon as you go down, and the hikers on the trail far below. We passed through the short Supai tunnel, and pressed on, all the way down to the Redstone Bridge, where we rested and chatted with a Dutch couple. The way up gave us much more trouble. We took a slow, plodding pace, but still we had to stop every ten minutes or so to catch our breath. We counted some 82 switchbacks on the way up; most were at least a hundred meters or so apart. Going steadily uphill, as the sun beats down mercilessly on you, on a path littered with horse droppings and hikers descending with the greatest of ease on the opposite side: not the most fun I’ve had. What was even worse was that you couldn’t even see the real top of the canyon, so more canyon wall appeared in front of you as you keep climbing. It was profoundly satisfying to stand on the top of the canyon and to know that you don’t need to go up anymore.
We left the Grand Canyon on Sunday afternoon, headed roughly northeast towards Colorado. Our trail led us through the Navajo nation, which is situated in the northeastern portion of Arizona (and extends into New Mexico and Utah). Like most Native American reservations, the Navajo seem to have gotten a pretty raw deal: most of the land was desolate, scrub desert, too thin to even graze cattle. Tourism seemed to be the only economic activity: there were these little jewellery stalls everywhere (though business couldn’t have been great). They also ran the Four Corners, where we stopped briefly just before closing time. Andrew can now claim to have lain down across four states simultaneously, and we munched down on delicious, delicious frybread (a thin fried bread loaded with honey and powdered sugar). We almost got locked in since I used the restrooms and everyone left in the meantime.
We arrived at Mesa Verde on Sunday evening, and spent Monday there. Mesa Verde is one of the more significant Ancestral Puebloan (formerly called Anasazi, which means “enemy ancestor” in Navajo, and thus offensive to modern Puebloans) sites. Over seven hundred years ago, they constructed settlements there in little alcoves set into cliff-faces. What was amazing was that this was done entirely without metal tools to dig into the rock with; instead this was achieved entirely with stone tools.
Being ambitious, we set out to see all major sites open to the public. This involved dashing madly from site to site, trying to fit in self-guided tours between the ranger-led ones. We started with a ranger-led tour of Balcony House in the morning. Just getting to the site was an adventure of itself: we descended down steep staircases and climbed tall ladders just to get into the cliff settlement. Of course, the Ancestral Puebloans had no such luxuries; they climbed in using little handholds in the rock. We learned that one of the major motivations to move to these settlements was that water was easily accessible. On the mesa, the water sources were located where the sandstone gave way to an impenetrable layer of shale, creating seep springs. The settlements were constructed in the alcoves that held these springs, replacing earlier settlements on the mesa top (where their fields were). Balcony House was less accessible than the other sites we visited; there were low-hanging walls that served no purpose other than to slow down one’s entrance to the location. Although defensibility would seem to be the best motivation to move into a cliff, none of the sites at Mesa Verde had been attacked (they were abandoned because of drought). We also learned about the kivas, the underground ceremonial chambers that were everywhere at Mesa Verde. Ancestral Puebloans believed that their ancestors emerged into this world from another world below; thus the underground kivas, with their sipapu, or spirit holes, allowed them to connect with the spirits.
We had a little time between our tour of Balcony House and the next tour at Cliff Palace, so we dashed off to do the self-guided tour at Spruce Tree House. Here, we were actually able to climb into an intact kiva (most kivas had long since lost their roofs, leaving them as stone-lined pits). It was actually quite cool and comfortable in there; they have this innovative ventilation system that allows a fire to be lit inside and still channel the smoke out, which also lets air in. From there, we quickly drove over to Cliff Palace, the largest of the cliff settlements. This tour group was much larger, and focused more on the lifestyle of the ancient inhabitants. There were an inordinate number of kivas there; over twenty just for the hundred-or-so inhabitants, which may indicate that it was a religious gathering place of sorts. From there, we quickly made a tour of the Mesa Top, which had a number of sites which showed the progression of architectural styles. We saw how the humble pithouse developed into the kivas we saw in the cliff settlements. Then, we dashed off to the other side of the park to see the guided tour at Long House. This proved to be the most interesting visit since the group was very small and we got the chance to ask a lot of questions and to walk through the settlement (whereas the other two tours only let us walk on the outside).
Originally, we planned to stop at Albuquerque after Mesa Verde, but we decided to go on to avoid a 11-hour drive to San Antonio the day after. Alas, this also gave us time to visit the Very Large Array and Roswell along the way, which made our drive equally long. We started at the crack of dawn and made a breakfast and oil change stop in Albuquerque. We walked around the Old Town for a little bit, but its adobe buildings had long since been taken over by shops selling touristy knick-knacks.
The Very Large Array is in the middle of nowhere. In fact, its location was explicitly selected for that reason. A large array of radio telescopes, its size (a diameter of 13 miles!) and sensitivity to interference from other radio signals meant that the middle of nowhere was precisely where its designers wanted to put it. Needless to say, this meant that we had a very long drive out of our way to see it. The site was almost completely empty: only ourselves, a few other visitors, an employee at the gift shop, and probably someone operating the telescope. We saw the museum exhibit describing the discoveries made there, and then took a short walking tour out to the array itself, a collection of massive radio detectors that looked like giant satellite dishes, rising from the desert sands.
From the scientific searches of the VLA, we moved onto the conspiracy theories of Roswell. Unfortunately, we arrived far too late in the evening to see anything, even to get souvenirs. Sadly, we took a few pictures of the alien-head street lights, had dinner at a Mexican restaurant, and kept driving. Amazingly, we got as far as El Paso that night, a trip of 800 miles.
Pictures!
Mt. Rainier/Crater Lake: http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/20090607MtRainierCraterLakeRedwoods#
San Francisco/Yosemite: http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/SanFranciscoYosemite#
Southwest: http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Southwest#
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Days 15-17: San Francisco, Yosemite
Ed: Written Wed. June 10th. Sorry about the lack of pictures, we'll try to get some up when we get a reliable high-bandwidth Internet connection.
We’ve just driven through Death Valley, and are on our way to that uniquely American den of sin and villainy, Las Vegas. Let me step back though, and recount our recent adventures that have brought us here.
After hours on the picturesque, coast-hugging highway 1 (which constantly threatened to send us plummeting into the rocky shoals of the Pacific), we arrived at the outskirts of San Francisco. Famished from our journey, we pulled into the Mecca of the burger world: In-N-Out. We ate those delicious, delicious burgers with the greatest of relish. Every bite filled our mouths with the meaty, heart-warming feel of hamburger, the soft, sesame-studded warmth of the bun, the fresh, water crunch of lettuce, the sharp, crispy tang of pickles, the sour and thick taste of ketchup, all melding together in an altogether delightful culinary experience. Thus fortified, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and journeyed into the city.
San Francisco is hilly. It belongs in its own special category of hilly. There were roads so steep that the sidewalk transitioned into a staircase and the climb got no easier. There were roads so steep you could only park perpendicular to the road, and we still wondered what would stop the cars from falling down like a line of dominos. We imagined it would be a little kid’s paradise if only there was snow and the freedom to slide down its hills. To these mind-bogglingly steep hills clung San Francisco’s famous streetcars, with their passengers clinging on trying to take in the sights without falling off.
As if to take advantage of the perspective offered by the hills, San Francisco’s architecture is spectacular. Every house was painted in bright colors, and many had these circular overhangs that extended over the sidewalk, as if defying the squareness imposed by the city grid. Every intersection offered a tantalizing glimpse of what lay beyond (because of the hills), often bringing the bridges or the downtown (with the Transamerica Pyramid) into view. To make the city more inviting, the sun cleared the frequent fogs when we were present, but sea breezes kept us pleasantly cool.
Refreshed after spending a night at the Mark Twain hotel (complete with his quotes on the windows in the stairwell), we began traipsing through the hills and streets of San Francisco on Sunday. We climbed up to Coit Tower, only to discover that it was closed, and then over to Ghirardelli Square, a charming little square dominated by the eponymous chocolate store (where they gave away an entire square of their delicious chocolate every time you walked in). We were saved from further walking by the arrival of our wonderful friend Tiffany, who joined us for the day showing us the finer sights. At first, we explored a street fair looking for food, but then we went over to the Golden Gate Park. Although we didn’t see the bridge (it’s on the other side of the city), we did tour its charming Japanese tea garden, where we climbed a frighteningly steep moon bridge. From there, we visited Haight-Ashbury, with its collection of counter-culture stores, and the Castro, San Francisco’s gay district where large rainbow flags flew and gay couples walked hand in hand. We capped off our day by having dinner in Chinatown, sinking our teeth into eggplant and Hunan beef, while numbing our tongues with sweet-and-sour soup.
On Monday morning, Ricardo and I took the ferry over to Alcatraz. Perhaps our expectations had been overblown with the thought that this was once where America’s most incorrigible prisoners were held, but the whole experience was much more of a tourist trap than we anticipated. The ferry dropped us off at the docks, where we watched a Discovery channel program on Alcatraz (every national park seems to have one of these), then we took the audio tour of the cellhouse block. What was striking was how small the entire facility was: no bigger than an average warehouse with four “blocks” of cells. There was an isolation wing, a library, and a weed-infested rec area, as well as a warden’s office and a control room for the guards. The tour tried to make things more interesting by following the story of daring attempted escapes, but the effect was spoiled because of the number of tourists milling about.
We drove down to Yosemite on Monday afternoon. Our fears of being jaded by seeing too many national parks were unfounded: the granite peaks and redwood forests awed us as if we had never seen mountains or trees before. On the way in, we saw our first (and most likely only) bears of the trip on the side of the road: a mother bear with two cubs trailing her, and a younger bear (whom the rangers informed us was two years old but looked much smaller because it’s mother had been hit by a car the year before). That said, Yosemite was packed cheek-to-jowl compared to the other national parks we had seen. The path leading up to Half Dome was packed with families with young children, young couples on their honeymoons, other college students on their post-college bacchanals, elderly couples enjoying their golden years, etc. The campgrounds were equally full. Though we had planned on spending two nights there, we did not manage to secure a campsite on either night, staying outside the park both times.
Having only one full day to spend at Yosemite, we saw no choice but to try to climb Half Dome. There’s this 16-mile trail that climbs nearly a mile vertically, which daunted us, but also goaded us on to try and climb it. Unfortunately, I only made it a third of the way up before a particularly steep staircase on the side of a waterfall told me that perhaps I should turn back. Andrew and Ricardo continued climbing, summiting in the early afternoon. They told harrowing tales of how at one point, the trail got so steep that they needed to hang onto a cable to keep going up.
We set off on the road to Las Vegas this morning, and if all goes well, we should get there in the afternoon. On the way, we decided to make a detour to Death Valley. Though the sun did beat down mercilessly on us, the temperature did not climb high enough to melt tires or shoes. There must have been plenty of breathtaking sights had we had time to stay; the valley is nestled among the Sierra Nevada with its scenic rocky, treeless peaks. Despite the name, the desolation is not quite complete there: away from the salt flats, small bushes clung to life, and a constant precession of cars and trucks rolled by on the road.
We’ve just driven through Death Valley, and are on our way to that uniquely American den of sin and villainy, Las Vegas. Let me step back though, and recount our recent adventures that have brought us here.
After hours on the picturesque, coast-hugging highway 1 (which constantly threatened to send us plummeting into the rocky shoals of the Pacific), we arrived at the outskirts of San Francisco. Famished from our journey, we pulled into the Mecca of the burger world: In-N-Out. We ate those delicious, delicious burgers with the greatest of relish. Every bite filled our mouths with the meaty, heart-warming feel of hamburger, the soft, sesame-studded warmth of the bun, the fresh, water crunch of lettuce, the sharp, crispy tang of pickles, the sour and thick taste of ketchup, all melding together in an altogether delightful culinary experience. Thus fortified, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and journeyed into the city.
San Francisco is hilly. It belongs in its own special category of hilly. There were roads so steep that the sidewalk transitioned into a staircase and the climb got no easier. There were roads so steep you could only park perpendicular to the road, and we still wondered what would stop the cars from falling down like a line of dominos. We imagined it would be a little kid’s paradise if only there was snow and the freedom to slide down its hills. To these mind-bogglingly steep hills clung San Francisco’s famous streetcars, with their passengers clinging on trying to take in the sights without falling off.
As if to take advantage of the perspective offered by the hills, San Francisco’s architecture is spectacular. Every house was painted in bright colors, and many had these circular overhangs that extended over the sidewalk, as if defying the squareness imposed by the city grid. Every intersection offered a tantalizing glimpse of what lay beyond (because of the hills), often bringing the bridges or the downtown (with the Transamerica Pyramid) into view. To make the city more inviting, the sun cleared the frequent fogs when we were present, but sea breezes kept us pleasantly cool.
Refreshed after spending a night at the Mark Twain hotel (complete with his quotes on the windows in the stairwell), we began traipsing through the hills and streets of San Francisco on Sunday. We climbed up to Coit Tower, only to discover that it was closed, and then over to Ghirardelli Square, a charming little square dominated by the eponymous chocolate store (where they gave away an entire square of their delicious chocolate every time you walked in). We were saved from further walking by the arrival of our wonderful friend Tiffany, who joined us for the day showing us the finer sights. At first, we explored a street fair looking for food, but then we went over to the Golden Gate Park. Although we didn’t see the bridge (it’s on the other side of the city), we did tour its charming Japanese tea garden, where we climbed a frighteningly steep moon bridge. From there, we visited Haight-Ashbury, with its collection of counter-culture stores, and the Castro, San Francisco’s gay district where large rainbow flags flew and gay couples walked hand in hand. We capped off our day by having dinner in Chinatown, sinking our teeth into eggplant and Hunan beef, while numbing our tongues with sweet-and-sour soup.
On Monday morning, Ricardo and I took the ferry over to Alcatraz. Perhaps our expectations had been overblown with the thought that this was once where America’s most incorrigible prisoners were held, but the whole experience was much more of a tourist trap than we anticipated. The ferry dropped us off at the docks, where we watched a Discovery channel program on Alcatraz (every national park seems to have one of these), then we took the audio tour of the cellhouse block. What was striking was how small the entire facility was: no bigger than an average warehouse with four “blocks” of cells. There was an isolation wing, a library, and a weed-infested rec area, as well as a warden’s office and a control room for the guards. The tour tried to make things more interesting by following the story of daring attempted escapes, but the effect was spoiled because of the number of tourists milling about.
We drove down to Yosemite on Monday afternoon. Our fears of being jaded by seeing too many national parks were unfounded: the granite peaks and redwood forests awed us as if we had never seen mountains or trees before. On the way in, we saw our first (and most likely only) bears of the trip on the side of the road: a mother bear with two cubs trailing her, and a younger bear (whom the rangers informed us was two years old but looked much smaller because it’s mother had been hit by a car the year before). That said, Yosemite was packed cheek-to-jowl compared to the other national parks we had seen. The path leading up to Half Dome was packed with families with young children, young couples on their honeymoons, other college students on their post-college bacchanals, elderly couples enjoying their golden years, etc. The campgrounds were equally full. Though we had planned on spending two nights there, we did not manage to secure a campsite on either night, staying outside the park both times.
Having only one full day to spend at Yosemite, we saw no choice but to try to climb Half Dome. There’s this 16-mile trail that climbs nearly a mile vertically, which daunted us, but also goaded us on to try and climb it. Unfortunately, I only made it a third of the way up before a particularly steep staircase on the side of a waterfall told me that perhaps I should turn back. Andrew and Ricardo continued climbing, summiting in the early afternoon. They told harrowing tales of how at one point, the trail got so steep that they needed to hang onto a cable to keep going up.
We set off on the road to Las Vegas this morning, and if all goes well, we should get there in the afternoon. On the way, we decided to make a detour to Death Valley. Though the sun did beat down mercilessly on us, the temperature did not climb high enough to melt tires or shoes. There must have been plenty of breathtaking sights had we had time to stay; the valley is nestled among the Sierra Nevada with its scenic rocky, treeless peaks. Despite the name, the desolation is not quite complete there: away from the salt flats, small bushes clung to life, and a constant precession of cars and trucks rolled by on the road.
Days 13-14: Crater Lake, Redwoods
Ed: Written Sat. June 6th. Sorry for the lack of pictures, it's been a while since we've found a reliable, high bandwidth Internet connection.
Taking a leisurely drive down Highway 1, along the California coast towards San Francisco. As it turned out, our original schedule was wildly optimistic, but the adjustment we made meant that we actually got to stop at all our destinations.
We arrived at Crater Lake on Thursday night, far too late at night, but far too early in the season. Thanks to a combination of rainstorms, traffic jams in Portland, and an eerie fog on the road, we arrived at midnight. Fortunately, the combination of snow and moonlight made it possible to navigate, but we couldn’t find any campgrounds that were opened. As a result, we spent another night like hobos, sleeping out in the car in the visitor’s parking lot (thus also, fulfilling Ricardo’s fondest fantasy). The following morning, we awoke in a winter wonderland. As the park ranger explained, Crater Lake is actually the result of a collapsed volcano, and sits high in the mountain, where the Pacific rain becomes snow. Half of the road around the lake had not even been cleared yet; everywhere else, there were snowdrifts up to ten feet high on the side of the road. We drove around the lake rim for a bit, taking pictures of the breathtaking lake view, but sadly unable to make any hikes whatsoever.
Our visit to the Redwoods was a bit rushed. Inclement weather and a poorly chosen route through Oregon meant we arrived late in the evening. The desire to leave early for San Francisco meant we had to wake up early to spend any time there at all. There was some debate about whether to spend the night camping or in the car again (to which I argued that this was a camping trip, not a “sleeping in the car” trip); fortunately, the motion prevailed and we spent a pleasant night in a tent on the grass. The following morning, we decided to hike the Coastal Trail. The contrast between Redwoods and Crater Lake could not have been more striking: in one day, we went from 10-foot snowdrifts, to humid, semi-tropical forest with trees big enough to drive through.
I couldn’t manage to fit an entire redwood into a picture, and I doubt that words could really capture their magnitude either. Trees west of the Rockies were noticeably bigger, but these were in a league all of their own. There was one tree which had a burnt out hollow big enough to house a family, and was still alive hundreds of feet above. It looked less like we were in a forest then in a house built by giants, with thick curtains of moss draped from every surface. We had the distinct feeling that we were in a world of giants, and that they had just stepped out for a few minutes.
Taking a leisurely drive down Highway 1, along the California coast towards San Francisco. As it turned out, our original schedule was wildly optimistic, but the adjustment we made meant that we actually got to stop at all our destinations.
We arrived at Crater Lake on Thursday night, far too late at night, but far too early in the season. Thanks to a combination of rainstorms, traffic jams in Portland, and an eerie fog on the road, we arrived at midnight. Fortunately, the combination of snow and moonlight made it possible to navigate, but we couldn’t find any campgrounds that were opened. As a result, we spent another night like hobos, sleeping out in the car in the visitor’s parking lot (thus also, fulfilling Ricardo’s fondest fantasy). The following morning, we awoke in a winter wonderland. As the park ranger explained, Crater Lake is actually the result of a collapsed volcano, and sits high in the mountain, where the Pacific rain becomes snow. Half of the road around the lake had not even been cleared yet; everywhere else, there were snowdrifts up to ten feet high on the side of the road. We drove around the lake rim for a bit, taking pictures of the breathtaking lake view, but sadly unable to make any hikes whatsoever.
Our visit to the Redwoods was a bit rushed. Inclement weather and a poorly chosen route through Oregon meant we arrived late in the evening. The desire to leave early for San Francisco meant we had to wake up early to spend any time there at all. There was some debate about whether to spend the night camping or in the car again (to which I argued that this was a camping trip, not a “sleeping in the car” trip); fortunately, the motion prevailed and we spent a pleasant night in a tent on the grass. The following morning, we decided to hike the Coastal Trail. The contrast between Redwoods and Crater Lake could not have been more striking: in one day, we went from 10-foot snowdrifts, to humid, semi-tropical forest with trees big enough to drive through.
I couldn’t manage to fit an entire redwood into a picture, and I doubt that words could really capture their magnitude either. Trees west of the Rockies were noticeably bigger, but these were in a league all of their own. There was one tree which had a burnt out hollow big enough to house a family, and was still alive hundreds of feet above. It looked less like we were in a forest then in a house built by giants, with thick curtains of moss draped from every surface. We had the distinct feeling that we were in a world of giants, and that they had just stepped out for a few minutes.
Monday, June 8, 2009
I'll Leave My Heart In San Francisco
Hello Everyone!! This is going to be a very very quick update because I'm paying per minute for internet access at a fax and copy shop in downtown San Francisco. Lok-kin and Ricardo are currently on a tour of Alcatraz, assuming they actually made it to the wharf in time, but having seen it already, I'm going to take a pass. Thus, while they're pretending to be Nicholas Cage or Sean Connery, I am let loose in this beautiful city, free to discover my inner self, explore the city's beauty, and get my hair cut, for the next three hours or so.
The last few days have been an absolute whirlwind (actually, the last two weeks have basically been an absolute whirlwind, but who's counting?). For three days, we explored the ecsquisite forests of the West Coast, starting with an ill-fated hike in Mount Rainier and ending with a tramp through the Redwood forests of Northern California, which I believe are akin to heaven (though hopefully hell, which I'm pretty sure I'm headed to, has fewer bugs). The Redwoods were also notable for being the first national park we've spent any significant time in without any snow on the ground. This trip has given me renewed appreciation for the finer things in life, like spring, not to mention regular seasons that last 3 months each. At Glacier Nat'l Park, we were forced to end a hike up to the Grinnel Glacier because, as we traversed switchbacks up a mountainside, we were confronted with a solid sheet of snow and ice that would have probably sent us to our doom if we tried to cross it. At Mt. Rainier, the trail we were following disappeared completely beneath several feet of the stuff, and we were lucky to get out alive after an attempt to follow what we believed was the trail. A note to people who, like us enjoy hiking but have no survival skills: compasses and trail markers are your friend. A note to the National Park Service: some trail markers would be nice, y'know. Finally, after arriving at Crater Lake past midnight, we ended up sleeping in our car next to a snowbank that rose 8 feet in the air. Oh yeah, and every single trail in the park was closed off until mid- to late-June. Needless to say, I'm starting to have second thoughts about global warming. However, each one of these places was spectacular and presented its own unique natural beauty. I'm starting to think that a move to the West Coast sounds pretty good.
So, after the Redwoods we jaunted down the California coastline on US-1 to an uncharacteristically sunny San Francisco. OK, not jaunted perse. It turns out that US-1 is the most convoluted highway we have ever seen, to our delighted chagrin. Beautiful views of dramatic coastline are wonderful, but seriously, the road could have been a bit straighter. Nevertheless, after 7 hours of driving, we arrived on the outskirts of San Francisco, and arrived at Red Meat Nirvana: In N' Out. And, despite Ricardo's grousing, they were the most delicious hamburgers either Lok-kin or I have ever tasted.
Since then, we have traversed the Golden Gate Bridge and spent a fast-paced day in Frisco, in the lovely company of Ms. Tiffany Tang, who requested a shout-out within the hallowed ether. Alas, I don't want to spend much more money on internet service, so I will leave that update for another day. Adieu, my friends, till next time!
The last few days have been an absolute whirlwind (actually, the last two weeks have basically been an absolute whirlwind, but who's counting?). For three days, we explored the ecsquisite forests of the West Coast, starting with an ill-fated hike in Mount Rainier and ending with a tramp through the Redwood forests of Northern California, which I believe are akin to heaven (though hopefully hell, which I'm pretty sure I'm headed to, has fewer bugs). The Redwoods were also notable for being the first national park we've spent any significant time in without any snow on the ground. This trip has given me renewed appreciation for the finer things in life, like spring, not to mention regular seasons that last 3 months each. At Glacier Nat'l Park, we were forced to end a hike up to the Grinnel Glacier because, as we traversed switchbacks up a mountainside, we were confronted with a solid sheet of snow and ice that would have probably sent us to our doom if we tried to cross it. At Mt. Rainier, the trail we were following disappeared completely beneath several feet of the stuff, and we were lucky to get out alive after an attempt to follow what we believed was the trail. A note to people who, like us enjoy hiking but have no survival skills: compasses and trail markers are your friend. A note to the National Park Service: some trail markers would be nice, y'know. Finally, after arriving at Crater Lake past midnight, we ended up sleeping in our car next to a snowbank that rose 8 feet in the air. Oh yeah, and every single trail in the park was closed off until mid- to late-June. Needless to say, I'm starting to have second thoughts about global warming. However, each one of these places was spectacular and presented its own unique natural beauty. I'm starting to think that a move to the West Coast sounds pretty good.
So, after the Redwoods we jaunted down the California coastline on US-1 to an uncharacteristically sunny San Francisco. OK, not jaunted perse. It turns out that US-1 is the most convoluted highway we have ever seen, to our delighted chagrin. Beautiful views of dramatic coastline are wonderful, but seriously, the road could have been a bit straighter. Nevertheless, after 7 hours of driving, we arrived on the outskirts of San Francisco, and arrived at Red Meat Nirvana: In N' Out. And, despite Ricardo's grousing, they were the most delicious hamburgers either Lok-kin or I have ever tasted.
Since then, we have traversed the Golden Gate Bridge and spent a fast-paced day in Frisco, in the lovely company of Ms. Tiffany Tang, who requested a shout-out within the hallowed ether. Alas, I don't want to spend much more money on internet service, so I will leave that update for another day. Adieu, my friends, till next time!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Days 10-12: Seattle, Mt. Rainer
Ed: Written Thursday evening, on the road to Crater Lake.
On Tuesday morning, we resumed our journey to Seattle. Our appreciation of the Motel 6 for having showers and being open when we got there at 11 pm vanished when we discovered that housekeeping had somehow left both men’s and women’s underwear in our hotel room. Unfortunately, we received our first speeding ticket that morning, as we were pulled over for going 81 mph (130 km/h) on a 70 mph (112 km/h) highway. It was bound to happen, I suppose, since we were going around 80 mph across the Midwest. We later saw the same police officer pulling over another car for speeding just a few miles down the road.
We got into Seattle early in the afternoon. It was wonderful to see a city again, although it took us a while to get used to the city highways, having not seen any since Minneapolis. Seattle is surprisingly picturesque. The downtown skyline was filled with modern, concrete-and-glass buildings. From the freeway, we observed short apartments filling the hills from the shoreline upwards, which is how I always imagine the French Rivera looks.
Our first goal was to get a replacement power cable for my laptop. This turned out to be a bit of a wild goose chase, since we first went north of the city, only to discover that the address we had did not exist. We then started heading back downtown, when Andrew’s mom was able to locate a Best Buy for us (which sent us back north to a suburban mall). The replacement cable was rather expensive: $90. Since it was the price to redeem my laptop though, I had no choice but to pay.
We decided to spend the afternoon visiting the Pike Place Fish Market. We parked our car some distance away, and walked through the downtown. This really brought to mind a sort of SoHo on Puget Sound: everything was clean, the buildings were aesthetically pleasing and modern, and the people were hipper than normal (we noticed a lot of long-haired men, and there were people practising a Brazilian fighting dance). We were amazed at the efficiency of Seattle’s bus system, since we noticed bus stops all over the place with lots of commuters.
One thing that I noticed was the relative ethnic diversity of Seattle. Usually, I don’t realize this, since I’ve grown up in a relatively diverse environment, but it was rather striking since we hadn’t seen such ethnic diversity since Minneapolis. There were some Indian and East Asian faces at Yellowstone, and northern Montana seemed to have a significant Native American population (we passed through both the Flathead and Blackfeet reservations), but for the large part, most people we had met were White.
The Pike Place Fish Market itself was impressive when we were there, but on reflection, it was something of a tourist trap. The spirit of Seattle seemed to be crystallized there: the store-owners and employees all seemed to be tattooed hipsters, and the stores themselves were an eclectic mix. Among other sights, we saw the original Starbucks, an artisanal cheese shop (where we could see cheese being made through the window), an accordionist on the sidewalk, shops selling spiritual trinkets, candles and soaps, little bakeries and cafes and a comic book store with an impressive collection (I sadly left without buying a replica ST:TOS phaser). The fish market was not solely a tourist destination though; it also contained shops selling organic produce, fish fresh from the docks (one gentleman was loudly announcing recently arrived fish), flowers, food products from around the world, etc.
Since it was too early to eat, we wandered over to the public library at Ricardo’s suggestion, which turned out to be a wonderful idea. The top floor was lit up incredibly by a modernist glass-and-steel lattice that gave an impressive feel of space. As we went down, I had the chance to briefly reconnect with my inner child as I felt that long-absent sense of wonder at just opening a book and reading. We had dinner at a Bolivian restaurant near the docks, which served seafood so fresh that one could swear they had caught it to order. Afterward, we wandered once again through the downtown area, passed the Space Needle and the Science Fiction museum back to our car.
When we got back to the parking lot, we found that it had been locked. Now this was a strange parking lot: it was actually an outer part of a recently-constructed apartment building’s underground parking, but it was open for public use. Since the sign had a rate for evening parking, and the lot was automated, we assumed it would be open all night. We tried to go around to find an office to the parking lot, but we only managed to get into the building’s parking garage. Since we didn’t live there, and the elevators were in a key-access only room, we were locked in the parking garage. For a few moments, we were afraid that we would have to spend an unpleasant night in the parking garage. After searching around, we pushed what we thought was a fire door to get out (fortunately, no alarm sounded). Our car was still trapped though. We tried randomly buzzing people to see if they knew how to contact the superintendent; they were kind, but couldn’t really help. At last, Ricardo found the number to the security company, and was able to call someone to let us get to our car. We made our way to a hotel near the airport. I was momentarily worried when the GPS led us to a seedy motel, but it turned out I had booked at a nicer hotel next door.
We took a late start on Wednesday morning. For one thing, we had to run some errands: a week’s worth of laundry had to be done, and we still needed to book some hotels for the later parts of our trip. After so many adventures, we found it enjoyable just to be able to relax a little bit.
In the afternoon, we took the tour at the Boeing factory. At first, I admit that I was somewhat sceptical about the visit, but I was definitely won over. The scale of the factory was just gargantuan. It’s apparently the largest building by volume in the world, which isn’t quite obvious from the outside, but became much more apparent when we went inside and saw jetliners lined up on an assembly line. Our tour guide, Christopher, had the largest mutton chops I have ever seen, and gave his well-rehearsed tour in a very professional way, regaling us with statistics and nuggets of Boeing lore, as he led us through the assembly bays for 747s, 777s and 787s. We were told that the newer 787s could be assembled in just three days (because of a glacially-slow moving assembly line used instead of having the planes being assembled individually), when the older 747s needed some 14 weeks to complete. I think this involves a fair bit of fudging the figures, since all the parts of the 747 (save the engine) are assembled on-site, while the 787 had entire wings, fuselage segments, etc. flown in and just had to be connected together.
The factory itself had 6 gigantic bays, each one eleven stories high and at least 250 meters wide (I remarked at one point that you could probably line up a few cathedrals in each of these bays). The sliding doors in front of the bays were the size of a football field each. We walked far above the assembly floor, looking down from high balconies. Below, we saw aircraft in different stages of assembly, surrounded by scaffolding, portable elevators, moving platforms, and people putting the planes together. There were huge cranes for moving entire wings, engines, tails, etc. suspended from the scaffolding above us. We could peer into cubicles, cafeterias and conference rooms, placed either on the assembly floor, or in the large rectangular blocks that served as both supports and dividers for the assembly bays. Andrew and I both remarked that the designers of the movie version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy must have used this as their inspiration for the Magrethean planet-building factory.
We drove down to Mt. Rainier in the evening. Perhaps we have seen so many wonders, but we were a little jaded to truly appreciate the wonders of the mountains. We pitched our tent in a campground on the shores of the Ohanapecosh River. That night, we slept to the soothing sounds of running water. It wasn’t until the morning when we really began to appreciate our forested surroundings. The trees on this side of the Rockies look like they have been supersized. The trees that looked huge in Glacier were commonplace here; we must have passed at least a dozen giant trees that had died, fallen, and were being colonized by fungi.
We hiked the Cowlitz Divide Trail. In retrospect, we should really have had second thoughts when reading the description “8.5 miles [long], 2440’ [increase] in elevation”. I did some quick math: at 10 feet/story, that’s twice as tall as the World Trade Center towers. The trail started climbing right out of the parking lot, and just never stopped ascending. It wasn’t all that steep, but the climb was constant. We passed through humid old-growth forest. Gigantic trees surrounded us; fallen ones showed that they must have been a meter or more across. There was moss everywhere, and mushrooms grew from both fallen logs and still living trees. The bugs were plentiful, and in turn, so were the spiders and tree frogs. We brushed aside cobwebs at every turn and wondered how such tiny spiders could spin webs that spanned the width of the trail. We passed the Silver Falls, which resembled a region of powerful rapids more than the gentle cascades we had seen before.
Eventually, our climb took us into the snow-covered region. Weirdly, this was well below the tree-line, since giant conifers still grew above us, and new shoots still rose through the snow. Unfortunately, this also obscured the trail, and we continued on a bit, guessing where the trail must be. We thought that eventually, we would find the trail again, leaving being little markers to identify where we had been. After half an hour in the snow, we concluded that we must have lost the trail (or it was itself obscured under the snow), and were forced to turn back. We found out way back down, but it rattled us a little to realize how easily we might have become lost.
We’re revising our schedule a little bit. We’re headed to Crater Lake right now, and should get there (though pretty late) tonight. Tomorrow (Friday), we’ll spend a little bit of time at Crater Lake, and then drive down to Redwoods. The plan is to leave for San Francisco early Saturday morning, and hopefully get half of Saturday, as well as Sunday to explore Frisco.
On Tuesday morning, we resumed our journey to Seattle. Our appreciation of the Motel 6 for having showers and being open when we got there at 11 pm vanished when we discovered that housekeeping had somehow left both men’s and women’s underwear in our hotel room. Unfortunately, we received our first speeding ticket that morning, as we were pulled over for going 81 mph (130 km/h) on a 70 mph (112 km/h) highway. It was bound to happen, I suppose, since we were going around 80 mph across the Midwest. We later saw the same police officer pulling over another car for speeding just a few miles down the road.
We got into Seattle early in the afternoon. It was wonderful to see a city again, although it took us a while to get used to the city highways, having not seen any since Minneapolis. Seattle is surprisingly picturesque. The downtown skyline was filled with modern, concrete-and-glass buildings. From the freeway, we observed short apartments filling the hills from the shoreline upwards, which is how I always imagine the French Rivera looks.
Our first goal was to get a replacement power cable for my laptop. This turned out to be a bit of a wild goose chase, since we first went north of the city, only to discover that the address we had did not exist. We then started heading back downtown, when Andrew’s mom was able to locate a Best Buy for us (which sent us back north to a suburban mall). The replacement cable was rather expensive: $90. Since it was the price to redeem my laptop though, I had no choice but to pay.
We decided to spend the afternoon visiting the Pike Place Fish Market. We parked our car some distance away, and walked through the downtown. This really brought to mind a sort of SoHo on Puget Sound: everything was clean, the buildings were aesthetically pleasing and modern, and the people were hipper than normal (we noticed a lot of long-haired men, and there were people practising a Brazilian fighting dance). We were amazed at the efficiency of Seattle’s bus system, since we noticed bus stops all over the place with lots of commuters.
One thing that I noticed was the relative ethnic diversity of Seattle. Usually, I don’t realize this, since I’ve grown up in a relatively diverse environment, but it was rather striking since we hadn’t seen such ethnic diversity since Minneapolis. There were some Indian and East Asian faces at Yellowstone, and northern Montana seemed to have a significant Native American population (we passed through both the Flathead and Blackfeet reservations), but for the large part, most people we had met were White.
The Pike Place Fish Market itself was impressive when we were there, but on reflection, it was something of a tourist trap. The spirit of Seattle seemed to be crystallized there: the store-owners and employees all seemed to be tattooed hipsters, and the stores themselves were an eclectic mix. Among other sights, we saw the original Starbucks, an artisanal cheese shop (where we could see cheese being made through the window), an accordionist on the sidewalk, shops selling spiritual trinkets, candles and soaps, little bakeries and cafes and a comic book store with an impressive collection (I sadly left without buying a replica ST:TOS phaser). The fish market was not solely a tourist destination though; it also contained shops selling organic produce, fish fresh from the docks (one gentleman was loudly announcing recently arrived fish), flowers, food products from around the world, etc.
Since it was too early to eat, we wandered over to the public library at Ricardo’s suggestion, which turned out to be a wonderful idea. The top floor was lit up incredibly by a modernist glass-and-steel lattice that gave an impressive feel of space. As we went down, I had the chance to briefly reconnect with my inner child as I felt that long-absent sense of wonder at just opening a book and reading. We had dinner at a Bolivian restaurant near the docks, which served seafood so fresh that one could swear they had caught it to order. Afterward, we wandered once again through the downtown area, passed the Space Needle and the Science Fiction museum back to our car.
When we got back to the parking lot, we found that it had been locked. Now this was a strange parking lot: it was actually an outer part of a recently-constructed apartment building’s underground parking, but it was open for public use. Since the sign had a rate for evening parking, and the lot was automated, we assumed it would be open all night. We tried to go around to find an office to the parking lot, but we only managed to get into the building’s parking garage. Since we didn’t live there, and the elevators were in a key-access only room, we were locked in the parking garage. For a few moments, we were afraid that we would have to spend an unpleasant night in the parking garage. After searching around, we pushed what we thought was a fire door to get out (fortunately, no alarm sounded). Our car was still trapped though. We tried randomly buzzing people to see if they knew how to contact the superintendent; they were kind, but couldn’t really help. At last, Ricardo found the number to the security company, and was able to call someone to let us get to our car. We made our way to a hotel near the airport. I was momentarily worried when the GPS led us to a seedy motel, but it turned out I had booked at a nicer hotel next door.
We took a late start on Wednesday morning. For one thing, we had to run some errands: a week’s worth of laundry had to be done, and we still needed to book some hotels for the later parts of our trip. After so many adventures, we found it enjoyable just to be able to relax a little bit.
In the afternoon, we took the tour at the Boeing factory. At first, I admit that I was somewhat sceptical about the visit, but I was definitely won over. The scale of the factory was just gargantuan. It’s apparently the largest building by volume in the world, which isn’t quite obvious from the outside, but became much more apparent when we went inside and saw jetliners lined up on an assembly line. Our tour guide, Christopher, had the largest mutton chops I have ever seen, and gave his well-rehearsed tour in a very professional way, regaling us with statistics and nuggets of Boeing lore, as he led us through the assembly bays for 747s, 777s and 787s. We were told that the newer 787s could be assembled in just three days (because of a glacially-slow moving assembly line used instead of having the planes being assembled individually), when the older 747s needed some 14 weeks to complete. I think this involves a fair bit of fudging the figures, since all the parts of the 747 (save the engine) are assembled on-site, while the 787 had entire wings, fuselage segments, etc. flown in and just had to be connected together.
The factory itself had 6 gigantic bays, each one eleven stories high and at least 250 meters wide (I remarked at one point that you could probably line up a few cathedrals in each of these bays). The sliding doors in front of the bays were the size of a football field each. We walked far above the assembly floor, looking down from high balconies. Below, we saw aircraft in different stages of assembly, surrounded by scaffolding, portable elevators, moving platforms, and people putting the planes together. There were huge cranes for moving entire wings, engines, tails, etc. suspended from the scaffolding above us. We could peer into cubicles, cafeterias and conference rooms, placed either on the assembly floor, or in the large rectangular blocks that served as both supports and dividers for the assembly bays. Andrew and I both remarked that the designers of the movie version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy must have used this as their inspiration for the Magrethean planet-building factory.
We drove down to Mt. Rainier in the evening. Perhaps we have seen so many wonders, but we were a little jaded to truly appreciate the wonders of the mountains. We pitched our tent in a campground on the shores of the Ohanapecosh River. That night, we slept to the soothing sounds of running water. It wasn’t until the morning when we really began to appreciate our forested surroundings. The trees on this side of the Rockies look like they have been supersized. The trees that looked huge in Glacier were commonplace here; we must have passed at least a dozen giant trees that had died, fallen, and were being colonized by fungi.
We hiked the Cowlitz Divide Trail. In retrospect, we should really have had second thoughts when reading the description “8.5 miles [long], 2440’ [increase] in elevation”. I did some quick math: at 10 feet/story, that’s twice as tall as the World Trade Center towers. The trail started climbing right out of the parking lot, and just never stopped ascending. It wasn’t all that steep, but the climb was constant. We passed through humid old-growth forest. Gigantic trees surrounded us; fallen ones showed that they must have been a meter or more across. There was moss everywhere, and mushrooms grew from both fallen logs and still living trees. The bugs were plentiful, and in turn, so were the spiders and tree frogs. We brushed aside cobwebs at every turn and wondered how such tiny spiders could spin webs that spanned the width of the trail. We passed the Silver Falls, which resembled a region of powerful rapids more than the gentle cascades we had seen before.
Eventually, our climb took us into the snow-covered region. Weirdly, this was well below the tree-line, since giant conifers still grew above us, and new shoots still rose through the snow. Unfortunately, this also obscured the trail, and we continued on a bit, guessing where the trail must be. We thought that eventually, we would find the trail again, leaving being little markers to identify where we had been. After half an hour in the snow, we concluded that we must have lost the trail (or it was itself obscured under the snow), and were forced to turn back. We found out way back down, but it rattled us a little to realize how easily we might have become lost.
We’re revising our schedule a little bit. We’re headed to Crater Lake right now, and should get there (though pretty late) tonight. Tomorrow (Friday), we’ll spend a little bit of time at Crater Lake, and then drive down to Redwoods. The plan is to leave for San Francisco early Saturday morning, and hopefully get half of Saturday, as well as Sunday to explore Frisco.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Kings of the Road
"If you're not going 80, you're not traveling." Thus saith the bold and intrepid adventurer Lok-kin Yeung. And to be honest, in that case we've been traveling a whole helluva a lot. Of course, unfortunately we discovered that at 81, the cops pull you over in Washington State. At least occasionally.
Despite the occasional inconveniences of long-distance road-trippin, driving in the west as been an incredible experience. Nowhere else in America does the road beckon you so strongly; open and inviting, it stretches out into the distance like a concrete river flowing straight into the shadowy mountains or into the bright blue sky. Horses, cows, and in some cases antelope roam placidly on either side of the highway, while in teh parks you can coast slowly by herds of bison, oodles of elk, and at one point a mountain goat. The landscape, when not obscured by a windshield made opaque for reasons that will be explained below, is quite simply awe-inspiring, and can change from farms and boundless plains to snow-capped mountains in the space of a highway exit. And then there is the speeding.
The first thing you should know is that there are no police on Western highways (well, until you get to Washington State, apparently), especially the smaller roadways. In five days driving we saw the fuzz drive by maybe twice. Secondly, the speed limits usually hold steady at 70 or 75. Third is that the roadways are invariably abandoned. This combination has allowed us, except when we have to avoid steamrolling schoolchildren in the occasional small town, to crown ourselves kings of the open road. This has of course spawned an ever-escalating speed competition between Lok-kin and myself, with Ricardo thus far playing a passive role in third place. While some may find our speeds tame, they climbed rapidly from the first, tentative topping of 90 mph on the third day to ever more boisterous violations of traffic laws and common sense. This was followed by 93, 95, 98, and then the highly inadvisable, illegal, and totally awesome cracking of the century mark. While I hesitate to write this on a public forum where my mother will likely see it (I love you, Mom), we (or, to brag, I) jacked up the speed to 109 in Montana, earning for myself eternal glory and what will most likely be an angry phone call. Alas, given our recent apprehension by the friendly cops of Washington, it is unlikely we will be continuing our exploits (I promise!).
Just Plain Buggy
The trials and tribulations of long-distance driving are certainly formidable, ranging from the persistent ache in your lower back, tuchus, and pretty much everywhere that comes from sitting in a 2-square foot space for 8 hours a day, to the need to get an oil change roughly once a week. These inconveniences are far surpassed, however, by the pernicious inability of bugs to recognize a highway as a ****ing stupid place to congregate.
In the week or so we have spent driving in the West, we have committed a veritable mass-slaughtering of bugs, to a degree that would impress many exterminators. It is rather unnerving to see fly after fly essentially divebomb your windshield, meeting an untimely and aggravatingly sticky death at 85 miles per hour. Before long, however, it becomes simply infuriating, as the front of the car becomes an overcrowded graveyard of winged invertebrates. At every gas stop, painful effort must be spent scrubbing ill-fated fleas and flies off of the windshield, simply for the sake of driving with reasonable visibility. Even after the glass has been painstakingly rinsed of the blood of innocents, within hours it will have been rendered opaque once again by hundreds of grotesque splatterings, each with its own trajectory and blast radius. The entire front of the car suffers this bombardment (yes, it's suffering is as intense as that of the small creatures meeting their untimely ends on its chrome), and has been recolored an exoskeletal black and grey from its original metallic blue.
Nevertheless, other than those infernal insects and tricksy law enforcement officers, life on the road has been swell. We look forward to many more miles on America's roadways, even as we try to ignore the continued splatters against the windshield while we cruise our concrete kingdom beneath a clear blue sky.
Despite the occasional inconveniences of long-distance road-trippin, driving in the west as been an incredible experience. Nowhere else in America does the road beckon you so strongly; open and inviting, it stretches out into the distance like a concrete river flowing straight into the shadowy mountains or into the bright blue sky. Horses, cows, and in some cases antelope roam placidly on either side of the highway, while in teh parks you can coast slowly by herds of bison, oodles of elk, and at one point a mountain goat. The landscape, when not obscured by a windshield made opaque for reasons that will be explained below, is quite simply awe-inspiring, and can change from farms and boundless plains to snow-capped mountains in the space of a highway exit. And then there is the speeding.
The first thing you should know is that there are no police on Western highways (well, until you get to Washington State, apparently), especially the smaller roadways. In five days driving we saw the fuzz drive by maybe twice. Secondly, the speed limits usually hold steady at 70 or 75. Third is that the roadways are invariably abandoned. This combination has allowed us, except when we have to avoid steamrolling schoolchildren in the occasional small town, to crown ourselves kings of the open road. This has of course spawned an ever-escalating speed competition between Lok-kin and myself, with Ricardo thus far playing a passive role in third place. While some may find our speeds tame, they climbed rapidly from the first, tentative topping of 90 mph on the third day to ever more boisterous violations of traffic laws and common sense. This was followed by 93, 95, 98, and then the highly inadvisable, illegal, and totally awesome cracking of the century mark. While I hesitate to write this on a public forum where my mother will likely see it (I love you, Mom), we (or, to brag, I) jacked up the speed to 109 in Montana, earning for myself eternal glory and what will most likely be an angry phone call. Alas, given our recent apprehension by the friendly cops of Washington, it is unlikely we will be continuing our exploits (I promise!).
Just Plain Buggy
The trials and tribulations of long-distance driving are certainly formidable, ranging from the persistent ache in your lower back, tuchus, and pretty much everywhere that comes from sitting in a 2-square foot space for 8 hours a day, to the need to get an oil change roughly once a week. These inconveniences are far surpassed, however, by the pernicious inability of bugs to recognize a highway as a ****ing stupid place to congregate.
In the week or so we have spent driving in the West, we have committed a veritable mass-slaughtering of bugs, to a degree that would impress many exterminators. It is rather unnerving to see fly after fly essentially divebomb your windshield, meeting an untimely and aggravatingly sticky death at 85 miles per hour. Before long, however, it becomes simply infuriating, as the front of the car becomes an overcrowded graveyard of winged invertebrates. At every gas stop, painful effort must be spent scrubbing ill-fated fleas and flies off of the windshield, simply for the sake of driving with reasonable visibility. Even after the glass has been painstakingly rinsed of the blood of innocents, within hours it will have been rendered opaque once again by hundreds of grotesque splatterings, each with its own trajectory and blast radius. The entire front of the car suffers this bombardment (yes, it's suffering is as intense as that of the small creatures meeting their untimely ends on its chrome), and has been recolored an exoskeletal black and grey from its original metallic blue.
Nevertheless, other than those infernal insects and tricksy law enforcement officers, life on the road has been swell. We look forward to many more miles on America's roadways, even as we try to ignore the continued splatters against the windshield while we cruise our concrete kingdom beneath a clear blue sky.
Day 8-9: Glacier National Park
(Ed: Written Monday, June 1, after leaving Glacier)
Compared to Yellowstone, Glacier National Park was a more rugged, untamed sibling. It felt less like a tourist attraction than Yellowstone, and more like a little slice of preserved wilderness. Nestled up by the Canada-US border, the park is bisected by the Continental Divide. Its east and west halves are linked by a single road: Going-to-the-Sun Highway, which passes through the mountains at Logan Pass. Unfortunately for us, the pass was closed when we were there, necessitating a 60 mile detour over treacherous mountain roads. In retrospect, we arrived far too early in the year, which made our visit much more difficult than it needed to be.
The drive up from Yellowstone started auspiciously. We stopped for breakfast and wi-fi access at a charming coffee shop in Bozeman (where we posted some earlier entries in this blog), while Andrew got an oil change for the car, and lunched at a Pizza hut with a friendly waitress in Missoula. The troubles started as we went north. We slowed to a crawl because of aggressive highway patrols. Then Ricardo lost his glasses in the car (which we fortunately later found), and I found my computer cable strangely melted (which is the source of the strange interlude in the earlier entry).
Thanks to our early departure, we got the entrance at West Glacier by the late afternoon. Unfortunately, our intended campsite, St. Mary, was on the eastern edge of the park, and Going-to-the-Sun Highway, the only road through the park, was closed for repairs. So we made a long detour around the park. It was twilight when we arrived. The campsite lacked water, but we simply made canned chicken soup (which didn’t need water) because we were all getting slightly ill, and ate cookies. We pitched our tent, and lit a fire (having saved some from Yellowstone).
Just as we were feeling satisfied, and were ready to call it a night, the wind picked up. At first, I was more worried that the campfire would jump out of its pit and start a blaze. As we turned around, we saw a bigger problem: our tent was airborne, swept up by the heady gusts. After a desperate struggle, we wrestled the tent down, and packed it into the car. We put out our fire, and beat a hasty retreat to a nearby lodge. Unsympathetic to our plight, they offered us their only room: a tiny basement cell with only two cots, and asked nearly $100. We ended up spending (a very cramped) night in the car parked in the lot at the visitor’s center.
We got up this morning, intent on salvaging as much out of our trip to Glacier National Park as possible. The ranger suggested a few trails and showed us a 15-minute video about Glacier. We had breakfast at a little roadside café, and were reinvigorated. Intent on seeing glaciers, we drove up to Many Glacier valley.
The trail we picked turned out to be a wonderful hike. We wound through a temperate forest, then rounded Swiftcurrent Lake and Lake Josephine, both turquoise blue from the minerals brought down by glacial meltwater. I had never seen such a beautiful lake in my life; the color looked warm and inviting (though the water was less so). From there, the trail proceeded sharply upwards, clinging to the side of a mountain. We crossed countless little mountain streams, which fell as waterfalls, pooling at our feet across the trail. The trail rose steeply; though Ricardo moved ahead quickly, I had to ask the group to stop repeatedly to catch my breath. At last, Grindell Glacier came into view. Though covered by a layer of snow, the glacier was a breathtaking sight, covering the mountain in a blanket of white. Far below, Grindell Lake, made of it’s meltwater, shone like a cerulean pool, nestled in the mountains. Alas, our progress was blocked by a large snowdrift; one misstep on it would have caused us to slide to our deaths, so we prudently turned back.
In the afternoon, we drove back around to the west side of the park, to see the Trail of Cedars. The west side of the park received much more rainfall, and was home to gigantic cedars, which were hundreds of years old and up to a meter in diameter, in stark contrast to the more rugged trees on the east side of the park. We even spotted a rabbit emerging from the bush, while we had not seen anything on our morning hike (though we did hear the call of a mountain goat).
We decided not to risk a second night in Glacier, so we left in the early evening, intending to find a motel on the way to Seattle. Amazingly, we made it all the way to Spokane, Washington, where we settled into a motel for the night. Gratefully, we took our first showers in four days, and drifted off into blissful slumber on a soft mattress.
Pictures from Glacier & Seattle at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Days810GlacierSeattle#
Compared to Yellowstone, Glacier National Park was a more rugged, untamed sibling. It felt less like a tourist attraction than Yellowstone, and more like a little slice of preserved wilderness. Nestled up by the Canada-US border, the park is bisected by the Continental Divide. Its east and west halves are linked by a single road: Going-to-the-Sun Highway, which passes through the mountains at Logan Pass. Unfortunately for us, the pass was closed when we were there, necessitating a 60 mile detour over treacherous mountain roads. In retrospect, we arrived far too early in the year, which made our visit much more difficult than it needed to be.
The drive up from Yellowstone started auspiciously. We stopped for breakfast and wi-fi access at a charming coffee shop in Bozeman (where we posted some earlier entries in this blog), while Andrew got an oil change for the car, and lunched at a Pizza hut with a friendly waitress in Missoula. The troubles started as we went north. We slowed to a crawl because of aggressive highway patrols. Then Ricardo lost his glasses in the car (which we fortunately later found), and I found my computer cable strangely melted (which is the source of the strange interlude in the earlier entry).
Thanks to our early departure, we got the entrance at West Glacier by the late afternoon. Unfortunately, our intended campsite, St. Mary, was on the eastern edge of the park, and Going-to-the-Sun Highway, the only road through the park, was closed for repairs. So we made a long detour around the park. It was twilight when we arrived. The campsite lacked water, but we simply made canned chicken soup (which didn’t need water) because we were all getting slightly ill, and ate cookies. We pitched our tent, and lit a fire (having saved some from Yellowstone).
Just as we were feeling satisfied, and were ready to call it a night, the wind picked up. At first, I was more worried that the campfire would jump out of its pit and start a blaze. As we turned around, we saw a bigger problem: our tent was airborne, swept up by the heady gusts. After a desperate struggle, we wrestled the tent down, and packed it into the car. We put out our fire, and beat a hasty retreat to a nearby lodge. Unsympathetic to our plight, they offered us their only room: a tiny basement cell with only two cots, and asked nearly $100. We ended up spending (a very cramped) night in the car parked in the lot at the visitor’s center.
We got up this morning, intent on salvaging as much out of our trip to Glacier National Park as possible. The ranger suggested a few trails and showed us a 15-minute video about Glacier. We had breakfast at a little roadside café, and were reinvigorated. Intent on seeing glaciers, we drove up to Many Glacier valley.
The trail we picked turned out to be a wonderful hike. We wound through a temperate forest, then rounded Swiftcurrent Lake and Lake Josephine, both turquoise blue from the minerals brought down by glacial meltwater. I had never seen such a beautiful lake in my life; the color looked warm and inviting (though the water was less so). From there, the trail proceeded sharply upwards, clinging to the side of a mountain. We crossed countless little mountain streams, which fell as waterfalls, pooling at our feet across the trail. The trail rose steeply; though Ricardo moved ahead quickly, I had to ask the group to stop repeatedly to catch my breath. At last, Grindell Glacier came into view. Though covered by a layer of snow, the glacier was a breathtaking sight, covering the mountain in a blanket of white. Far below, Grindell Lake, made of it’s meltwater, shone like a cerulean pool, nestled in the mountains. Alas, our progress was blocked by a large snowdrift; one misstep on it would have caused us to slide to our deaths, so we prudently turned back.
In the afternoon, we drove back around to the west side of the park, to see the Trail of Cedars. The west side of the park received much more rainfall, and was home to gigantic cedars, which were hundreds of years old and up to a meter in diameter, in stark contrast to the more rugged trees on the east side of the park. We even spotted a rabbit emerging from the bush, while we had not seen anything on our morning hike (though we did hear the call of a mountain goat).
We decided not to risk a second night in Glacier, so we left in the early evening, intending to find a motel on the way to Seattle. Amazingly, we made it all the way to Spokane, Washington, where we settled into a motel for the night. Gratefully, we took our first showers in four days, and drifted off into blissful slumber on a soft mattress.
Pictures from Glacier & Seattle at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Days810GlacierSeattle#
Days 6-7: Yellowstone National Park
(Ed: Written on Sunday, May 31 in the car going to Glacier National Park.)
Yellowstone! Country of geysers, of wide sweeping plains filled with herds of bison, of spectacular waterfalls, craggy, snow-capped mountains, all sitting on the biggest volcanic caldera on the North American continent. The very name evokes ideas of untamed wilderness and adventure. We were worried that the park’s popularity would remove the sense of natural wonder we sought, but our fears turned out to be unfounded. The campgrounds were filled with people from all over the country, and maintained the right balance between satisfying tourism and preserving nature. Out on the trails though, we had our solitude: we were often the only people for miles around, only passing other hikers from time to time.
We arrived at Yellowstone near dusk on Thursday evening. Initially, I was sceptical: the trail in was a picturesque mountain road that led through snow-capped peaks and down forested valleys, but it hardly seemed different from the miles of the same before (too much natural beauty leaves one jaded, it seems).
My computer’s power adapter melted, and doesn’t plug into the computer anymore. Until we get into Seattle to get it replaced, I’m switching to pen and paper (Ed: which I’m now transcribing onto the computer), though these cheap pens can barely write anything.
Though we were not aware of it at the time, finding lodging would be a long and annoying task. It took us nearly an hour to get from the eastern entrance to Norris, our intended campground. Though we arrived at the gate before sunset, it was almost pitch-black by the time we got to Norris. It was then we discovered that Norris was already full. We doubled back in the dark to another campground, Canyon, where there was a lodge. That was closed, but the helpful staff directed us to a hotel near Lake, which was near the entrance we had originally come from. We drove there, and exhausted trooped into the hotel. At first, we were told that there was a cabin available, but when they sent someone to check, it was already occupied, so we were placed in a more expensive hotel room.
Our Yellowstone experience improved after that first night. We slept in Friday morning (having gotten up at the crack of dawn every day so far), and ate a leisurely breakfast overlooking Lake Yellowstone. I had a pleasant chat with Wayne, a biker from Colorado. It was encouraging that despite our differences in age, experiences and political opinions, we still found it possible to understand each other’s viewpoints.
After breakfast, we drove over to the visitor’s center at Old Faithful to find so day hikes for our visit. Andrew made a campground reservation (since we had no desire to repeat the experience of the previous night), while we asked the very helpful park rangers for recommendations. Since we had just missed one of Old Faithful’s eruptions, we visited Geyser Hill, just over the river, to wait for the next one. Just across the river from Old Faithful, were a dozen other smaller geysers, visible from a short network of wooden walkways. Some looked like little mounds pouring out steam and the smell of bad eggs. Others resembled little natural Jacuzzis, marked by all the hues of the rainbow.
Old Faithful was the only geyser we saw erupting. By the time we got back, crowds had already gathered in anticipation of the spectacle. We had seats near the less desirable end far from the visitor’s center, but it was still quite a sight. The eruption shot a plume of water high into the air. As the winds shifted, the crowd was drenched. I ran back and forth trying to get the best picture while dodging the spray.
That afternoon, we hiked the Fairy Falls trail. The wonders appeared as soon as we left the parking lot. From the car, we were greeted by a pair of small geysers and a herd of bison (including some very cute calves that alternated between nursing and running around the adults playfully). Walking onward, we passed a massive hot spring that spewed out blue and red steam, and then walked through a young spruce forest growing among the remains of dead trees. Some lay strewn about on the ground, while others still stood tall, but skeletal, giving a strange, eerie aura to the place.
A short hike later, the Fairy Falls themselves came into view. Rivulets of water cascaded down from a rocky outcrop, hundreds of feet above. We got right to the edge of the falls, standing in the pool at its base, cooling off in the spray. A little further, the trail followed a rust-stained stream of scalding hot water. We followed the stream to its source: Imperial Geyser, an impressive, azure and crimson pool gushing heated water prodigiously from its subterranean depths. This was the largest geyser we could walk right up to.
The rest of the trail was no less impressive. In a waterlogged wetland, the trail developed into a swampy stream, where our boots were filled with water. Fortunately, we were soon rescued by a trail of well-placed boards. Later, we moved onto the open prairie, with herds of bison grazing in the distance. We even came across the bony remains of a bison that had been torn to pieces. Only it’s skull remained intact, although we recognized some vertebrae and shoulder blades. This reminded us that the park was still teeming with wolves and bears, so we picked up the pace for the rest of the hike.
That evening, we camped out at Madison. We lit a campfire with scavenged firewood, and were comforted from the thought of passing bears by its warmth. The campground resembled nothing so much as a little village, with each little ground huddled around their own collection of picnic tables, campfires, cars and tents, but well in sight of everyone else.
The following morning, we drove over to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River. Despite the possibility of rain, we were determined to hike it. We started along the South Rim just a little downstream from the Lower Falls. We followed the trail as it rose and fell along the edge of an immense gorge, from one breathtaking viewpoint to another. The roar of the falls drowned out other noises, and the mist it kicked up created a beautiful rainbow. No less impressive was our view of the North Rim, etched with a reddish hue by long-extinct geyser flows. We passed Artist Point, a particularly gorgeous viewpoint with a specially-built platform for visitors to take pictures from. Since this was also the furthest point reachable by car, crowds of tourists milled about here.
We however, continued on the trail to Silver Cord Cascade. The trail dove inland, and we descended carefully, climbing over (and in one case, limboing under) fallen trees that blocked our path everywhere. Here too, the forest held the same mix of newly-grown spruce among an arboreal graveyard. We debated the cause, and couldn’t decide between some wasting tree disease or just fire. A dark cloud followed us, but we chose to push onward. Unfortunately, the Cascade itself proved to be disappointing. It’s flow was too small, so although we could hear it, and we could see the stream that fed it, we could not see the fall itself as it plummeted towards the Yellowstone River. We lunched briefly there, accompanied by a curious chipmunk (who evaded my attempts at photography). The weather made a turn for the worse, so we made our way back at double speed. We even skipped the scenic, but slower trek along the canyon’s edge between the parking lot and Artist Point, opting to take the road instead. Fortunately, we managed to avoid most of the rain, and it wasn’t until we were safely in the car before the rains really fell.
We were all a little beat at that point. I dosed off as Andrew drive us over to Mammoth Springs. We lunched at a little restaurant there, and then took a leisurely stroll up the hot springs. There, mineral deposits from the geyser waters had formed stair-like structures which resembled white marble. We pitched our tent at the neighbouring campground. Ricardo and I traipsed up a hill overlooking the camp, finding spectacular views from it’s summit. We could see the entire mountain range before us, looking well past the park’s edge and into Montana. We heard the howl of distant wolves, clearly contented by some discovery. The hill proved too steep to descend, so we made a long detour around the hills, back through the little settlement there, before getting back to the campground. That night, we cooked hot dogs on the campfire. We slept soundly that night (despite the fact that we were right next to a road), blissfully unaware that we had pitched out tent on the side of a hill. We would wake up the following morning, with all our sleeping bags crammed into the bottom half of the tent.
Pictures from the Badlands (and along the way) are visible at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Day4Badlands#
Yellowstone pictures can be seen at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Days57Yellowstone
Yellowstone! Country of geysers, of wide sweeping plains filled with herds of bison, of spectacular waterfalls, craggy, snow-capped mountains, all sitting on the biggest volcanic caldera on the North American continent. The very name evokes ideas of untamed wilderness and adventure. We were worried that the park’s popularity would remove the sense of natural wonder we sought, but our fears turned out to be unfounded. The campgrounds were filled with people from all over the country, and maintained the right balance between satisfying tourism and preserving nature. Out on the trails though, we had our solitude: we were often the only people for miles around, only passing other hikers from time to time.
We arrived at Yellowstone near dusk on Thursday evening. Initially, I was sceptical: the trail in was a picturesque mountain road that led through snow-capped peaks and down forested valleys, but it hardly seemed different from the miles of the same before (too much natural beauty leaves one jaded, it seems).
My computer’s power adapter melted, and doesn’t plug into the computer anymore. Until we get into Seattle to get it replaced, I’m switching to pen and paper (Ed: which I’m now transcribing onto the computer), though these cheap pens can barely write anything.
Though we were not aware of it at the time, finding lodging would be a long and annoying task. It took us nearly an hour to get from the eastern entrance to Norris, our intended campground. Though we arrived at the gate before sunset, it was almost pitch-black by the time we got to Norris. It was then we discovered that Norris was already full. We doubled back in the dark to another campground, Canyon, where there was a lodge. That was closed, but the helpful staff directed us to a hotel near Lake, which was near the entrance we had originally come from. We drove there, and exhausted trooped into the hotel. At first, we were told that there was a cabin available, but when they sent someone to check, it was already occupied, so we were placed in a more expensive hotel room.
Our Yellowstone experience improved after that first night. We slept in Friday morning (having gotten up at the crack of dawn every day so far), and ate a leisurely breakfast overlooking Lake Yellowstone. I had a pleasant chat with Wayne, a biker from Colorado. It was encouraging that despite our differences in age, experiences and political opinions, we still found it possible to understand each other’s viewpoints.
After breakfast, we drove over to the visitor’s center at Old Faithful to find so day hikes for our visit. Andrew made a campground reservation (since we had no desire to repeat the experience of the previous night), while we asked the very helpful park rangers for recommendations. Since we had just missed one of Old Faithful’s eruptions, we visited Geyser Hill, just over the river, to wait for the next one. Just across the river from Old Faithful, were a dozen other smaller geysers, visible from a short network of wooden walkways. Some looked like little mounds pouring out steam and the smell of bad eggs. Others resembled little natural Jacuzzis, marked by all the hues of the rainbow.
Old Faithful was the only geyser we saw erupting. By the time we got back, crowds had already gathered in anticipation of the spectacle. We had seats near the less desirable end far from the visitor’s center, but it was still quite a sight. The eruption shot a plume of water high into the air. As the winds shifted, the crowd was drenched. I ran back and forth trying to get the best picture while dodging the spray.
That afternoon, we hiked the Fairy Falls trail. The wonders appeared as soon as we left the parking lot. From the car, we were greeted by a pair of small geysers and a herd of bison (including some very cute calves that alternated between nursing and running around the adults playfully). Walking onward, we passed a massive hot spring that spewed out blue and red steam, and then walked through a young spruce forest growing among the remains of dead trees. Some lay strewn about on the ground, while others still stood tall, but skeletal, giving a strange, eerie aura to the place.
A short hike later, the Fairy Falls themselves came into view. Rivulets of water cascaded down from a rocky outcrop, hundreds of feet above. We got right to the edge of the falls, standing in the pool at its base, cooling off in the spray. A little further, the trail followed a rust-stained stream of scalding hot water. We followed the stream to its source: Imperial Geyser, an impressive, azure and crimson pool gushing heated water prodigiously from its subterranean depths. This was the largest geyser we could walk right up to.
The rest of the trail was no less impressive. In a waterlogged wetland, the trail developed into a swampy stream, where our boots were filled with water. Fortunately, we were soon rescued by a trail of well-placed boards. Later, we moved onto the open prairie, with herds of bison grazing in the distance. We even came across the bony remains of a bison that had been torn to pieces. Only it’s skull remained intact, although we recognized some vertebrae and shoulder blades. This reminded us that the park was still teeming with wolves and bears, so we picked up the pace for the rest of the hike.
That evening, we camped out at Madison. We lit a campfire with scavenged firewood, and were comforted from the thought of passing bears by its warmth. The campground resembled nothing so much as a little village, with each little ground huddled around their own collection of picnic tables, campfires, cars and tents, but well in sight of everyone else.
The following morning, we drove over to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River. Despite the possibility of rain, we were determined to hike it. We started along the South Rim just a little downstream from the Lower Falls. We followed the trail as it rose and fell along the edge of an immense gorge, from one breathtaking viewpoint to another. The roar of the falls drowned out other noises, and the mist it kicked up created a beautiful rainbow. No less impressive was our view of the North Rim, etched with a reddish hue by long-extinct geyser flows. We passed Artist Point, a particularly gorgeous viewpoint with a specially-built platform for visitors to take pictures from. Since this was also the furthest point reachable by car, crowds of tourists milled about here.
We however, continued on the trail to Silver Cord Cascade. The trail dove inland, and we descended carefully, climbing over (and in one case, limboing under) fallen trees that blocked our path everywhere. Here too, the forest held the same mix of newly-grown spruce among an arboreal graveyard. We debated the cause, and couldn’t decide between some wasting tree disease or just fire. A dark cloud followed us, but we chose to push onward. Unfortunately, the Cascade itself proved to be disappointing. It’s flow was too small, so although we could hear it, and we could see the stream that fed it, we could not see the fall itself as it plummeted towards the Yellowstone River. We lunched briefly there, accompanied by a curious chipmunk (who evaded my attempts at photography). The weather made a turn for the worse, so we made our way back at double speed. We even skipped the scenic, but slower trek along the canyon’s edge between the parking lot and Artist Point, opting to take the road instead. Fortunately, we managed to avoid most of the rain, and it wasn’t until we were safely in the car before the rains really fell.
We were all a little beat at that point. I dosed off as Andrew drive us over to Mammoth Springs. We lunched at a little restaurant there, and then took a leisurely stroll up the hot springs. There, mineral deposits from the geyser waters had formed stair-like structures which resembled white marble. We pitched our tent at the neighbouring campground. Ricardo and I traipsed up a hill overlooking the camp, finding spectacular views from it’s summit. We could see the entire mountain range before us, looking well past the park’s edge and into Montana. We heard the howl of distant wolves, clearly contented by some discovery. The hill proved too steep to descend, so we made a long detour around the hills, back through the little settlement there, before getting back to the campground. That night, we cooked hot dogs on the campfire. We slept soundly that night (despite the fact that we were right next to a road), blissfully unaware that we had pitched out tent on the side of a hill. We would wake up the following morning, with all our sleeping bags crammed into the bottom half of the tent.
Pictures from the Badlands (and along the way) are visible at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Day4Badlands#
Yellowstone pictures can be seen at http://picasaweb.google.ca/lok.kin.yeung/Days57Yellowstone
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