Dear the dark sky,

On Thursday morning as we drove north and east, we had a copy of USA Today with us. It's something we read only when we travel, because often the places we stay give us a copy for free, and there's a crossword. One article, "Ten Great Places to Stargaze," we loved, partly because it told us something new--that there is an international organization dedicated, as it says, to "preserve the night"--and partly because we love stargazing and dark skies in which to gaze at them. It is, in fact, one of the reasons we love going north, to places where the skies are dark and the most reliable newspaper is USA Today.

We talked about it again tonight over pizza. Some of the places mentioned in the article which are working to certify their dark skies--like Cedar Breaks--are eminently possible for us to visit. Others aren't out of the realm of possibility--Borrego Springs, Big Bend National Park, Glacier National Park. Earlier that day, we had traveled to the north entrance of Yellowstone, into the little town of Gardiner. We reminded ourselves that Mammoth, only five miles from the north entrance, is the park headquarters, and learned that there's a structure called the Roosevelt Arch marking the entrance, commemorating the fact that Theodore Roosevelt was a passionate advocate of the idea of national parks. We learned that the north part of the park--Gardner Valley, where the Gardner River flows--is a winter range for much of the park's wildlife. But one thing we didn't know was how dark Yellowstone would get at night.

As we walked back to our lodgings, the historian said, "How about we walk right to our car and drive into the park?" This was at about 7:30 or so. "How would that be?"

So we walked right to our car and drove directly into the park. We wondered if the booths at the west entrance would be staffed after dark. Yes, they are. Would the staff give us many cautions about driving through the park after dark? No, they didn't. And how many cars would there be? What kind of light would there be?

The skies were darker than they'd ordinarily be because they were cloudy. But we found a startling number of cars driving out of the park. Hardly any cars coming in, but many leaving.

"It feels so different," I said, as we drove, slowly, on the road lined on either side with what felt like forested walls. One two three four five sets of oncoming headlights passed us. Not exactly unsafe, is how it felt, but not exactly safe either.

"More cars than I would have thought," said the historian.

"It's just data, though. We asked ourselves, 'how many cars will there be in Yellowstone after dark?' and it turns out there are more than we thought," I postulated.

We went as far as a pull out we knew by day, where we could get out of the car and sit by the Madison River. When we turned off the car, the head and taillights went out; the interior lights dimmed, then went dark. We sat on a log and listened to the water. A car went by, on its way to exit at the west entrance. Whoosh of well-engineered internal combustion. Sound that heightened and faded. A few seconds more of the river. More cars. One two three. Then another coming into the park. The trees across the river lit up. It was eerie, we agreed. The car passed, the light passed. More river sound in the dark.

Another phalanx of cars leaving the park. Their headlights caught the surface of the water. "Okay, after this group passes, let's wait for the next car, and after that, we'll go," he said.

The phalanx passed. A few seconds later, another car's lights caught the water. "Maybe wait for the next one after this," he said.

And the dark sky, we loved you even if you were only intermittent, apprehended in the intervals between cars on their way back home.

yours in night preservation,

htms

Dear the pure in heart,

 Awhile back, when I was complaining that Yellowstone was hiding all of its bears, I heard from a long ago friend, who said that bears would show themselves to the pure in heart. I believe his implication was that they would show themselves only to the pure in heart. And since I hadn't seen a bear, truthfully, since I was a child, I thought the accusation was clear.

Today, we took a drive into the east part of Yellowstone. On our way, we stopped at the visitor's center at Canyon. People had posted their confirmed wildlife sightings there, on a big piece of paper clipped to an easel. Wolves, spotted in Gibbon Meadow and Hayden Valley. Bears at Gibbon Meadow and the Sylvan Pass. We looked at our map.

We took our sandwiches down to the edge of the river and ate them while we watched the water flow by.  Clouds assembled. We got back in and drove in the direction of the Sylvan Pass. 

The lake gleamed. Rows of ducks and geese bobbed along the edge and ducked their heads under. We ascended. In the truest sign of the animal-seeking blessed, we saw many cars and trucks pulled hastily to the side of the road, both sides. A park ranger was with them, binoculars and camera at the ready. We slowed.

"It's something," I said.

After a pause, with some craning out the window, the historian said, "It's a bison."

And then, "Nope, it's a bear."

A grizzly, as it turned out.

It took its time and walked into and up the road, then down the bank to the other side, perhaps to its afternoon sleeping place.

The pure in heart, I have, at least for today, joined you.

ecstatically,

htms

p.s.

This gang of bison was a bonus, I feel

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Lovely things from the last couple of days.

 

Van.

needing a moment.

 

at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

 

At Big Springs.

 

Duke finds the water a little dubious.

 

Elk Nation.

The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

The lower falls.

At the lower falls.

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The last post about bears. Probably.

Today, after our epic Yellowstone bear-seeing quest, we stayed close to home--took a little bike ride, admired the river which had, at the time we rode by it, practically no fishermen, read a lot, wrote, made cookie dough (which is currently curing in the refrigerator, since that's apparently what cookie dough needs nowadays), took small naps. You know, like you do.

An old friend from long ago, a writer and a gentleman, tells me on Facebook, where I have been airing my plaintive lament about the bears and how Yellowstone is apparently not letting anyone see them, that he sees bears all the time in the park, and also that bears show themselves only to the pure in heart. And, seriously, there's a part of me that kind of, sort of, believes him.

I probably need to engage in more serious, focused bear-seeking behavior, and not just identify a stretch of road where bears have appeared to other people. Perhaps I need to slow down more, stay still more. Perhaps I need to learn, really, how to look for bears.

When I was a kid, bears just showed up at--literally--your picnic. There's a part of me that thinks I ought to be able to see a bear just by showing up myself. A few years ago, I was in fine mega-fauna spotting form (no bears, but moose). Of late, I appear to have lost my animal-finding ways.

(I may or may not be talking about my inner life here.)

Anyway. I've been thinking about totems, a little bit--the animals that seem to express what we long for in our inner lives. What animal is my totem? Sometimes I think it is a dog, but actually a dog--a certain dog--may be my muse. Can a dog be both a totem and a muse? Maybe. I find that when I see other animals, I see Bruiser in them. For instance, take a look at this seal we saw in Scotland:

There were lots of these seals lounging about on a sunny day at Newburgh beach. Lots and lots of them. Some of them were in the water, coming very close to the edge where my granddaughters, their trouser legs rolled up, were running up to and barely into the water, then running back. This one's eyes remind me of Bruiser's--wary, soulful, apart.

I do not think a bear is my totem animal nor my muse. But bears are an emblem of where I come from, so I would like to see one again--be in the right place, however one defines place--be clear-eyed, patient, still enough--I want my heart to be pure enough for a bear to reveal itself to me.

Are the bears all hanging out without me?

Going east through the Lamar Valley:

The historian: What do you think she's looking at? (gesturing at a young woman, wearing blue shorts, standing on a ridge, facing the river)  Maybe a bear.

Me: (deducing from her motionlessness, presumed age, and general unmoved demeanor:) No.

The historian: (drives on. He knows I'm right.)

Me: There should be, like, a universal language of--

The historian: They should just throw up a sign that says--

Me: ...what they're actually seeing. Like--

The historian: "Bear." Or--

Me: "Antelope."

The historian: "Bison."

Me: "More bison." "Just elk."

The historian: --or "scenery."

Me: "Straight up river."

Here are some animals we did see:

"Antelope."

"Unspecified Ground Animal, such as Ground Squirrel."

"More Bison."

"I had it on good authority that there might
be bears in and around this locale, but I was
denied. Alas."

Bear viewing strategy.

For when we go to Yellowstone tomorrow:

1. Get up. Eat breakfast. Write.
2. Around 11, gas up and go.
3. Linger in a bookstore or two in West Yell.
4. Around noon or one, go to the Park. Drive to Madison, Norris, Canyon, and Tower. This should take an hour and a half-ish, depending upon pauses and picture-taking and whatnot.
5. Drive around leisurely in the Lamar Valley for awhile or several hours.
6. See several bears and probably some wolves also. Antelopery as well.

I am pretty sure this will work.