The waves of Yellowstone Lake were whipped up by alpine winds, children of the mountain bowl that hems in the park from all sides. Here, sailboats sank often. Sailors underestimated the gales, and phones lacked the service to call for rescue.
“Imagine going through all the trouble of getting a boat up here just to sink it,” said Evan, my Couchsurfing host, smoking in a parking lot off the lake.
“Sounds like a metaphor for something.”
“You know how most people die at the Grand Canyon?”
“How?”
“They look down while they’re peeing off the edge, and when they’re done, they look back up and lose their balance. You’re supposed to look straight ahead while you pee.” Evan took a drag from his cigarette. “Of course, I learned this after I peed into the Grand Canyon.”
“You peed into the Grand Canyon?”
“Everyone pees into the Grand Canyon, Zack.”
At nineteen years old, Evan Ogelby was a baby-faced recovering meth addict with bright blue eyes and a shock of blond hair that reminded me of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. He and his Canadian girlfriend (they met thru-hiking the AT) had run out of money in West Yellowstone. He walked into a gas station, asked for a job application, and had lived here ever since, saving up to move to Toronto as soon as he was eligible for a conjugal visa.
We followed the boardwalk along the edge of Lake Yellowstone, steaming pools and microbial mats below us. A red straw hat sat on the floor of the lake beside the lip of a drowned geyser just offshore. There were hats all over the geyser grounds of the park, and signs—with a drawing of a little kid bursting into flames, his mom screaming in horror, his dad off looking at the wildlife—warning you not to try and fetch them.
“Imagine not knowing this was here, and then finding it. Say you’re a pioneer family in a Conestoga wagon, you’re on your way to the Gold Rush or whatever, when you come across a bubbling brown pool of sulfur in front of the smoking mouth of a cave.”
“If you were a Christian, you’d probably think you found Hell’s front door. If you were a capitalist, you’d probably think about how to build a road up here and start charging people admission.”
***
This is the fourth post in a cross-country road trip series. To start from the beginning, click here!
Zach,
In my life, at least,
only you could have
Come up with this.
Very catchy.