One thing I miss about home is summer.

In the kitchen, the chef is the head of the kitchen. Our chef’s name is Darrin and kind of reminds me of Rich from my job back home, except maybe a little sterner. The sous chef is second in the chain of command and our sous chef is a laid back guy named Blair, who keeps his long, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and wears scrappy facial hair. 

Today, we made our own lunch and dinner in the kitchen. It was fun to see my own small contribution (diced melon for the salsa) being consumed. After eating dinner, I sat around and talked for about forty-five minutes — maybe longer, with Blair, Zac (the chef from Lake, another area of Yellowstone), and a kid from Greenville, North Carolina. The diversity here at the park is more than I could’ve expected. A bus load of girls from Singapore arrived last night, I’ve been yelled at for being too loud by a Czech girl, and made friends with Yasi, a girl from China who said she was a “free-thinker”.  I must admit, I simply expected a bunch of college/post-college age kids from different areas of the U.S. who desired to escape for a bit, not international travelers and students. 

Today, I also hiked my first trail — and went off trail for the first time! Myself, Kelly, three girls from our hall, and three of their guy friends decided to hike to the Old Faithful observation point — about a half mile with a 200 foot rise. Climbing up this winding dirt trail, we soon arrived at the observation point. It looked out over the whole Old Faithful area, allowing you not only an amazing view of Old Faithful, but also all the other thermal features of the area including geysers like the lion group, the beehive, and the sweetheart. 

The geysers are such an odd sight. You can always tell when you’re getting close — the scent of sulfur will crawl up, and you hear gurgles from the smaller vents around the larger geysers. The ground around thermal hotspots often appear gravelly and white. These little bits of white gravel turn a reddish color the closer you get to the center, then turn white again, disappearing into the blue, steaming water of the hot springs, some of which will erupt into a geyser touching some hundreds of feet into the air. 

We arrived at the observation point in about thirty minutes. From this point, you could see all of the Old Faithful community spread out beneath you — the snow lodge, the inn, the different dorms, and Old Faithful itself, surrounded by the wooden boardwalk and letting off steam. 

After enjoying the view for a bit, one of the group said that he knew another trail, one that wrapped around the ridge and brought you in back behind the Old Faithful area. All in all he estimated it to be about a forty-five minute hike. 

So we took off. About ten minutes into the trail, it became evident that it was no trail at all. We hiked over fallen trees, still scorched by the forest fire of ’88, and through snow that reached to our knees.   Many of us hiking complained; we didn’t have much faith in our guide and our legs and feet were chilled from the snow.  The entire basin of geothermal features spread itself beneath us. To our left, we could view the cluster of buildings that surrounded the O.F. Geyser, while directly beneath us was a green plain, with a river stretched out across it. Six buffalo grazed in the plain. The buffalos seemed large, even from this distance and watching them, we noticed they seemed agitated. They stomped around turning in circles and snorting into the air. They gathered themselves together as if communicating in a silent language and stood in a single file line all facing one direction. We followed their gaze; out from some pines which blocked our vision emerged a small, but threatening, grizzly bear. 

It scared the pants off me. 

The grizzly seemed to have no idea of the statistics of Yellowstone: that bison are actually more aggressive than bears, because it charged the six bison, loping in their direction. They broke formation; they scattered and regrouped, thundering away from the bear, up the towards the mountains. 

Towards the mountains that we, in fact, were perched on. 

We turned, trying not to run, but hurrying back the way we came. Our way back down to OF was blocked by the bison. Climbing over burnt trees, snow drifts, and thick, waist high pines, we backtracked. Almost forgetting to look up, I didn’t notice that our way back was also blocked, until our “guide” yelled. 

A herd of elk fed only 20 yards from our trail. Once again, we returned to our perch where we watched the bear charge the buffalo. The buffalo had turned, drifting off to the other direction, but the bear was still directly in our line of sight. We sat, wondering what to do. The bear hadn’t seen us — could we travel down and around where the bear was safely or should we risk passing so closely to the elk herd? 

While discussing, we saw the grizzly’s head turn, and his eyes gazing directly toward us. We decided to risk the elk. 

We made it back quite alright and in one piece. I can’t wait wait to go hiking again. 

We drove over an hour through the mountains. I hope to explain it more clearly and in more detail (maybe sometime when I don’t have to wake up early), but let it suffice to say the park is more magnificent and expansive than I ever thought. 

Ever since we arrived, we’ve had about eight hours of training per day, which is only to continue tomorrow. I am to work in the pantry assembling salads and sandwiches, as well as baking cookies and brownies. 

It is to bed for me; work starts at eight tomorrow and I want to grab some breakfast before it starts. I hope to have some pictures up tomorrow — our path was blocked by some stubborn buffalo at one point for a good twenty minutes. It was slightly frustrating, but allowed for some marvelous photos!

YELLOWSTONE FACT: more guests are gored by buffalo than attacked by bears in Yellowstone National Park. Who knew? 

First and foremost, I cannot believe I wasn’t present for Annika’s birthday. I have this heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I am going to regret being stuffed up in a Rodeway Inn instead of being under the fluorescent hospital lights, waiting to hold her. Of course, there’s nothing to be done about it now — regrets fill no bags — and I am sitting here and not there. I may as well enjoy the here. 

We traveled from Des Moines, Iowa to Ogallala, Nebraska. As we travel, we read from Jack Kerouac’s beatnik bible On the Road, a must-read for any soul that has felt the need to uproot themselves and leave behind what they know for exploration across America.  While reading, we realized that we were unintentionally traveling the precise route of Sal Paradise through the nation. We saw the town of Shelton, where Jack was stranded and the town of Gothenburg, where he was dropped off and then picked up on the flatbed truck with Montana Slim, Mississippi Gene and Blondey. Soon, we will travel through Cheyenne and that, I think. Is where Sal and my journey divides. 

Ogallala is a good town. It has a slow-paced feeling that reminds me of Napolean Dynamite…or maybe that was just the kid who served us our ice cream. Anyway, when you enter the town going west on 80, there’s a kick to the right that brings you to an overpass, which goes over nothing really, except for a rocky, wide path and some hunks of metal making up buildings and machinery and who knows what else. 

On the other side of this bridge is a small town type area. Small shops line the road, which leads you to an incline. The road winds up the side to an area with a great view of the town below. Brushy prairie grass hangs on the edge of the hill and leads all the way down and continues until it disappears into the horizon. 

If I were to describe Nebraska, how would I do it? Although many people go on and on about how flat and boring it is, I didn’t necessarily find this to be true. Although the terrain was, well — level — it was different. I loved the Platte River, which we crossed several times. It wasn’t like the rivers at home. The rivers at home seem wide and murky, churning and moving all the time.  The Platte River also laid wide, but shallow, with spots of land breaking up the flow of the river. It flowed, but with less urgency than the rivers I’ve seen before. It ran as if a braid through Nebraska, breaking up the farmland that seemed to continue with unending constancy.

And that was yesterday. Whew. After typing all that, I’m not sure if I can continue into our trip today.

As we left Ogalala, we grabbed some breakfast burritos from a McDonald’s, which prominently featured a rather frightening Ronald on its windows, and continued to head west. Heavy, dark clouds hung over the highway as we drove drove drove over the Nebraska plains, which — as we got farther west — began to raise up at intervals into hills, then towers of rocks. The most boggling thing to me, as we passed through last of Nebraska into Wyoming was the sheer amount of land. Stretches of land as far as the eye can see. 

The phrase “as far as the eye can see” has a different meaning here than at home. Here, you can actually see the horizon — where the sky meets the land — without interruption from buildings, trees, or various other obstructions. 

Along these stretches of land were cows. I know we have cows in Indiana, but the cows here were just THERE. Hold up — let me explain. We would drive miles and miles without a sign of a house, civilization or anything except a long stretch of highway. Then — cows. A randomly placed herd of cows grazing on the side of hill. My question is: who owns these cows?! In Indiana, it all makes sense: a house, a barn, cows. Here, there are just cows, miles away from anybody. 

Our travels broke from Sal Paradise’s today. He headed south to Denver from Cheyenne, we headed north to Buffalo. It was good to share space with a ghost of a hero for all wandering souls, if only for the length of a highway. 

Iowa has an odd landscape; not too much different from Indiana, but different enough to keep me interested. It switches between rolling hills and flat plains, the whole time looking very picturesque, like something off the cover of a Laura Ingalls Wilder book. I love seeing the rolling hills covered with cows!

I’m sure i’ve just about had enough of it, however. Unfortunately, we’ve still got half the state to cover tomorrow. Our goal is Ogallala, Nebraska – what a name. I hear Nebraska is nothing but flat flat flat. I guess we’ll see. 

I’m so sleepy. I wish i could write more, or at least something more interesting, but I’ve got nothing for you except a very exhausted Elizabeth Cupp. 

Things to do before i leave (in no particular order):

-Doctor’s Appointment/pick up meds.

-Visit Sara/Jamie/Andi

-Wal-Mart Run!!

-Baby Shower

-Vote

-Pack

Oh, and by the way: i’ve got dreadlocks:

CHECK THEM OUT.