Squatters in Paradise: A Yellowstone Memoir

by James Perry

  "I don't know. It doesn't seem right. Just to leave them here, hobbled and all."

  "You think we should take them with us?" I asked. He didn't answer at first, then he smiled.

  "You think we should?"

  "Well, their owners don't seem to care about them," I said. "I wouldn't feel right just leaving them here with bears around."

  He nodded.

  So we took the hobbles off and Josh remarked with pleasure that his horse had nudged him affectionately when its legs were freed. None of them had saddles, just a simple bridle with a trailing rope. It was this we took hold of as we headed down the trail, the third horse following us without any further motivation than the occasional whistle to keep up.

  Suddenly the hike took on a much greater significance than before. Here we were, just a couple of regular Joes out on a hike who happened to find some stray horses who were at the mercy of fierce animals in the wilds of Yellowstone. We were heroes, no?

  I didn't have much experience with horses; all I knew was that I liked them, even if I didn't have any talent for riding them. However, as the hike dragged on and we grew less enthralled with the scenery it seemed a waste not to take advantage of our mounts.

  "Do you know how to ride a horse?" I asked.

  "Bareback?" came the reply.

  I hadn't thought about that, but I'd already made up my mind. Josh was up for it, so we halted near some deadfall and clambered on the logs to give us an easy-up on the backs of the horses, who didn't seem to mind us at all.

  Now we were traveling in style. From our mounts we surveyed the surrounding hillsides without having to concern ourselves about tripping over roots or stubbing our feet on rocks. The gentle swaying of the horses seemed to lull us into a frontier reverie. I felt like pulling out a gee-tar and singin' a ditty about sagebrush and tumbleweeds. Josh was a bit tentative at first, but quickly warmed up to the new travel arrangements. He was riding ahead of me so I had some warning before we reached the gully. His horse suddenly broke into a trot as it nosed into the dry creek bed that cut across the trail. I watched Josh bounce up and down several times before bouncing sideways and falling off his horse. It looked like slow-motion to me; his body going airborne and crashing onto a fallen log. It was all I could do to hold on for laughing when my horse went through the same maneuver. Trying to sound concerned, but fighting back tears of laughter, I turned my horse to see if he was all right. He looked very serious.

  "Is my fishing pole okay?" he asked.

  He refused to get back on the horse, which was showing complete unconcern for his ejection by taking the opportunity to graze in a succulent patch of tall grass. The rest of the hike was downhill anyway and man and beast enjoyed frequent stops to partake of wild raspberries and cool mountain streams. It was still daylight when the two of us arrived at the Warm Creek camping area with our charges. We tied the horses to a tree and sought out the person in charge. It turned out to be an old man who was untouched by our story of animal rescue.

  "Those horses belong to a fishing guide from Silver Gate," he said. "Took some people from Illinois up there this morning."

  Josh and I exchanged a glance and saw our story disappear from the local papers, or at least we saw the headline change from HEROES to HORSE THIEVES. At that moment a man came running down the trail, kicking up dust as he skidded down the hill and across the bridge to where the three of us were standing. He spotted the horses tied to a tree and dashed towards them. In a flash he had them lashed together and ready to head back up the hill to where his Midwestern tourists were waiting for his return (irritated and no doubt a little nervous at being left alone in bear country). He shot a dark look toward Josh and I, but the old man spoke to him in a reproachful drawl, "Next time keep a better look on your horses," which kept him quiet.

  When the guide had gone charging back up the hill, the old man offered us some consolation.

  "You boys did what you thought was right. Seems to me like you had more concern for those horses than he did. Serves him right."

  Feeling a little better, Josh and I drove out to Cooke City for a late dinner at the Beartooth Cafe, accelerating past the sleepy town of Silver Gate on the way there because, you know, they don't look kindly on horse thieves in these parts.

  Hot-Potting

  HIKING in the backcountry is what really put Yellowstone under my skin. From the first short tramps around the geyser basins to the marathon multi-day camping excursions to remote areas of the Park, it was as much a labor of love as a journey of discovery. But I tended to shy away from writing about these treks because I'd found most nature writing to be insufferable, falling more or less into the category of breathless bombast favored by John Muir, whose quasi-religious effusions on the glory of the natural world often made him sound like a lunatic, as in this passage describing the Yellowstone River:

  Roaring and gray in rapids, booming in broad, bossy falls, murmuring, gleaming in long, silvery reaches, swaying now hither, now thither, whirling, bending in huge doubling, eddying folds, serene, majestic, ungovernable, overflowing all its metes and bounds...

  What does one do with such cascading hagiography? And yet it's hard to criticize someone who so obviously loved the Park, as Muir did. So at the risk of sounding theatrical, there is one aspect of hiking the backcountry I'd like to relate. Namely: hot-potting.

  There are hundreds and possibly thousands of hot-pots in the Yellowstone region, a term which simply refers to a body of water - be it a river, catch-basin, or hot pool - fed by thermal springs which raise the temperature of the water to hot-tub levels. Some of the best of these thermal pools are located deep in the backcountry, like Mr. Bubbles, while others, Boiling River for example, are within walking distance of a parking lot. Hot-potting is one of those gray areas in the Park world. It's not illegal because there are Park-sanctioned hot-pots like Boiling River. It's not legal either because there are other hot-pots that will get you a hefty fine - or fired if you're an employee - if you're found bathing in them. The distinction between the two often confuses the rangers themselves. I've seen employees run off from a swimming area by the NPS, only to have the authorities later admit, grudgingly, that the kids were perfectly within their rights.

  Yellowstone attracts a young crowd. It's a demographic known for testing the waters - as it were - and some get burned. One only has to read a few chapters of the book Death in Yellowstone to form an appreciation of the manifold ways one is endangered out here. I myself carry a mark, tattooed on my right foot by the boiling water that splashed over my shoe as I was foolishly trying to cut through a thermal area. Others have died. While it would be easy for some to look at the dangers and say, "Put up a fence, put up a wall," I think we should let nature be nature and let people have a place where they can learn from their mistakes - even if those lessons are learned posthumously by those who are left behind. It is one of the attitudes I appreciate in the more philosophically-minded rangers, this sense of "wildness" which Paul Schullery - himself a ranger - comments upon in several of his books.

  Having dutifully stated my disclaimer, I will now sing the praises of the hot-pot. It's the features found in the backcountry that interest me the most because there's simply nothing better than immersing yourself in a relaxing, and I do mean relaxing, pool of warm water after having hiked fifteen or twenty miles that day. The closest I've come to being an acolyte of Muir was at the end of one of these forced marches I'd put myself through, when I stripped off my sweaty clothes and lowered my mosquito-bitten body into a glorious and remote pool that happened to be located at the top of a waterfall overlooking a pine-covered valley. No king surveying his dom could have felt the same pride of place that I felt that day, because my feelings were not based on a sense of ownership but on a sense of belonging.

  When I worked at Grant Village as a pubtender I would often, after work, drive with some friends to a hot-pot located about thirty miles away. It was not remote - in fact, it was just off a side road - and it was not le
gal, which was why we chose such late hours for our excursions. This was a different kind of hot-potting experience from the backcountry in that a fair amount of alcohol was consumed while the bathers were in situ. Still, the atmosphere of these gatherings was generally hushed as people swam around the large basin and enjoyed the moonlit terraces which glistened with running water. And being good, environmentally-conscious folks, we made sure to clean up after ourselves and left nothing but footprints.

  The last time I visited this hot-pot, on a warm night in July, it was with a city girl named Sam who marveled at the unbroken tapestry of stars above us which stretched from horizon to horizon on this moonless night. We watched shooting stars and satellites - how many of them there were - and we laughed at the way the soft muck at the bottom of the pool released bubbles that danced around our bodies when we stepped into it, tickling us. So there we were, soaking in the warm water and staring at the night sky, when all of a sudden I heard the sound of approaching steps. I shushed my friend and we listened for a moment. Out of the forest came something big, moving towards us with a slow, methodical tread. It was too dark to see anything, but the heavy steps came closer and closer. Sam and I slowly drifted out to the center of the pool, trying not to make any noise, then froze as the nocturnal animal splashed through the runoff channel only a few feet away from us. For a crazy moment I imagined a grizzly bear dragging us out of the pool for a midnight snack, but the footfalls receded toward the distant trees and we remained silent for a few minutes more, letting our tensed muscles relax. Finally I started to breathe again and said, "That was cool!"

  And it was cool. I was genuinely afraid. Suddenly the idea of soaking in a hot pool under starry skies and laughing with friends seemed frivolous, and this plodding beast was going to put an end to it. It was as if a God had passed in our midst and we'd had to bow our heads in deference to its gravitas.

  To us, it felt as though we had discovered the promise beneath the slogans we'd read in the company literature about "The Yellowstone Experience." It really was here; you just had to break the rules sometimes to experience it.

  Rangers

  SEVERAL long-term Park employees got together during a recent winter season and decided to form an organization that would allow people to air their grievances and make suggestions about how to benefit from and improve their Yellowstone Experience. The small group who conceived this idea decided to invite the rangers to one of their meetings as a show of good will since relations had been strained as a result of some misinformation about drug use that had fallen into the hands of these officials, resulting in bad blood between the two camps. It's a funny story, so I'll tell you about it.

  Hank came into the employee pub one night to meet his friends for a few drinks after work. They greeted him from across the room and shouted, "Hank, dude, you gotta do the green with us!" Hank replied, "I want to, but it's too expensive." An off-duty security guard overheard this exchange and decided to report to the rangers that this group was openly advocating drug use; "the green" being an obvious reference to pot. The rangers responded by calling Hank into their office and subjecting him to a standard intimidation session. Hank, though shaken, pled innocent to the charges of being an insider to a Yellowstone drug cartel. The company considered terminating Hank for being tainted by this scandal, but decided that since he was a long-term employee they would give him the benefit of the doubt and await the result of the inquiry. As it turned out, the employees in the pub had been planning a river rafting trip on the Green River in Utah after the winter season, and they were recruiting as many people as possible because the multi-day trip was going to be expensive and they wanted to share the cost.

  Doin' the green suddenly became a sarcastic catchphrase among employees for any drug related double-entendre; "Keep it quiet, dude, we're having pot roast in the EDR tonight."

  Thus the invitation to the rangers.

  The meeting took place in the employee pub with about thirty people in attendance (the rest were occupied by the night's special: $1.50 shots of tequila lined up on a cross-country ski). After a few opening remarks were made, the rangers decided to take over the meeting. One of them, giving his best impression of a cave dweller, took out his nightstick and began cracking it against the tile floor. Having won our attention, they pulled out their new taser guns and began pointing them at random employees, playing the red laser over the knees of the assembled crowd. The stunned employees, realizing that they were in the company of truly dangerous people, began to protest. The rangers laughed and belted their weapons, shaking their wide-brimmed hats at our amusing discomfiture.

  It should be said that these were Law Enforcement rangers, not the kinder, gentler, Naturalist variety. Naturalist rangers are the ones we all remember from Disney programs; taking nature walks with children and pointing out the many varieties of wildflowers and insects. Naturalists are in the business of interpreting the parks for their visitors, declaiming on the flora and fauna as well as the cultural history of a place. They are the campfire rangers who have people skills which allow them to hold forth in front of an audience while parlaying an appreciation for their environs.

  Law Enforcement rangers have no people skills. They have leadership skills, weapons training, and crowd control expertise. They are the jarheads of Wonderland, and they can be an incredible pain in the ass.

  During the meeting in the employee pub, these latter grunts decided to regale us with vignettes from Weaponry Training. They tried to instill in us an appreciation of the efficacy of the taser by explaining how, in training, they were required to shoot one another in order to experience for themselves the power they would soon be wielding against others. "It's no picnic," one of them said knowingly. An image sprang to mind of two rangers a few feet apart, with one pointing a taser at the other:

  "Sorry 'bout this, Steve."

  BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

  Steve crumples in a twitching heap while the others try to hold back a guffaw. Later, in the break room, Steve hears about how he pissed his pants and shrieked like a schoolgirl while 50,000 volts of electricity passed through his body.

  For most rangers, this is what passes for The Yellowstone Experience.

  Last Tango in Yellowstone

  ONE of the best perks of working in Yellowstone is knowing that it’s a finite arrangement. We agree to work together for three to six months before an amicable separation with the possibility of reconciliation goes into effect. For people who shy away from long commitments to corporations and other dubious engagements, the Park offers an exceptional period of abeyance during which no major decisions need be made.

  Unlike year-round operations such as the Grand Canyon, there is no effort made in Yellowstone to accommodate employees who are married with children. They do not belong here. Entering the confines of the Park is like Jeanne entering Paul's apartment in Last Tango in Paris; it's a secret trysting place where the outside world is forgotten for a time, and when you get tired of taking it up the ass you can simply skip the next rendezvous.

  It was an easy routine for me to adopt since I enjoyed traveling abroad and knew that I could save enough during the course of a summer in the Park to pay for an overseas adventure. As time went by, my parents came to expect the late-night phone calls from the downtown bus depot: "I just got back from Istanbul! I found a great deal on standby! Can you come get me?" Usually I'd turn up penniless, asking if my Yellowstone application had arrived in the mail while I was gone. After all, I had my next trip to consider. My parents would listen with patient smiles to my stories of riding camels around the pyramids of Egypt and seeing the Whirling Dervishes on the Anatolian plateau, and then bore me with real world caveats about saving money and getting health care. I figured if I could survive amoebic dysentery in Kenya without health care I could handle antiseptic America.

  While the other parkies regarded their sojourn in Yellowstone as exotic, I began to see it as the most stable aspect of my life. I was a model employee - after a fashi
on - showing up on time (and sober) for most of my shifts, keeping my complaints to a minimum, and lending my growing expertise as a returner to my co-workers. I felt that I had stumbled upon the perfect lifestyle, or at least a very serviceable one.

  It only got better when I discovered that I could collect unemployment during the break between seasons. A fellow employee explained to me that if I was working both summer and winter seasons then I was considered job-attached by the government, and was eligible for free money in the interim. I took advantage of this boon, though my father disapproved.

  "I don't want no son of mine on unemployment. That's for poor people."

  "Dad. Have you seen my paychecks? I am poor."

  The break between seasons also tends to bestow upon one's summer the softening smudge of nostalgia, whereupon we forget the long hours and difficult work and remember instead the community we were a part of. It's a powerful drug, and it explains why I would sometimes see familiar faces back in the Park the season after they had left with fingers flying. One friend of mine quit during the summer season, breaking his contract and thereby short-circuiting his chances for a return engagement. He told and re-told the story of his exit, gesticulating madly to show how animated he had been in cursing the managerial staff for their incompetence and short-sightedness. He made it sound as if he couldn't put enough distance between himself and Yellowstone. He ended up five miles outside the Park working in a coffee shop and would often be seen on his weekends haunting the second floor balcony overlooking the dining room at the Old Faithful Inn, gazing with mournful eyes at his former co-workers as they danced their tango below.