Oldest Firework in the US of A

I'm wearing shorts and a tank top, mom's not in much more and we're wondering how she, I and her little dog are going to sleep in her little car this evening. Road trip got out of hand and we're wandering down the streets of West Yellowstone in Montana, where the nights get fairly cool. So we grab a couple of tourist jackets and I a pair of gaudy yellow sleeper pants and find ourselves in the last lodging in town at the Westward Ho Motel.

July the Fourth morning greets us at an eye-squinting 5:30am and I drag mom and dog from bed to enter the park early so as to avoid other tourists. A light mist decends along the river and apparitions of wildlife drift through the early hours. I'm breathing in deep the pine-air and happy to spend time with a loved one in such a beautiful place. Old faithful geiser shows us a spectacular spray show and we sit back thinking about what it means to be American in the the world's first National Park. In our nostalgia we realize that the majority of others there with us are individuals of other nationalities, I think of San Francisco in all of it's diversity, America has changed considerably since the first immigrants took the land and were later met my throngs of the new in gold rushes of the western coast. Bumper to bumper behind an ornery buffalo for a time and crazed photographers chasing a small black bear through the trees and we're standing on an overhang above a waterfall before making way for the Tetons of Wyoming. We're short for time but soaking in each moment. I suddenly have a premonition and have the distinct feeling that I'm meant to return soon.

The gut instinct took a few days to kick-start and after another roadtrip re-uniting with gal pals in northern Idaho I set out with a small bundle of clothes intending to move to West Yellowstone on the border of the park, and if nothing bit there I'd drive on. I arrived at noon and had a job by one, two days in a hostel and a lovely chat with a German scientist on the bottom bunk of my log bunk-bed and I manage to grab one of the last rentals in town. My rose-pink carpeted "cabin" they call it, the first I've had alone just me, no roomates from around the globe, and a much as I enjoy the place to myself, I can imagine it being very lonely in winter. Having just finished the Clan of the Cave Bear I'm having nightmarish thoughts of the 7-foot snow entrapping me, turning my lil cabin into a lil snow-cave and my learning to stay warm from the hides of animals.. not likely but when alone often one starts to lose one's mind..

I now shuffle customers about from the front desk of the Brandin' Iron Inn, a mounted elk's head looming over my transactions and an antler chandelier for the rustic-effect. I'm enjoying the job and taking all sorts of unusual requests; climbing through windows to free trapped guests, translating into Spanish for housekeeping who graciously do not laugh at my marred attempts, sitting through thunderstorms that take out the power and phones and a slew of other anomylies. A French woman came in one night with a Pepsi from one of our vending machines and stated that she did not want it, to which I can only recommend that she press the button of the selection she would like, after a brief repeat she shakes her head and plainly says "I did not want a Pepsi, I wanted Beer." It took much of my decorum to hold from laughing and explained that she'd need to visit the gas station for such a purchase. Was told later in the week that the French do in fact have beer vending machines but certainly not for a few quarters cost.

So otherwise, the trails and river rapids call and I'm going solo as making friends in a seasonal position seems to extinguish the extra energy and days off. Contract ends in October and I'll be onto the next adventure soon.

Bandit Queens

Drive ahead will pass in the blink of an eye. My head is filled with nature and peaks that put to shame any others I've yet seen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

A month back I returned to the US, a bit burned out and readjusting after half the year in Seoul. My flight was denied access into the US or Canada as they had allowed a high risk passenger on board, we were turned around and flown to Tokyo, 26 hours later I finally arrived in San Francisco; my boyfriend and a great friend picked my tired self up curbside and I spent the week playing catch up and showing the Bay area to the boy toy. (A week later that same passenger's face was in the newspaper having been arrested with a large terrorist cell who had been planning to begin bombings of crowded shopping centers.)

Series of events led to my needing a ride home to Boise, Idaho and dear dad came flying down the road to get me. En route home Lake Tahoe seemed alluring and he and I added some hours to the trip skirting the lake and stopping in the capital of Nevada, Carson City, to unload our $8 of quarters into slot machines and walked out with $50. Drive time 15+ hours, plus time to stop and buy another travel magnet for my fridge.

A week spent home and getting un-packed and re-packed for the new job in Seattle and an 8 hour drive later I landed in Seattle. The position turned sour, as in so bad that I couldn't stay, and I packed up and drove back to Boise.. that trip took closer to 11 hours as the heat caused my '88 van to vapor lock on a few occassions needing cool down time.

Back in Boise 3 days and mom and I headed for the 6 hour round trip drive to visit my sister in Eastern Idaho. Fourth of July weekend adventuring called and 2 more hours into Montana to enjoy my first visit to Yellowstone National Park, then south a few more hours to the Tetons of Wyoming and finally a lengthy return just in time to catch the night's fireworks at the raceway down the street from mom's duplex.

I suppose I'm getting prepared to find my next line of work a truck driver as these long road trips each week look to become a continuing trend.