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.