Yellowstone. Everyone chased after the buffalo. Searched madly for the mother grizzly with her cubs in tow. Combed for the pack of wolves in Lamar Valley. There had been more interest in the giftshops and their offerings, everything from keychains to ice cream cones. But who watched the Robin, as she scratched for her food at their campsite?
Everyone raced to Old Faithful. Frenzied to get to Artist Paint Pot. Hurried to get the last parking spot at Firehole. Who raced to the little pull off on the very beginnings of the Yellowstone or Shoshone Rivers?
It took me nearly three days of driving to get there. Quite a few people had a need to charge through, like racing around Disney to get to all the top rides before the park filled up. I took the Sunday drive approach, only to be violated by Angry Man in his rockstar bus, who felt that the posted 45mph through the park had been too slow for what his day allowed. His lights flashed and his fist laid on his horn. (Please. I slowed down even more. Passive aggressive? Perhaps.)
For nearly fifteen years I called the west my home and not once did I take it for granted. I made bologna sandwiches on the tailgate of a pick-up while pelicans danced above in the wind. I listened faithfully during the fall nights as the elk bugled for love. I have seen the setting sun paint pictures of glorious color on the sides of mountains every night while she sank lower into the sky.
I watched the Robin as she scratched for her food at our campsite.
Chris Writes 