Yellowstone

July 31, 2014

We get into West Yellowstone after dark. We contemplate getting an RV site before the national park. We call an RV park. “Is it safe to drive into Yellowstone at night?” The woman on the other end says, “Oh no dear. You won’t be able to see the buffalo. Their eyes don’t reflect.” When we arrive at the RV Park, we tell the man at the counter with a strangely paced voice, “We have a camping spot inside the park.”

“So why are you staying here?”

We look at each other and I answer, “We were told it was dangerous to drive at night.” He laughs.

“I drive that way all the time, in the dark. You will be just fine.”

We thank him, take our credit card back, save $60 and decide to drive the 2 hours to our campsite. We can’t see what is before us. I keep my eyes on the road and watch cautiously for any sign of animal life, any movement or flicker of an eye. Growing up in New York taught me to watch for deer that bound blindly in front of speeding cars. So we watch for the reflection of their eyes. So here now, I watch for any sign of wildlife, any reflection, and strain my eyes blinded against the beams of passing cars.

We get in after 11, grab our site information from the board and pull into our parking spot. When I get up in the morning, I walk out into the sunlight. There are more people than I expected. The couple next to us yells loudly at one another. They aren’t kind. They instill this nastiness to their young child. Pamela and I practice yoga and do handstands again the ELF in the middle of the parking lot. It makes me feel a bit better but ultimately I feel pretty trapped in a sea of people. And in the great wilderness, my claustrophobia is heightened.

Yellowstone is a parking lot. Hordes of people packed into five loops of a hundred sites a piece. It’s like Disney Land. At least here in the campgrounds it is. The main attraction is the wildlife on the side of the road. And the people stop their cars in the middle of the road around blind curves, on the underside of a steep hill. They don’t care. All they want is a picture of an elk grazing, or a buffalo grunting. And it feels a bit uncomfortable here. I want to go back to the Sawtooth Mountains where the meadows are vast, the mountains stand jagged and tall and the people are scarce. But this is where we are. I have to embrace the lesson, the reason, and find beauty here. But there are also reminders of how cut off we all are from nature, the natural wild. In the clean bathrooms, on posts at every turn in Disneyland Yellowstone there are warning signs about bears. “Do not run. Carry bear spray. Make loud noise.”   A graphic picture of a person being gored by a running buffalo hangs in the bathroom. It’s like the “Keep your hands inside the rides at all times” signs. Don’t get me wrong. People need to hear these instructions. We need to be informed that trying to get close to an elk, or leaving food out for wandering bears can put them in serious danger.

In the middle of the grassy field, I can see everyone, their movements. This herd of people is a swarm of energy with loud sounds and discussions. My heart begins a racing beat. I turn to Pamela and say, “I’m going to try and get a different site. I can’t stay here.” The front desk says there are two sites we can move to and I choose the heavily wooded one. Turns out that the people at that site want to stay where they are. And we have to negotiate when they have to move their things. It’s uncomfortable but worth it. I can’t stay in the middle of a crowded field for four days.

As we drive to Fairy Falls, Pamela can feel my stress. As an empath, her stomach begins to hurt and process the negative emotions.

We hike past Biscuit Basin; the crowds surround the spitting geysers. Our hike takes us into the woods. With her kazoo and singing voice, Pamela keeps the bears aware of our presence. We hike past fallen trees and lush green meadows. We pass hikers in twos, small families, and older couples with walking sticks. We turn a corner and find Fairy Falls, a beautiful waterfall fit for the fairies. We climb and hike around it. I wade into the water and practice balancing posed. The strength of the water falling creates gusts of wind that make it difficult to find balance. I laugh as I fall, scrape my exposed feet. A crow lands on a fallen tree. A message. I need to find something here. The treasure hunt, Ah, yes! Forrest Fenn! My brain clicks and I remember that the treasure may be buried in Yellowstone. 

I am going to treasure hunt. I climb back over to Pamela on the edge of the water and say, “Pamela, we are going to search for the treasure.”

“Huh? What treasure?”

“This man named Forrest Fenn buried 2 million in gold in the mountains above Santa Fe. People believe it may be in Yellowstone because he spent so much time here as a child, fishing brown trout and spending time with his family. He has this wild idea that hunting for treasure is what will bring people away from their televisions and devices and get into the woods, reconnect with nature. And it isn’t so wild after all. People are searching. Sometimes, at their own peril but that is because they aren’t listening to Forrest.”

“Two million? Hiking in the mountains? I’m in.”

“The treasure map is a poem with nine clues embedded in it. The poem goes like this, Begin it where the warm waters halt. And take it in the canyon down. Not too far but too far to walk, put in below the home of brown…I can’t remember the rest.

And this shifts my energy. I text my friend Danny in Topanga. He is the one who introduced me to the treasure hunt and I ask him to text me the entire poem. We banter about possibilities and I ask Pamela to take out the map.

My energy is bubbling. I feel like a child as I sweep my eyes against the landscape looking for “the blaze.” A clue in the poem that signals the end, the treasure is near. I climb over the surrounding rocks and logs, looking down for the treasure chest. We hike back to the car as an imposing thunderstorm drops rain and threatens with thunder. A snake crosses our path and stops us. “Is this a sign?” I whisper to Pamela. “The Little Prince” She says. “Huh?” “The snake sent the Little Prince back.” “Does this mean we have to go back? Is the treasure there and it is telling us to go back?” 

Pamela shifts her feet in the ground and the snake moves on. We get back to ELF as the rain pours down. It feels fantastic, this rain—cleansing and clean. We don’t get much rain back in Southern California. Back at our new campground we are greeted by a friendly family, half of the campers are from Venezuela. And the other campers are from Utah. The two kids are friendly and chatty. I love being around children. It reminds me of my nieces and nephews. It reminds me of home. We eat s’mores with them by their campfire, play hula-hoop with the two young ones and chat with the handsome single man named Jason. The next morning we invite Jason to practice yoga with us. Bravely, he does. He hasn’t practiced yoga before. Then we hit the road, in search of the treasure. We talk to a ranger and I recite the poem to him. His eyes go wide and he leads us to Upper and Lower Falls. We hike with busloads of people but I keep my focus on the poem, on the treasure. My eyes scan the landscape. Because of this focus, I interact with the landscape differently. I read the signs, look in the crevices and the cracks of the trails. I wade in the water, and politely overturn stones. I go off the beaten path and take my time in different locations. 

When we don’t find the treasure on this hike, I turn to Pamela and say, “Forest Fenn said that the real treasure is in the thrill of the chase. I think he’s right.” The real treasure is the hunt in nature, with childlike energy and a sense of wonder and purpose. And let’s be honest, it wouldn’t hurt to find 2 million dollars.