Dave and I did what the Village People told us to on our first vacation together: "Go West." We flew to El Paso and picked up my father's VW, the same one I had driven to Colorado and California before we met, for our two-week, mostly camping trip. Dave changed the lyrics of the Knack's #1 hit to "My Scirocco" and slapped out the irresistible beat on the dashboard or steering wheel whenever it came on the radio.
We made camp at the South Rim. Both of us packed our cut-offs. We hiked the Hermit Trail down and reached the bottom of the canyon by 2 p.m.
We encountered only six other people on the trail in mid-September.
Climbing back up took twice as long, winding Dave, who smoked, and emptying both of our canteens long before we reached the top.
A French tourist began whistling the "Star Spangled Banner" as the sun set over Mojave Point.
We drove past the Grand Tetons, but Jackson Hole was out of our price range even then.
My parents had visited Yellowstone on a cross-country trip after arriving home from Japan in Seattle a year before I was born.
The temperature dropped to the low 40s at night in Yellowstone but we were comfortable in our tent and sleeping bags, especially after buying foam ground pads at a sporting goods store. The franks, beans and toasted marshmallows never tasted better.
Most geysers are in controlled areas, surrounded by boardwalks I noted in my journal. You can't really get too close but today we discovered a small one of our own and were able to peer inside as well as immerse our little fingers. No photos of that experience survive.
Dave and I found the Norris Geyser Basin particularly bewitching in the evening. Foggy vapor hissing from pastel craters, water gurgling in azure pools. Those colors have faded beyond recognition but Dave's wide-eyed smile survives.
The geothermal springs reeked of sulfur. It smells just like chemistry class junior year in high school.
We got pretty close to the animals, too.
When Dave and I first spotted this elk, we stood still for a good three minutes expecting it to bolt. But when we finally moved, it continued to graze without paying us the least bit of attention. For the first time I understood the thrill a sportsman must experience when taking such a magnificent animal.
We probably were lucky to see the park when we did. Old Faithful practically gave us a private show!
Yellowstone has a Grand Canyon, too.
We drove west from Yellowstone to Crater Lake in Oregon. It's a thousand feet deep in places and the water is just as blue as Lake Tahoe's although you can't tell from this faded photo.
September 23, 1979: Vacations become dangerous when they keep getting better and better. I'm really enjoying the rhythms of camping and driving, especially today as we hurtled down the coast from Crescent City to the Avenue of the Giants, passing with Graham Parker and Patti Smith snarling loudly from the cassette deck. Last night proved that the Eureka tent could withstand the rain. Everything but us got wet. A late start delayed our arrival at the Avenue of the Giants until just after lunch. From a car, they're impressive but not nearly so special as when you wander among them. My first reaction was extreme arousal (how phallic can you get?) but then, as I became accustomed to their hugeness, the colors really began to affect me. The terrain below the trees is composed of rotting redwood and ferns. The green stands out brilliantly even on an overcast day (the trees don't allow much light to filter through in any case). Picture-taking just wasn't working. There's no way to fit so much tree into so little a frame whether shooting straight up or flat on the ground.
Since Dave and I had worn t-shirts (yellow & turquoise) that contrasted with the natural surroundings we took took turns snapping portraits. As we walked along a trail with bridges, steps and tunnels carved of redwood, I got the feeling a dinosaur might pop out from behind one of the larger trees at any moment. Everything was silent and still, a graveyard of twisted, contorted dead roots and overgrown moss, broken suddenly by a sparkly slither of a ribbon snake. The ground beneath our feet felt like a hard mattress that gave a little with each step. Upon returning to camp and paying the ranger our $4 camping fee (plus $1.50 for firewood) I spotted a herd of deer grazing in the apple orchard below. We picked wild raspberries for dessert. How will I ever return to urban life--and the library?
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