Boiling River 1, Mammoth Springs Area, Yellowstone National Park, MT

After a cold night spent camping on the outskirts of Gardiner, Montana, I entered Yellowstone from the north and headed straight for the Boiling River. The morning was especially dreary, and a soak in the steaming spring-fed water seemed like the perfect way to get me energized for what was sure to be a day of hiking in the rain. The “Boiling River” is actually a section of the Gardiner river where a large hot spring along the shore boils up from the ground and feeds into pools, mixing intensely hot spring water with the cold, rushing water of the Gardiner. The spot isn’t marked on the park map, but it’s not that much of a secret either, as it’s the only area of spring-fed water in Yellowstone that is legally accessible. Luckily, I was up with the sun, per usual, and into the park long before the droves of visitors had begun their daily pilgrimage from viewpoint to viewpoint. I parked and walked the half-mile trail along the river, seeing the steam rising in the distance, white veils softly rising and dissipating into the dark grey of the overcast morning sky. When I arrived at the Boiling River, I was a little bummed to see a lone head poking out of the steaming water, but the pools were large and there were a few of them, so I figured I could still enjoy my morning soak in relative privacy. I stepped into the warm water and sat down, the water reaching almost to my shoulders. A light rain made ripples like tiny radar bleeps, the cool drops splashing on my face as my body was subjected to alternating waves of extreme heat and cold from the river water mixing with the steaming spring water that was bubbling up from under some large boulders next to the pool. The lone figure in the pool next to me began to speak, asking me where I was from, asking other questions with the intent of baiting me into some kind of political bullshit after I mentioned New York. I answered his questions vaguely and tried to send a “do not disturb” signal his way, wishing this creep would just leave me be. I couldn’t completely see him through the surrounding steam, but I saw enough to know that he was staring right at me. Another older man entered the pool, and the Creep immediately started up the same conversation with him, successfully baiting him into the realm of political & religious debate. The two of them were going on and on, too much talking for such a peaceful morning, and I was beginning to get distracted from my enjoyment of the water. I needed some relief, literally, so I pissed in the water and grinned with the thought that these two assholes had my urine flowing over them as they sat 8 feet downstream from me, blabbering about shit that a man should keep to himself in such a uncorrupted place. I scooted to the far end of my pool and sunk down to my ears, allowing the water to mask out the voices, creating a tiny aquatic sound-booth. I sat there for about an hour, letting my mind just float about, not thinking of anything in particular, soaking both my body and brain in the splendid water that was rushing over and around me. I would keep my eyes closed for minutes at a time, and every time I opened them, someone new was either in the pool or approaching down the path. I decided it was time to go. I walked back to my car and as I was drying off in the parking lot, I heard a familiar voice behind me say “Wow. You’ve got a lot of tattoos!”. I turned around and there stood the Creep, who I’ll now call Rape Eyes, because he was staring so lustfully at me, bulging eyes panning over my body from top to bottom. His balding head was flush and dripping, wet red belly hanging out of his open shirt like the bloated gut of a cadaver, steamed well done, ready to pop and release a stench into the crisp, clean air. Once again he began to ask me about New York, saying he had a friend there who catches him up on all the “current events”. Again, I wasn’t taking the bait, and I waved my hand dismissively at him, uttering a “Eh.” for good measure. I turned back to my open trunk and quickly grabbed what I needed, all the while knowing this guy is just standing behind me, staring. I got in the car and turned around in the parking lot. As I drove out, Rape Eyes was standing next to his truck and he gave me one final stare, a parting gift to remember him by. Thanks for the memories, creepiest person of my 2011 road trip.

Boiling River 2 (Rape Eyes’ Head), Mammoth Springs Area, Yellowstone National Park, MT

Roosevelt Arch, Yellowstone North Entrance, Gardiner, MT

Dedicated by President Theodore Roosevelt on April 24, 1903, the Roosevelt Arch is the only entrance to Yellowstone National Park open year-round.

Bones Along the Yellowstone, Outside Gardiner, MT

Endless Highway, HWY 12, Near Helena, MT

My Endless Highway Tumblr here.

Roadside Crosses 1, Near Cut Bank, MT

Driving along the isolated backcountry roads of Montana, the landscape extends out in rolling hills of golden prairie grass, like a gently churning terrestrial ocean. The grey skies loom overhead like another ocean, inverted and ominous, dark waters frothing into heavy clouds that look like they could come crashing down on you at any moment. There is a fatalistic atmosphere that surrounds the long, lonely roads out here. They wind and glide, seemingly endless veins of asphalt streaking across the empty spaces that lie between the populated and vast unpopulated expanses of land. You can go for hours without passing another car, yet you are always reminded that others have come before you, and that many have met their end on these roads. White crosses line these roads, they appear over hills, around corners, materialize on pin-straight stretches of highway, sometimes single crosses, other times clusters of them like some macabre flowering plant growing along the roadside. Between the town of Cut Bank and Browning, along HWY 2, I saw almost 1 cross every mile, often more. I counted thirty in less than thirty miles along another section of highway, and these weren’t stretches of road that had crazy blind curves and steep declines. They were mostly straight, passing through rural areas where you could easily see what was up ahead and what was behind.

Roadside Crosses 2, HWY 2 Near Browning, MT

In 1999, Montana’s legislature imposed a 75 MPH speed limit along rural roads, but before that the state followed the “basic rule”, which meant no marked speed limit, implying that all drivers were expected to drive a vehicle at a reasonable and safe speed based on their own judgement. In 2009, Montana led the country in highway fatalities, averaging 2.5 fatalities for every 100 million vehicle miles traveled. Only 5 other states had fatalities reaching 2 or higher per 100 million miles, and the next closest was Louisiana with 2.2 fatalities per. Almost half of those deaths could be classified as alcohol-related fatalities, which Montana also led the nation in. In 1953, the Montana Highway Commission approved the White Cross Fatality Marker Program, created and maintained by the American Legion of Montana with the purpose of reminding drivers to slow down and to raise awareness of highway safety. The American Legion website states on it’s Highway Fatality Marker Instruction page that “The marker should be placed as close as possible to the location of the accident. This information may be obtained from the local Montana Highway Patrol.” At each fatal accident sight, with the victim’s family’s consent, a white metal cross is erected to represent one life lost. If there are multiple deaths, then the appropriate number of crosses are all placed together on one metal post. Some people complain that the use of the cross is inappropriate as a state-approved road marker, but I can’t think of a better symbol. Driving along on those dark, rainy days, the markers stood out like spirits lingering along the highway, white apparitions hovering above the damp ground, reminding me that these magnificent roads which I spent so much time on had a darker side. Yes, many had come before me, but some had never left.

Roadside Crosses 3, HWY 12 Near Helena, MT

Meth PSA, HWY 12, Avon, MT

Endless Highway, HWY 83 1, Northern MT

If you’re interested in my Endless Highway series, I’ve created a Tumblr for it here.

HWY 83, Northern MT

This lonely tree stood solitary along a stretch of prairie highway on my way back to Bozeman. I couldn’t figure out if it was some kind of memorial or what, as it was vaguely decorated with what looked like Christmas ornaments. A strange find in the middle of nowhere.

Avalanche Lake, Waterton-Glacier National Peace Park, MT

I passed through the cedar forest and hiked 2 miles to Avalanche Lake, a secluded lake surrounded by high mountains on all sides and fed by snow and glacial runoff from Sperry Glacier in the peaks above. In the distance I could see and hear the water rushing down the cliffs in narrow strips of frothy white, disappearing into the forest below, then emerging in wide, shallow streams running across the rocky shore and feeding into the lake. The water was as smooth as glass, and the young trout made plopping sounds as they struck the surface for lingering insects. I could see them clearly below the blue water, hovering in place one moment, then catching sight of me and darting behind a submerged log the next. The lake was shallow along the edge, littered with dead branches and stumps washed down in avalanches and warm weather thaws, but dark and deep towards the center. I spotted what looked like bear shit on a pebbly stretch of shore, not that I’m an expert on that, but I assumed this was a place frequented by bears, knowing the surroundings were ideal habitat for bears. My discovery stirred up thoughts of a bear rushing out of the dense forest surrounding me, charging at me as I stood between it and the lake, imagined stumbling upon a mother and her cubs around the next curve in the shore. I was weary being so far around the lake, so far from the trail and entering denser brush. My only escape would be to jump into the lake and swim for it. I continued along the rocky shore, circling the entire lake, about a mile long and half-mile across, and eventually came to an area completely jammed with dead trees, criss-crossed in every direction, blocking my passage like some immense obstacle course of rotting, rickety logs. I had been hiking along the lake for about an hour, and I was close to completing the entire circumference, save for about a quarter mile of this seemingly impassable logjam. Turning around would double my hiking time, so I decided to forge ahead, carefully making my way across the slippery logs, getting stabbed by stray branches, almost falling into the lake numerous times, cursing at my stupidity for not scanning the entire shore and seeing this obvious obstacle that I would eventually reach, if only I had taken the time to do so. My chosen route ended up taking an extra hour anyways, and after bushwacking through more dense brush, I emerged onto a narrow shore and realized I was on the other side of the McDonald Creek, about 12 feet wide, separating me from the path about 200 feet away. I stood there panting, short of breath and covered in scrapes, branches sticking out from under my pack, leaves in my hair, looking like the most pathetic mountain man that ever stepped foot into the great wide open. I could see a few hikers leisurely walking along the shore across the lake, and I hoped they wouldn’t see me standing there on the other side of this immense cluster of dead logs, stuck on the other side of a creek, knowing how stupid I must look. The water didn’t seem too deep, but the creek bed was littered with stones that I knew would be slippery as hell. No choice but to cross, so I took off my boots and socks, tied them around my neck, rolled up my jeans, and stepped into the frigid water, finding it deeper than I thought. My balance was terrible due to the uneven terrain and me holding my camera and gear above my head, and I almost ate it on the algae-covered rocks, but finally reached the far shore with only wet jeans and cold, sore feet. I sat on a flat boulder and let the sun warm me up again before heading back onto the trail and out of the forest, returning to my waiting car once again slightly battered, but invigorated and ready to make the next mistake.

Old Growth Red Cedar, Trail of the Cedars, Waterton-Glacier National Peace Park, MT

Cedar/hemlock forests are mostly found along the western coast of North America, from northern California to southern Alaska. These evergreen forests thrive on the dense humidity of the coast, with mild winters and plentiful rainfall creating a rainforest-like environment. The old growth forest along Avalanche Creek at Glacier exists under similar weather conditions, creating one of the easternmost groves of red cedars and western hemlock, along with Douglas firs and black cottonwoods. Unlike most forests that see a natural cycle of fires and new growth, this particular forest hasn’t burned since the 1500′s. I hiked along the Trail of the Cedars early one morning after a chilly night of camping at Avalanche Creek campground. The forest was empty and quiet, save for a few birds calling from high up in the towering cedars, and I quietly made my way along the boardwalk, trying not to make a sound lest I scare away any animals I might encounter. I could hear gentle rustling, skittering creatures looking for breakfast, making sure to stay out of my sight no matter how hard I strained to pinpoint the sources of noise. I was hoping to see a flying squirrel, one of the inhabitants of this cosmopolis of topiary skyscrapers, but saw none. Black bears tend to prefer the forest over the open meadows, but again, I was alone. Walking silently below the canopies of these ancient trees that have stood here for almost 500 years, I felt as far away from the city as one could ever feel. I had made the transition to the opposite side of this country’s spectrum, no longer surrounded by glass and cement and hasidic men almost running me over in their minivans. The sidewalks were moss-covered forest floors, the buildings thick trunks covered with soft brown cedar bark, the sound of horns and the J train clattering across it’s elevated tracks now reduced to distant. sporadic chirps and the sound of squirrels’ claws on wood. I could never return to Brooklyn, could just keep walking, deeper and deeper into the forest, further and further from my life back east. I could just disappear.

Young Western Hemlock, Trail of the Cedars, Waterton-Glacier National Peace Park, MT