The Think Tank

** Note: I made several posts about our trip to Florida while it was happening, but those were mostly submitted via my phone and only told a part of the story.  This is meant to provide you with the full story, including some details and funny bits which never made it into the previous posts.  I hope you enjoy it…  **

Joel and I have always wanted to see a Space Shuttle launch.  A couple years ago when NASA announced they would be retiring the Shuttle program, we decided that we were going to go see one of them.  As the remaining missions dwindled, we had yet to follow through on our dream.  But that all changed in the middle of January.

With a mere 5 launches left on the schedule we realized that it was now or never.  We heard from several people that if you could only see one launch in your life it should be a night launch, and the February 9th launch for mission STS-130 was the last night launch on the schedule, so that was our target.

(continue reading…)

A Week in the Bay

Hey guys. Here are a few pictures from San Francisco.

The center picture was taken from the boat on the way to Alacatraz island. That sky show was incredible.

Fort Point is located right under the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge. It has been guarding the bay in some form or other since the 1600’s. The cannon in the center picture is named San Martin. It was cast in Peru in 1684 and, more than one hundred years later was placed here to defend the bay. Of course at that time this part of the world was Spanish territory, and the Fort was known as as Castillo de San Joaquin.

The current fort was built by the US Army from 1870-1876. It was intended to house sixteen 40 pound cannon, but due to funding problems only recieved 5, plus an assortment of smaller artillery pieces. Combined with similar weapons from Fort Baker the Golden Gate was all but impenetrable due to the overlapping fields of fire. Eventually the 40 pounders were replaced by larger, more accurate 20 inch cannon placed farther up and down the coast. I took a picture of the various kinds of ammunition that has  protected the Bay over the centuries. Note that the largest shell, the 20 incher, could be fired more than 10 miles out to sea.

The scallops seen on the floor between the arches are where the rails for the cannon were mounted, allowing the weapons to swivel around to aid in targeting an enemy. As of the time the Fort closed, none of the guns were ever fired at an hostile ship.

I also discovered another lighthouse for Mom’s collection. Fort Point is one of a half dozen or so lighthouses that mark the trecherous passages through the Golden Gate.

Another of the lighthouses safeguarding the Golden Gate channel is Point Bonita Lighthouse. It’s construction was finished in 1855 and the 2nd order Fresnal (pronounced “fre’nel”) lens mounted in the lantern room has been constantly in use since 1855. I have visted most of the light houses up and down the Oregon and Washington coasts and this is the only one I have seen that still uses
the original lens. Pretty impressive.

Another interesting anectdote about Point Bonita Light is it’s fog horn. Today it has an electric fog horn housed in a building just below the lighthouse, but in 1855 when it was built, there was no such thing. The problem was solved by the addition of a
cannon. On foggy nights, every 30 minutes the Cannon Keeper would fire the weapon. There is a letter on display from the first Cannon Keeper complaining that he had been firing his fog horn every thirty minutes for three solid days without relief, as the lightkeepers refused to help. Soon after, an assisstant Cannon Keeper was added to the station.

I hit a couple other landmarks that afternoon: the tight, twisting bricks on Lombard Street, and the elegant Coit Tower.

From the top of the Tower I was met with some spectacular views of the city.

Above are some of the pictures from Alcatraz. As you can see from the photo’s, the sunset that night was spectacular. These shots were not altered at all, that’s exactly how it looked. I’ve rarely seen a show so brilliant and varying in color.

The “Indians Welcome” graphiti is one of the first things that great people at the dock, a left over from a 19 month period of time in the 1970’s when Native American’s occupied the island in an attempt to bring the the plight of the Indian Nation to the limelight.

The center picture on the bottom row is one of the 500 or so cells that made up the cellhouse of Alcatraz. I was amazed at how small they were, smaller than I had expected even knowing they were tiny. They measured about 6-1/2 feet long, six feet wide and seven feet high. That was it. The prisoners were confined to their cells 18 hours aday, unless they were not on a work assignment, in which case they were in their cells twenty-three hours a day. It was impossible to comprehend what it must have been like to spend twenty years or more locked in a cell that size, twenty-three hours a day.

The cell with the peeling paint was the home of the legendary Al “Scarface” Capon.

The cell on the top left, Cell D-42, belonged to Robert “The Bird Man” Stroud for six years, until he was moved to the infirmary where he remained until his death twelve years later. D block was reserved for the most violent and disruptive inmates,
or those requiring treatment. Below The Birdman’s cell were the nine “Solitary” cells known as “the Hole”. These cells were slightly larger then the others, but the inmates would be locked behind a solid steel door 24 hours a day, and kept in absolite darkness. A trip to the Hole could last for a period of days or weeks.

The last picture is looking down C block, known as Michigan Avenue. This is where George “Machine Gun” Kelly stayed for his time at Hotel Alcatraz.

On May 2nd, 1946 six prisoners conspired to escape. The leader was a man named Bernie Coy. He worked as a librarian, which allowed him to cirulate amongst the prisoners under the auspices of delivering reading material. He used this advantage to plan their escape. He’d noted that for a certain period of time each day there were only two guards in the cellblock, one on the floor, and one in the “gun alley”, a fenced-in catwalk that overlooked the cellblock. The gun alley was the only place weapons were allowed inside the cellhouse. Coy had fashioned a bending device, and on May 2nd, when the guards were both at other locations, he scaled that very section of gun alley, all the way to the top where he used his bender to spread the curved bars at the top just enough to him to skinny through. Then he overpowered the guard in the catwalk, took his keys and weapons and freed his accomplices. The only thing that stopped them from escaping into the yard and their supposed freedom was the steel door below gun alley. They successfully unlocked it, but the door jammed, leaving them trapped in the cell house and leading to a three
day standoff.

It ended when a combined force of Marines, San Francisco police officers and Alcatraz correctional officers stormed the cellhouse, killing two of the prisoners and capturing the remainder. In advance of the charge, US Marines opened holes in the roof and dropped explosives and gas grenades into the cellhouse. I got pictures of one of the holes in the roof and the scaring on the floor and walls that are still visible more than sixty years later.

All told 14 guards were shot, and two guards and two prisoners were killed.

Also of note, the rope and pulley system hanging from gun alley was used to transport keys from the guard on the floor to the guards in gun alley, thereby eliminating the possibilty of a guard being overpowered and having his keys taken.

The movie “Escape from Alcatraz” depicts the real life escape of three prisoners from Alcatraz Island. Using crude tools, spoons according to popular lore, Frank Morris and two brothers, John and Clarence Anglin, managed to widen the air vents
in their cells. They fashioned fake vent plates to cover their handiwork, and using pilferred hair from the barber shop and crude plaster molds made false heads to fool the guards during the evening headcount. On the night of June 11, 1962, they shimmied through their enlarged vent holes into the utility corridor pictured above, climbed to the top of the cell house, went through a ventilator and down to the waters edge. No one ever saw hide nor hair of them again. The common belief is that all three parished in the 50 degree, shark infested waters between Alcatraz and San Francisco. Not many people could have swam that mile and a half and lifed to tell about it. But, popular lore insists that they made it. Just like Butch and Sundance, it’s one of those tales no one will ever truly know the end of.

The picture on the right is of the kitchin. Take note of the knife box. Every knife, fork and other sharp object was hung on boards like the one shown, with black stenciled outlines to aid in inventory. I thought that was interesting.

Alcatraz was a wonderful experience, one that I would very much like to repeat again in the future. As is so often the case, I did not plan enough time to fully explore all that there as to offer and had to cut my trip short when they closed up for the night. One of these days I will come back, and I would highly recommend that anyone who reads this do the same.

Here’s a picture of the Alcatraz’s water tower and power plant. Both of these facilities are a requirement for the island, as there are no power lines running to it and the water in the bay is seawater.

And finally, the Alcatraz Lighthouse. The original lighthouse on Alcatraz Island was the first lighthouse on the West Coast.

The new light was built in 1909 when contstruction of the prison began.

The original lighthouse remained on Alcatraz until it was burned during the Indian occupation. Many fires broke out and a number of building were burned during this time, including the powerhouse. With the loss of the powerhouse, the lighthouse,
which was now electric, was rendered useless. This marked the first time since 1853 that the Alcatraz light was not active.

As I mentioned earlier, San Francisco Bay is treacherous to navigate, and without the lighthouses to guide ships, wrecks are frequent. Shortly after the light on Alcatraz was extinguised, two tankers collided do to navigational difficulties, filling
the bay with thousands of tons of oil. It was the final straw that broke the Indian’s back. Soon after, the Coast Guard was called in to remove the last of the protesters.

I finally had a tripod sent from home so I could take some night time pictures, so here they are! There was just a hint of fog in the air, so they have a little bit of a misty quality.

I finished up work Friday evening and hooked up with Mom and Judy Saturday morning. Judy had some things in storage in Santa Rosa, so the plan was we would hook up over the weekend, maybe bum around San Francisco for the afternoon, then load up the van they rented to bring the stuff back to Portland. But as usual, our plans were shot in the ass. their van blew a transmission on the way down, and by the time their new one was delivered, it had used up all of the time allotted for fun. They picked me up, and
we headed for Santa Rosa, where we packed the van full, then set out again for Portland. I wound up getting the primo seat, too: the overstuffed chair in the back. It was pretty comfy.

Along the way we went through the Avenue of the Giants, taking us through the wonderous redwood forest. We stopped and saw the
Drive Thru Tree and the Famous One Log House. It is a hallowed out log, measuring 7′ high and 32′ long on the inside, which
has been turned into a small cabin. It came from a 2100 year old redwood tree that took 8 months to hallow out and build, and it weighs in at 42 tons! Talk about a log cabin, eh?

We also stumbled across this little herd of elk on our way through the Redwoods National Park. And shortly thereafter, we found some really neat victorian houses in Eureka.

The Lighthouse in the above group is Battery Point Lighthouse in Crescent City, California. It is one of the most photographed lighthouses on the west coast. During high tide, this lighthouse sits atop an island, as the spit of land leading up to it
is submerged.

The plan was for Mom, myself, Maure and Grandpa Rich to leave town as early on Saturday as possible. The overall agenda was to drive to Helena, where wewould meet up with our family and have Grandpa fill us in on a lot of family history along the way.

Our target was to leave by noon, a goal we knew was not truly attainable and was merely a rough estimate, as Maure had to work until at least that latein order to finish payroll for the week we would be gone. The original draft called for us to have everything ready to leave by the time Mo was done withwork, but as usual that is not how it worked out, even though Mo wasn't done with her work until nearly three O'clock.

We left Portland before sundown which is a record for us, and at first we felt it might be a harbinger of bad news. However, upon closer examination werealized the only real difference was that we had aimed to leave six hours earlier than usual, so we were right on our normal schedule.

As usual we had left town on empty stomachs and an equally empty gas tank, so after filling we up we stopped to eat pasties that Mom, Mo and Grandpa hadmade prior to our trip. Mom chose our location, Starvation Creek State Park, located just a little ways past Bonneville Dam. To all outward appearancesit is little more than a rest area adjacent to the trailhead for the Starvation Creek Trail, but as we found out it holds quite a dandy little surprise. Perhaps two hundred feet up the trail that curls around behind the restrooms, we found a plaque explaining the story behind the park's unusual name. Justprior to Christmas of (1887) a passenger train bound for Portland plowed headlong into a snowdrift twenty-five feet high, leaving the train in a bad stateand more than a hundred souls stranded in the snow. When the train didn't show up in Portland, an alert went out and people were mobilized to find andbring aid to the train and its passengers. Local people were told of the missing locomotive, and they joined in the search, but it was still a couple ofdays before anyone found the train.

The passengers and crew raided the cargo and found a great deal of food bound for Christmas dinner, which they cooked over coal liberated from the engine. Eventually they ran out of coal and had to burn wood, which was harder to come by and didn't last as long. After the rescuers arrived and news spread ofthe disaster, local families cooked food and brought it to the stranded and the workers laboring to right the train, and anyone who wanted to help dig thetrain out was paid a wage $3.00 a day. The train was eventually freed and the track uncovered, allowing all 100 plus people to roll into Portland onJanuary 7th, late and cold, but alive nonetheless. Despite the rumors, no one actually starved to death, though the epitaph stuck and the area was namedStarvation Creek.
   Past the historical marker, according to Mom, there was a waterfall. I wandered up the trail a bit, and sure enough, she was right. Hidden behind a treeuntil you reach the last quarter of the trail, sits a rather significant waterfall. Nestled between the bank of the creek on our left, and the majesty ofthe falls on our right, we felt we could hardly find a better spot to eat our pastie dinner.

With our bellies full, our gas tank topped off and the sun well on its way to meeting the horizon, we hit the road once again bound for Missoula. We drovethrough the night, talking and laughing as we often do on roadtrips, telling stories, sharing jokes and hardly noticing the dark miles slipping past ourwindows.

By the time the sun rose again on Sunday morning, we were in Missoula. We called our cousin Christy so she and her family could meet us forbreakfast. Christy, her husband Dean and their three girls, Ariel, Emily and Abby did, and as is always the case it was as if no time had passed since thelast we had all been together. Breakfast came and went, but the visiting continued until after eleven O'clock, when we all reluctantly agreed that it wastime to head out. They had planned on meeting us in Helena at Don and Shirley's house and go with us to the Gates of the Mountain, but their boat developedproblems, so they weren't able to come along. We made plans to meet up with them again on our way back, and said our goodbyes.
   Our next stop was 2320 Wylie Street. That's the house that Grandpa Rich lived in with his grandparents, from 1945-1946. That was pretty neat. Hetold us several stories about his stay there, including the times (note the plural) that he drove through the garage and into the irrigation ditch at theback.

Mom and Maure remembered visiting there when they were little girls, though the house bore little resemblance to
how it had been when Grandpa was a boy. Back then, there were only a handful of houses on the street, and the property encompassed what is now four separate lots. We found the current owner ofthe home, a fellow named Joe, around back, and after explaining our connection to the property he very graciously allowed us to come into his home and lookaround. He had done a significant amount of remodeling, and according to Grandpa the interior was very much different, and very much improved from what ithad been when he lived there. Grandpa and Joe spoke for about half an hour, discussing the house and the upgrades and renovations that each of them hadmade to the home over the years. They both seemed to enjoy the experience quite a bit, and I know that Mom, Maure and myself found it very neat to able togo back to that house with Grandpa.

After that we set out again for Helena, detouring along the way to visit Phillipsburg. Once upon a time Phillipsburg was a booming mining town, though nowthe mine is empty and the town's primary source of interest is as a historical tourist attraction. Most of the buildings are original, dating to the mid-and late-1880's. One of the sweeter attractions is the Sweet Shop, a very sizable store packed to the gunnels with every kind of confection imaginable. Grandpa had never been there before, and owning a pretty healthy sweet tooth, he was a little overwhelmed by the selection. We bought about a ton of sugar,
spent several hours roaming around the town, then we were
 
 off again for Helena. We stopped for gas in Drummund, and I found something I never knewexisted: a used cow lot. Apparently they sell cattle. I thought that was pretty funny.

When we arrived in Helena, Uncle Don told us that Dirk, his son, had called to see if Grandpa and I would like to go see the local baseball team play. Weboth agreed readily. The game was due to start in less than five minutes, so we quickly changed into fresher clothes (we'd been traveling for nearlytwentyfour hours now), and the three of us headed out to meet Dirk at the baseball field. Mom and Maure opted to stay behind and help Aunt Shirley withthe dinner preparations.

The game was lively and tight-paced for the first four or five innings, but then the Helena Brewers came unglued and the Orem Owls walked off with a13-8 victory. Spending the day with Uncle Don, Dirk, and Grandpa was a very fun and I'm glad that I got that opportunity.

We got back to find that Don's other son, Devin, had arrived at the house, as well as his two youngest children, Mariah and Ryan, whom I have never had thepleasure of meeting before. Mariah informed me very quickly that she was almost seven and that her birthday was on September 2nd. Ryan was a little lesstalkative and hid behind his dad. Shortly thereafter I was surprised to see Christy, Dean and the girls drive by hauling their boat! Apparently, after weleft them in Missoula this morning, Dean had worked on the boat and believed he had the problem fixed, so they called while Grandpa, Don, Dirk and I wereat the ballgame to say they were coming down afterall. That was a very nice surprise indeed.

Dinner was lovely, consisting of hamburgers and all the appropriate trimmings for the main course, followed up by homemade blueberry pie, which we got toeat nice and warm right out of the oven. Aunt Shirley was apologetic for the pie not having quite setup entirely, but Christy and I pointed that if ithad setup entirely, it wouldn't have been warm! I'll take a nice, fresh, warm berry pie any day of the week.

The night moved on as you might expect, everyone laughing and sharing stories and catching up on all the news since our last visit. Eventually thewitching hour was upon us, and it was time for bed. We had to get rested up, if our plan to go to the Gates of the Mountain tomorrow was going to come tofruition.
 
   Day three started late for me. Apparently I was more tired than I had thought I was, because getting out of bed proved to be moredifficult than I had figured it would be. I chalked it up to being a Monday. By the time I got up and going, Uncle Don was hard at work preparing the boatfor it's first trip of the season. The morning was spent alternating between embattled political conversations and the preparations for our trip to theGates of the Mountain. I also spent a long while with the girls working out all the details of the family relations: how Grandpa Rich could be both theiruncle and my grandfather, and how the heck everyone could be a cousin of some various rank. We finally got all the relations squared andshortly thereafter got under way ourselves, about three in the afternoon. Soon enough we were out on the water and thankfully, both boats were intip-top condition, which was a real spirit lifting experience for Christy and Dean as they had spent many months and lots of money trying to fix apersistent lack-of-power problem on their boat. We were a little worried about it when they moved away from the dock very slowly, but quickly they enough
they poured on the gas and roared away up the river like a scalded cat.

The Gates of the Mountain are a series of steep, jagged cliffs lining the Missouri river and are located smack dab in the middleof the Gates of the Mountain Wilderness area perhaps forty minutes outside Helena. They were named by Lewis and Clark on their trip west because, as youapproach them from the east it appears that the river is blocked by an impenetrable wall. As you continue up the river and around a gentle bend the canyon
 walls appear to open up like a gigantic gate, thus earning them their moniker. The area was also made famous in 1949 when the Man Gulch fire rippedthrough the area, the most savage and deadly fire of its time. Thirteen smokejumpers were overrun by the fire and were killed as a result. The story ischronicled in a wonderful book entitled Young Men and Fire by Norm McLean. Grandpa Rich and Uncle Don both lived in or around Helena at the time,and they said the fires could clearly be seen dancing their way across the hills, some twenty miles away as the crow flies.

There were no forest fires while were there, thankfully, though it was plenty hot enough. The sky was dotted here and there with fluffy whiteclouds, the temperatures were in the mid-to-high nineties and the river and canyon was gorgeous – literally. We cruised up the Missouri and landed at themain picnic area, where he had a delicious feast that Aunt Shirley had made that morning. After that, Grandpa was feeling a little tired and took a shortbreather on one of the benches, but pretty soon he was up and rarin' to go again. We all hustled back to the boats and settled in for an afternoon of funon the river. Mom and I spent a lot of time scanning the cliff faces for mountain goats, but there were none to be found. We did find a few deer andquite a number pelicans, giving me my closest look at the large avatars in the wild. The girls spent most of the afternoon inner tubing, though judging bythe look on Abby's face in a few of the pictures, she seemed to think her dad was going a little too fast. I'm sure he was just making up for lost time.
   Grandpa, who served in the Navy during World War II, said he hadn't been on a boat for many years and was very happy to get achance to exercise his sea legs again.

We all spent the afternoon revealing in the natural, rugged beauty of the landscape before us, ranging from desolate rockoutcroppings, to lush swatches of forest, then into gentle, rolling prairie land – all of it dissected by the quiet splendor of the Missouri.
   As is always the case, the day went by too quickly and eventually it was time to head back for home. The moon snuck up on usfrom behind a hill and oversaw our efforts to trailer the boats and get everything cinched down and ready for the trip home. Christy, Dean and the girlshad to head back to Missoula since Dean had to report for work the next morning, so we all said our goodbyes and made plans to link up with them again onour way back to Portland.

We got back to the house shortly before sunset and enjoyed a nice evening in the back yard, savoring some good beers, wines andcheeses, then it was off to bed. Tomorrow we would be on the road to Butte, another town where Grandpa Rich lived as a young man.
    The morning came without much fanfare and as usual, we got moving later than we planned. We ate breakfast and then I went aboutsetting up Don's new computer, which I had built for him and brought along with us. That took a couple of hours. When Uncle Don and I came upstairs, wefound that his oldest son, Dan, had arrived back from a business trip to Santa Cruz, California. We spent several hours visiting with him and gettingcaught up on how life as treating he and his daughter, Jodie. Both seemed to be doing very well.

Eventually the time came to say our goodbyes. We had hoped that they would be able to accompany us to Butte and the Little BigHorn valley, but Uncle Don felt he had too many things to do at home.

Butte is about a hours drive down I-15 which put us there around 3:00PM. Our first stop was at an overlook just outside of town,which afforded us a view of both Our Lady of the Rockies, and Butte proper. Our Lady of the Rockies is a ninety foot statue of the Virgin Mary that sitsatop the Continental Divide, at an elevation of 8,000 feet. She was built as a tribute " to all women of every creed and nationality that expressesthanksgiving for the loving memories and actions of women " .

From the viewpoint we were also afforded a good view of the mines on the north end of town, which gave birth to the city and the"Copper Kings" that lived there. According to Grandpa, the hill the mines sit on was about two thousand feet higher when he lived here as a boy. He saidthey were reported to be a mile high and a mile deep.
   After taking our pictures and getting our fill of the scenery, we moved on down the hill and into the city, where Grandpa directedus to the house he lived in with his Grandmother when he was just a wee lad of one and a half years old. Later on, when he was about ten, they moved acrossthe street and he lived there until he joined the Navy, during his senior year of highschool.

He also took us to many of the houses of his friends, which gave us the chance to see where he andhis pals spent most of their growing up years. Most of the houses were still standing, though a few of them were either missing or had been replaced bynewer homes. That was awfully neat for us, and Grandpa seemed to be pleased to be back in the old neighborhood.

Our next stop was Longfellow Elementary School, where Grandpa attended classes until fifth grade, when the school suffered a fireand was out of commission for a number of years. Today the school is more than twice it's previous size. We could see the line of demarcation on thebricks where the new construction butted up against the old, allowing us to gain a very good idea of what it looked like when Grandpa Rich was a schoolboy.
He regaled us with many stories from his younger years, all of which was captured on video thanks to the camcorder a friend loaned us for this trip.
    After Longfellow School we decided it was time to find a place to stay for the night. We eventually landed at the Capri Motel inUptown, one of the oldest sections of town located right at the base of the Berkley Pit and the “richest hill in the world.” Some years ago the entire city of Butte was declared a national historic area, so there are an amazing number of buildings still
standing that date back to the very early days of city's history. Our motel was smack dab in the middle of the oldest part, butted up against the base ofthe mines and affording us easy access to the old downtown area.

After we got ourselves settled in our room and cooled down a little, we decided to get something to eat. A friend of ours toldus that if we ever made it to Butte again, we needed to eat a porkchop sandwich from John's Porkchop House. Her advise was well worthwhile. All four ofus ordered the porkchop sandwich, and I'm here to say that was a fine bit of dinner.

With our bellies full again, we loaded up into the van again and set out for more sightseeing. Grandpa took us to EmersonElementary School, which is where Grandpa when after the fire at Longfellow. This school has been completely replaced, leaving no indication orconstruction of its predecessor, though it was built in the same place. Since it wasn't the actual building Grandpa had gone to school in, it wasn't quiteand neat as Longfellow, but it was still awfully impressive to be there. Again, he filled us in on all kinds of stories from his youth, and again wemanaged to get them all on video, safely preserved for posterity.
   After that, we moved up the education ladder and found ourselves standing outside Butte Highschool. Again, there had been asignificant amount of additions to the school, but fortunately most of the original building was still there. The old part of the school

was at the backof what is now the highschool, but the old entrance was still there and Grandpa said it hadn't changed a bit since his days there, save the addition of thefootball field. Since school was not in session, the whole place was locked behind a chainlink fence, and that fence presented me with an unsatisfactoryphoto opportunity. I looked up and down the street and was gratified to see a complete lack of police officers, so I quickly scaled the barrier and got acouple of good shots of the old entrance. My incursion went completely unnoticed, and quickly enough I was back on the right side of things.

The sun was now low on the horizon and lighting the sky up in a dazzling display of reds and oranges. We decided we needed toget up on the big hill by the mines and get some photos. We piled back into the van and aimed for the high ground, eventually finding our way to the top.Unfortunately we'd missed most of the sunset, but what was left was still gorgeous, and while we were wandering around up on the hill, we saw a signadvertising the Speculator Fire Memorial. We had never heard of any such thing, but Grandpa said he had a vague memory of a horrible fire in one of themines when he was small boy. Intrigued, we followed the signs and sooner or later wound up at the advertised memorial. According to the plaques andhistorical markers, a fire was set while a damage control team was inspecting a broken cable. The fire quickly raged out of the control, burning timbers,collapsing mines and trapping more than 200 men below the surface. Over the course of the next fifty hours, people labored around the clock to bring outsurvivors, though they were few and far between. But, as with most disasters, small pockets of people below the 2400 hundred foot mark managed to holethemselves up and eventually were found and pulled back up to the surface. Sadly though, most of the people trapped in the mine died, 168 souls.
It was the worst metal mining disaster ever, according to the markers.

By now the sun was long gone and the night had firmly established itself. We headed back for our motel room and some much neededrest.
Along the way we came across a small tavern called the "Pisser’s Palace"! We thought the name was so funny that we had to take a picture of it.
The next day we stopped briefly to see to the house where Grandpa Rich's grandparents were living when he got out of the Navy. He said it waspretty much as he remembered it, but there wasn't much of a photo opportunity here: the owners had grown a very high hedge that obscured most of the house. Still, we got to see it and Grandpa filled us in on a few more stories.

After that, we went up the street to Mount Moriah Cemetery, where Grandpa's great grandmother and his great uncle were buried. Hedidn't remember exactly where they were in the cemetery, so we stopped at the office to ask. The lady inside said she could not help us because she wasgoing to lunch. We explained that we were there from Portland, Oregon, and that Grandpa was looking for some family, but she held firm that she couldn'tlook the information up before lunch. We prowled around on our own for a little while, guiding ourselves by Grandpa's memory, but we didn't find the graves. So we decided to go see a few other things and come back.
   Our next stop was the "Copper King Mansion". The Copper Kings were the first and wealthiest of the folks to start miningoperations on Butte Hill, and William Anderson Clark was one of the wealthiest "kings" of them all. In fact, the tour guide said that his monthly incomewas roughly seventeen million dollars a month! And remember, this was all prior to 1925. Our tour guide told us that Clark was listed as one of the "100men who owned the world". Aside from mining, he owned many of the state's railroads, power companies, newspapers and of course mining operations, and thatwas just his domestic holdings.
   His mansion in Butte is reportedly one of his smaller estates, and it was used more or less as a vacation home. Still, it had ninefireplaces, four bedrooms, three bathrooms (one of which was bigger than my room at home), a billiards room, dining room, living room, servants quarters, afull size ballroom and a private chapel on the third floor. All the woodwork was handcrafted by a master carpenter from San Francisco and took four yearsto complete, mostly utilizing white oak and mahogany. The entryway staircase leading to the upstairs was made from white oak and had square inserts in thebalustrades depicting various birds, one from each of the nations recognized in 1888. A section of this staircase was reported to have been removed and puton display at the World's Fair in New York. On the landing of the same staircase, there are a pair of 13 foot high stained glass windows which were alsohandcrafted and are said to have taken the whole four years the house was under construction to complete. Records do not exist as to who made the windows,though the technique if very reminiscent to Tiffany, although that company did not come into existence until 1915. Much of the trim work throughout thehouse was handcrafted from specially made plaster molds, which were burned when the home was completed to ensure that the pattern would be unique. Theceilings of each room were hand painted fresco's.

In addition to the Butte mansion, Clark also had homes in New York, Paris, Washington, D.C, California and several others, all ofwhich were supposed to have been far grander than the one we saw. I guess at 17 million a month, he could afford it.
    After Clark's death in 1925, the mansion fell into disarray and went through several different owners, including the Catholicchurch, who used the building as a convent. After the nun's were given new living quarters, the only thing the new owners found in the house was a lot ofdust and two giant picture frames in the basement. Since then, a great deal of the furnishings have been purchased and returned to the mansion, but a fairamount of what is now on display are pieces from the same time and geographic area, but not authentic to the mansion. In reading the brochure we pickedup, Maure learned that one of the bedrooms upstairs contained a bed that had once belonged to Club Foot George, who's gravesite we all saw in 2002 outsideVirginia City, on our way to Yellowstone. He was hung by Vigilantes in 1864, along with five other “road agents”, or highway robbers.

   The tour guide gave us a lot of history lessons, not only on the house and the various people who had lived it in and restored it,but also on Clark himself. Most of the stories our guide told us about Clark made him seem like a decent kind of guy, but according to most of the books wehave read, Clark – and the rest of the Copper Kings for that matter – were rather despicable people who spent a lot more time ensuring that their mines andother businesses made money than they did ensuring the safety of their workers or even the lively hood of the city. The whole city of Meaderville forexample, which at one time was a suburb of Butte and home to many, was destroyed when the decision was made to expand the Berkley Pit.

After the tour of the mansion, we stopped briefly at the courthouse to see a capstan from the USS Main, which was sunk in at thebeginning of the Spanish American War. Then we were off for the World Museum of Mining, adjacent to the Montana School of Mining. Along the way we ranacross the church that Grandpa attended as a boy, so of course I had to stop and take a picture.
   The Mining Museum was pretty neat. Over the years, as original buildings from Butte's past became to unsafe to live in or werescheduled to be destroyed, the Museum or some of it contributors would buy the buildings and transport them to the Mining Museum, where they were arrangedinto a
reasonable reproduction of what a town of the period might look like. Likewise, most of the tools and furnishings in them were also vintage and fromButte. I spent most of my time here and unfortunately did not get into the mining equipment that they had on display before we had to leave. Mom did get anumber of good photo's from this area though.

After that, we ate lunch at some picnic benches out in front of the Museum. Appropriately enough we ate more of the pasties thatwe had made for the trip. For those of you who might not know the history of the pastie, they came to this country with English and Cornish miners andquickly gained popularity among the locals, since they could so easily be transported down into the mines and eaten like a sandwich. With the heartystew-like filling folded up inside a pastry pocket, the pasties proved a very good meal for men hard at work a mile below the surface, or in our case,sitting outside a monument dedicated to them.

We felt we had seen everything we wanted to see in Butte except for the graves of Grandpa's great-grandmother and -uncle.
 Weloaded ourselves back into the van and started down Butte Hill for the last time of this trip, bound for the Mount Moriah Cemetery once again. Along theway, we detoured briefly to check out the Dumas Brothel Museum, but it was closed. We were able to take pictures of the outside, which was decorated withstatues of the "Ladies of the Night" being pursued by and cavorting with townsmen.

When we got back to the cemetery, we went back to office only to find that the lady who works there had left for the day. We werea little peeved at the whole situation, but there wasn't anything we could do about it, so we set back to looking for the gravestones ourselves. Grandpabelieved they were on or near to a corner created by two of the roads in the graveyard. We started a grid search and had only been looking for aboutfifteen minutes when
we found them, right on the corner as Grandpa had remembered. We wrote down the location and I took a GPS reading just to be sure wecould find them again.

With all of our tasks completed, we were ready to hit the highway again, this time aimed for Billings and Custer's battlefield.

The next morning we packed all of our stuff back into the van and hopped on I-90 headed east. Several years ago we had planned tostop and see Pompey's Pillar, but had run out of time, so this year we decided to deviate slightly from our plan to head straight for the Little Big HornValley and make a quick stop at Pompey's Pillar.
   The rock formation was named by William Clark in 1806 when his expedition passed through the area, on the trek back east afterhaving successfully traveled to Astoria and the Pacific Ocean. He chose the name in honor of Sacagawea's son, Pompey.

The most notable feature of the large rock upthrust is that he left his name and the date he was there carved in the massivesandstone formation, along with droves of others just like it. According to local legend, in 1882 a railroad supervisor found the inscription in the rockand installed bars over Clark's signature, preserving its integrity until 1952 when it was encased in the protective glass where it now resides.

It didn't take long, but it was an awfully memorable moment, to know that we were standing in the very same spot as William Clark,gazing at the same piece of rock as he had 199 years ago, nearly to the day.

After the trek down the stairs and a potty break, we ponied up once again and got back on the road. We backtracked the 25 milesor so to I-90 and were once again bound for Custer's Battlefield.
   We arrived around one O'clock in the afternoon, ready and rarin' to go. Mom, Mo and myself had seen part of the battlefield in2002, but we had arrived late and did not get to explore much more than the Reno-Benteen hilltop hold-out. Grandpa had never been to the monument before.

Once we got our maps and our plans in order, we set out along the self-guided tour. A great deal of care has been exercised inhow the museum is laid out, allowing visitors to follow walking paths and read placards that show them in quite exquisite detail where all of the variousbattles and most memorable moments took place. We took pictures of all the important features and I have made my own virtual tour for those of you notfortunate enough to have visited the battlefield yourselves.

Prior to the melee that ended with Custer's famous Last Stand, a huge group of Cheyenne, Lakota (Sioux) and Arapaho left thereservation that President Grant had established for them and required that they stay upon, setting out across the plains following their ages old nomadictraditions. Two Moons, a Lakota chief, is quoted as saying "We went over the divide and camped in the valley of the Little Big Horn. Everybody thought:now we are out of the white man's country. He can live there, and we can live here." This sentiment was echoed by many of the powerful chiefs, includingLame White Man and Crazy Horse. When the tribes were not on the reservation at the appointed time, the Army was sent out to find them and force them toreturn.

On the morning of June 25th, 1876, Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer's advance scouts crested the Wolf Mountains to the east ofthe Little Big Horn Valley, where they spotted a heard of ponies belonging to the Cheyenne, Lakota and Arapaho village. At this point they knew the villagewas large, but had no idea how large. They were still operating under the assumption that it held less than six hundred braves and perhaps two thousandindividuals. In fact, the village held nearly 8,000 people and 1,500-2,000 warriors.
   Certain that he and his men had been spotted, Custer decided to abandon the reconnaissance mission originally planned and engagethat day, without the help of the other two regiments en route. He split his regiment into three groups hoping to attack the village before the Indianscould organize and escape, sending three Company's (roughly 175 men) with Major Marcus Reno to advance south and attack from the woods on the east of theof the village, while Custer and roughly 225 men swung north in an attempt to flank the village and come up on the backside. Captain Frederick Benteentook the final three Company's, plus the pack train and its 130 guards, to push through the center. Had this battle plan worked as intended, it would havecaught the Indians in a three pronged pincer.
   As we all learned in our history classes, that is not how the battle panned out. Reno and his men were first to attack, andquickly realized they were tremendously outnumbered and were forced to retreat up the steep cliffs, losing a fair share men in the process. Benteen nevermade it to his appointed location, as he was forced to help Reno defend the hilltop. The Reno-Benteen defenders took heavy casualties, fighting fiercelyall through the day of the 25th, all through the night and most of the 26th, until the Indians learned that General Terry and Colonel Gibbon wereapproaching with reinforcements. Unsure of whether or not the Indians were going to return, Reno and Benteen's men spent a sleepless night until the otherregiments arrived on June 27th.
   Meanwhile, Custer continued his push around the northern flank. He became aware that Reno and Benteen were tied down in a vicious
battle, and made the decision to split his group again. He took approximately forty men and continued to push north, moving through Deep Ravine andskirmishing near what is now the National Cemetery, while ordering the remainder of the men to split up and follow Captain Miles Keogh and Lieutenant JamesCalhoun in an attempt to form a second three pronged attack. Calhoun and Keogh were routed quickly, leaving Custer and his men surrounded at Last StandHill, where they shot their horses to use as barriers and fought until the last man was killed.

The rolling plains are littered with memorial markers, indicating where bodies were found on the battlefields: white marble for
US soldiers, maroon for Indian chiefs and promonent commanders. At times the gravestones are practically on top of each other, most notibly at Calhoun Hill
and Last Stand Hill, while other parts of the battlefield are peppered as far as the eye can see with fallen warriors. 

Walking where these men walked, seeing the depressions where they fought and died, feeling the same sun on our backs as they didwas an experience I have been fortunate enough to endure twice now, and I am grateful for every second of it. As Grandpa said, the air was alive with thespirits of the men who died here, both American and Indian. It was an honor that none of us will soon forget.

One thing that we saw this time that I did not remember from our last visit was the Indian Memorial. That was pretty interesting,although we didn't spend a whole lot of time there since by then we were all getting pretty sunburned and starting to think that it was time to get undercover. We strolled through the Visitor Center and Museum, but I at least didn't find it anywhere near as interesting or informative as the battlegroundsthemselves.

All told we were in the park about six hours. We left and started our trek south, ending up in Sheridan where we ate dinner andbunked down for the night. This was the most expensive hotel of our trip so far, but it was also one of the neatest. The room itself was not so special,but there was a great courtyard area in the middle with a tri-layered fountain and some very impressive flower gardens, adorned by several glass-toppedtables with umbrellas and patio chairs. We made our prerequisite trip to Wal-Mart to restock our supply of water and breakfast materials, then it was offto bed.

Tomorrow we would be traveling Highway 14 to Cody, Wyoming, and onto Helena via Yellowstone National Park.

We got an early start the next day and quickly found ourselves cruising down Highway 14 towards Cody and the park. Three years ago
we had been through the Big Horn Valley basin in the middle of the night on our return trip from South Dakota, and even in the dark we knew it would bespectacular in the daylight. This year we finally got to see it, and it was well worth the wait.

The Big Horn Valley is lined with steep, colorful rock upheavals, shot through with fissures and layers, testament to millions ofyears of volcanic violence. It's impossible to describe the incredible array of colors and shapes, ranging from small, spear-like thrusts to building sizedboulders balanced on top of smaller rocks. In some places the rocks and dirt were as red as a fire engine, others a deep orange, others still ranged fromyellow to bright, bleached white – and most everything in between. I will have to let the pictures speak for themselves.
    Along the way we found a sign advertising the Red Gulch Dinosaur Tracks Site, five miles off highway 14. I have always held afascination with dinosaurs, so I was eager to see what the place was all about. Everyone agreed, and we set off up the rough, washboard track. What wefound was a nice little clearing with two well covered picnic areas, a bathroom and a sizable parking lot. A school bus was parked at the far end of thelot, waiting to retrieve a load full of youngsters down looking at the tracks.

Before we took the little detour, we had been wanting to find a place to stop and eat lunch, so this worked out perfectly. We allhopped out of the van in to the 100+ degree afternoon and set out across the desolate plains of Wyoming, following a wooden walkway to see where dinosaurshad walked 166 million years before us.
   According to the information we read along the way, 170 million years ago most of Wyoming and the surrounding area was under whatwas called the Sundance Sea. Until the discovery of these fossilized footprints, scientists did not know that the waters had receded for a period of time,only to return again later. The cause is not known, but the evidence is plain. The track site was once the muddy, algae covered swampland on the fringesof the depleted Sundance Sea. Here the dinosaurs walked across the mud probably searching the marshes, or maybe even the sea, for food. All of the tracksbelonged to bipedal, three toed animals. The footprints ranged in size from roughly three inches wide to eight inches wide. Scientists are unsure of theexact species as there are very few fossil records of western US bipedal dinosaurs to compare the footprints too.
   At first we didn't see anything in the rippled, sand colored flats, but then Grandpa saw one and we all hurried over to look. Sure enough, there in the rock beneath our feet, was a three-toed imprint akin to something you might find in the movie Jurassic Park. We looked aroundfor several minutes, spotting a half dozen or so among the pits and ripples and fissures. After a while the sun bouncing off the rock flats began to takesits toll, so we moved back toward the shade of the picnic area. Just as we were arriving, the busload of kids got up and took all of their belongings backto their bus, leaving the picnic benches all to us. We got out some of our pasties and thawed them in the sun, which only took a few minutes, and had anice lunch out in the middle of the Wyoming desert. Grandpa didn't feel like braving the heat any more, but Mom and I wanted a few more minutes down atthe tracks site, so the two of us headed back. When we got down there again we met a couple from Washington State who happened to be geologists, and theyhelped us find not only several more footprints, but also the actual trails the animals had made. According to the signs there were around 125 individualtrails in the exposed part of the site. We only found two our three, but it was still very exciting. As was mentioned earlier, no one knows exactly whitekind of dinosaurs these were, but whatever made the larger (8 inch) tracks had a stride just a little longer than mine, which means it was a pretty healthysized beastie.

What a fantastic experience that was. We could have spent all day there, but time was slipping away and Grandpa and Maure weremelting, so all of us reluctantly said goodbye to the dinosaurs and got back on the road to Cody.

Shortly there after, the van began to vibrate just slightly. The longer we drove, the worse the vibration felt. Prior to leavingPortland, we had to replace a bad U-joint which was causing a similar shimmy, but this problem felt more like a cylinder wasn't firing. We continued on tothe original Cody Lodge and stopped for a while to let it cool down in preparation of some diagnostic work. Meanwhile, we snooped around the lodge andlooked at the giftshop.

When I got the engine cover off and started looking around, I didn't notice anything immediately out of place. I checked all thesparkplug wires to make sure that hadn't come loose, which they hadn't. Then I popped the distributor cap off and found a great deal of corrosion on thecontacts and rotor. It didn't seem likely that would be the cause of our problem, but I set about cleaning them up anyway. While I was doing that, Momstarted poking around and noticed that one of the sparkplug wires on the back cylinder was touching the exhaust manifold. She asked if that was how it wasit was supposed to be, and I said no, but that it probably wouldn't have caused our problem. I was wrong.

Upon closer examination, I found that that a small plastic clip and broken and allowed that sparkplug wire to hang down next tothe manifold, where it would swing over and touch it while we were driving. Eventually the insulation surrounding the wire melted and allowed the spark toground to the manifold, thus killing that cylinder and creating our problem. Chalk one up for Sue. I covered the affected area with electrical tape, thentaped the wire up so it could not fall back down against the manifold, and buttoned everything back up, confident that our car troubles were now behind us,which did indeed prove to be the case.
    Now that everything was back in order, we were once again off toward Yellowstone National Park. Our original plan had been tozip through the park, hopefully catch sight of a moose or bear, since neither of those animals had cooperated in years previous, and continue on toRobber's Roost, something we had seen in 2002 and thought Grandpa would enjoy. But it was becoming apparent that because of the slow traffic weencountered on highway 14, the detour for the dinosaur tracks and the car trouble, we wouldn't get out of Yellowstone until after dark. We stopped nearthe Fishing Bridge for some dinner, then quickly stopped again for a pretty spectacular lighting storm. Right in the middle of the storm, a double rainbowpopped into view, surrounded by huge bolts of lightning. Unfortunately, by the time I got the camera ready, the lightning bolts had both disappeared, so I wascheated out of my picture.

The sun was long since below the horizon and only the last vestiges of light remained. We continued on down the road toward thenorthern entrance near Gardner, bound once again for Helena. We had been keeping a keen eye for moose, since after two trips to Yellowstone and one toGlacier, we still did not have a picture of a big, bullwinkle moose to hang on the wall. We commented that it was along this road that we had seen ouronly moose of our previous trip to Yellowstone, a young female in a small pond. No sooner had we said that, then we came upon the same pond and damned ifthere wasn't a female moose grazing on the grasses! So far as we could tell, it may have been the same moose. I tried to take a picture of her, but itwas so dark that she wouldn't hold still long enough for the exposure time I needed.
   Three years and still no bullwinkle for me. Oh well, maybe next time.

We drove through the night and arrived in Helena about 3:30 in the morning. We slept hard and got started late Saturday morning.
After breakfast, Don and I started working on the van. We all felt that it would be better to set out on a thousand mile journey with spark plug wiresthat weren't compromised, so I installed the new wires and a new distributor cap. Don and I also installed a condensator, which is a device that issupposed to increase the cars fuel efficiency 10-15 percent. I would explain how it operates, but I'm not entirely sure myself. All I know is that UncleDon put one on his van and was so impressed he bought them for his other cars also. All said, the repairs and upgrade took a couple of hours.

The afternoon was waning and the road was calling, but the four of us were hesitant to leave, as we always are when it's time tosay goodbye to family. We visited and drank some beers in the back yard for a while instead. Devin, his son Justin and Dirk all came to see us off. Finally, about 4:30 in the afternoon we relented to the inevitable and loaded up the van. We said our goodbye's and I love you's, and hit the road. Looking at the clock, it was only one hour shy of exactly one week since we set out.

We'd fit so much into those hours that it was hard to believe it had only been seven days: We'd shopped at the biggest candystore we ever saw, explored the houses Grandpa had lived in as a boy, taken a boat ride up the Missouri, visited the World Museum of Mining, toured a 200hundred year old mansion, paid homage to my great-great-great-grandmother and –uncle, witnessed William Clark's signature at Pompey's Pillar, roamed amongthe spirits of slain Indians and Cavalrymen at Custer's Battlefield, followed in a dinosaur's footsteps, briefly toured Yellowstone National Park, and
we got to catch up with our family as well – all one week.

We didn't think that was too bad.

Summer Vacation 2002

Our trip to Yellowstone and Mt. Rushmore

We left Portland late on the First of September; Lois, Sue, Chris, Maure, Debbie, and my friends Mike & Becca. Things were behind schedule, as usual, so we didn't leave until nearly eight at night. Mike and Becca caravanned as far as Boardman. Our plan was to go to Helena to pick up Don and Shirley so they could go to Yellowstone and Mt. Rushmore with us. Mike and Becca decided to skip the trip to Helena and head straight to Yellowstone, planning to meet up with us sometime later when we got to the park. So we went our separate ways.

The first night we made it as far as Spokane before we got too tired to keep driving, it was about 3 AM. We pulled over at a truck stop and slept the night, our first test with sleeping in the new van. It was actually quite comfortable! In the morning we ate breakfast early and got back on the road. We had made plans to go to the Gates of the Mountains with Uncle Don, Aunt Shirley and their brood, but as the day wore on we realized that we might run out of light. We called Uncle Don and he said that he would meet us at the Gates to save time.

We got to the Gates of the Mountains Recreational Area shortly before four O'clock in the afternoon, leaving us a few hours of good light. Don and Shirley had brought their boat and so had Christy, Dean and their kids, so we all piled into the two boats and went up the river to the campground, where Aunt Shirley put on a great lunch of burgers and salads. It was excellent seeing all of our relatives. Dirk, Marci and Dana weren't able to make it, unfortunately, but everyone else was there; Don and Shirley; Devin and his son, Justin; Dan and his girlfriend, Christine, and his daughter Jody; Christy and her husband, Dean, along with their three girls, Ariel, Emily and Abby.

  We ate lunch quickly in deference to the setting sun, then all of us scooted back to the boats for a ride down to see the Gates. I hadn't been to see the Gates since I was about eight, and I'd forgotten what it was like. What a sight!

The Gates of the Mountains are really a series of very sharp, tall cliffs along the Missouri River, named by Lewis and Clark on their expedition West. They called the cliffs the Gates of the Mountains because as you travel down the river it appears that you are facing an impenetrable rock face, but as you continue on along a very gentle bend, it looks for all the world like the cliffs part in front of you, like a giant gate.

Aside from the rugged beauty of the cliffs and their river, the area has some interesting history. Mann Gulch, which lies just behind the Gates, was the sight of a terrible wildfire in 1949 – the biggest in
Montana history at the time. 13 smokejumpers lost their lives fighting the blaze. The story is chronicled in a book titled Young Men and Fire by Norman McLean, one of Lois' favorite books.

After the Gates we went back to Uncle Don and Aunt Shirley's and slept hard! The van was okay, but we were all pretty tired. The next day we had intended to head out for Yellowstone, but an overheating problem in the van kept us grounded until late in the day. As it turned out the cure was simple; we just needed a new thermostat. Mark one up for Sue; neither Don nor I thought that would be the fix. But sure enough, a new thermostat and bingo! We were up and running again. Unfortunately Uncle Don and Aunt Shirley decided that they couldn't go with us, there was too much to do at home they said.

The next day, while we were eating breakfast, a famed Montana gully washer moved in and dumped about an inch of rain in a little under an hour. We were all caught unaware by the storm, and as such hadn't tarped Debbie's truck, which held all of our tents, folding furniture, etc. – and Debbie's clothes. Needless to say, all of our stuff was soaked by the time we got our act together and got everything tarped. We stayed long enough to dry some of our clothes and set off.

That little rainstorm started a trend that lasted for most of our vacation. We were rained on in every state we were in with the exceptions of Washington and Oregon. Go figure!
We all wanted to stop and see some of the sights along the way, and a couple of the ones we wanted to see the most were Virginia City and Nevada City. One of our favorite highlights, though, turned out to be a little place called Robber's Roost, which we stumbled on accidentally.
Located right off of Montana Highway 287, which was once the thoroughfare between Virginia City and Bannack, Robbers Roost was built by Pete Daily in 1863. Pete’s Tavern catered to some seedy characters who robbed lonesome travelers, and the upstairs was dedicated to the ladies of the night. Apparently it was quite a rough and tumble place, we spotted several bullet holes in the timbers! We also found a noose, although the only thing hanging from it was a string of Christmas lights.

Today a friendly, gray-bearded fellow runs it as a small tourist attraction, and he's turned part of the ground floor into a little gift store where he sells jewelry that he makes himself. Over the years many people have stopped to take a gander at Robbers Roost and left their names chiseled in the walls. According to the fellow, some of the graffiti dates as far back as the 1920’s! Mo happened to find one from Portland, of all places, dated 1941.

Out front there is a sign that reads “Robbers Roost 3-7-77.” At first we thought that meant March 7th, 1977… but we were wrong. 3-7-77 are the dimensions of a grave; three feet wide, seven feet long, 77 inches deep. Vigilantes would write this on your door the night before they came to get you. If you weren't gone by morning, you were hanged!

     We had a pleasant little chat with the proprietor and I took quite a few pictures before we ponied up and sidled on down to the sprawling metropolis of Nevada City.

Nevada City was once a pretty happening place, thriving off the hoards of prospectors who swarmed to Virginia City in search of gold. The original town burned to the ground in the 1920's, but sometime in the 1950's a man by the name of Charles Bovey began restoring the town. From what I could gather from a lady who worked there,
Bovey bought the town to save it from beingdemolished. Since most of the buildings were in shambles or destroyed, Bovey would find buildings from the period that were going to be destroyed and rescue them, taking them apart board by board and transporting them to Nevada City. Once he got them there he would try to match the buildings to the basic size and shape of the foundations left from the original town. It's not exactly how it was in the rip roarin' past of Alder Gulch, but it's about as close as it can be, I guess, and it was very neat to see. It gave you a real sense of what the town would have looked like in 1863.

While we were there I was able to take quite a lot of pictures of outhouses for Loie's collection, although I couldn’t get a picture of the best one because of a movie that was being filmed while we were there. It's a double-decker douly! The sign on top reads “Montanans,” while the “Others” were damned to the bottom!

Across the highway from the entrance to the town is the
Nevada City Engine House, built in 1899. Several old railcars from different lines are sitting around, I assume waiting to be restored. Mo and I peeked into the Engine House and found a beautiful old steam engine that was in the process of being restored, but I wasn't able to get a photo. We were able to climb up into one of the unrestored cars and take a look around. They were pretty neat inside before they fell into disrepair. We were stunned at the elaborate adornments in the woodworking and would

very much have liked to see what it must have looked like in its prime.

After we finished our trek through Nevada City we drove up a small mountain to Boot Hill, the local cemetery overlooking Virginia City. Most of the grave markers had long since vanished, victims to weather and age no doubt, but a few still remained. We weren’t able to track down any info on the five road agents laid to rest there, but whoever they were, they were all hanged on the same day by Vigilantes.

By now it was getting dark and we were tired and hungry. Since the weather was still holding for us, we decided to head back a few miles to a campground we'd seen on the way in. We got ourselves set pretty fast and were able to enjoy a beautiful sunset before chowing down on hamburgers and catching some shuteye.

The next day we got ourselves packed up and decided to head into Virginia City for breakfast. We toured up and down the streets and found only one place open; the VC Café. Just as we got inside and sat down it started to rain. We weren't too worried and made a joke to the young man waiting on us about being from Oregon, the wettest place on earth. As it turned out he was attending U of O! We chitchatted with him for a while and had a nice time. We also befriended a very
pretty golden retriever who cleaned up our left-overs for us.

Now that our bellies were full we started our trek up and down the boardwalks – actual wooden boardwalks – of downtown Virginia City. Most all of the buildings in that part of the town were the actual ones from the Wild West and great gold rush of Alder Gulch. Many of them had been turned into small museums or gift stores, but quite a lot were left how they had been. I got some pretty neat pictures here. It was cool, getting to be that close to some real history.

The sprinkles continued off and on, but it was nothing too worrisome and we had all of our stuff pretty well rain proofed after our mishap in Helena. We drove on,

undaunted, for Yellowstone.

We got to Quake Lake late in the afternoon on the Fourth of September. The sky was mostly clear and blue again, but there was a hellish wind that was blowing in some ominous clouds. We took several pictures of the incredible landslide that was caused by an earthquake in 1959, measuring 7.5 on the Richter Scale. The quake was so powerful that it caused half of the mountain face to slide down the valley and 300 feet up the other side of the canyon! The slide dammed the Madison River
and created what is now called Quake Lake. Evidence of natures cold fury is everywhere, but two testimonials are a pair of huge dolomite boulders that now stand as memorials to the people who died in the quake. Each boulder weighs 3000 tons! They rode the top of the slide all the way across the valley and up the other wall. Pretty amazing stuff.

Up to this point things had been going pretty well, so I guess it was inevitable that someone would get hurt along the way, and Mom was the victim this time. Dixie, Debbie's dog, playfully nipped at Mom's finger and got her tooth stuck in the skin next to the nail, gouging out a big piece. It hurt pretty bad, Mom said, but we got it patched up quick enough.
Dixie spent the rest of the day looking broken hearted. Didn’t know who I felt more sorry for, Mom or Dixie.

After that we moved on down the road, stopping at several of the markers along the way to learn some more history about the earthquake. One of the places we came across was the ruins of a house that fell into the river during the earthquake. The lady of the house and her dog were sleeping when the quake hit,
and they had to jump over a five foot gap to make it to safety as the house slid away from under them! Those pictures were pretty neat, although I’m not sure why Mom and Mo posed like Gangsta's. I also found a little chipmonk who kept poking his head out from between a few rocks on the waters edge. I had to wait several minutes to catch him, but I finally got a good shot.

On the way back up the hill from the remains of the house, Mom showed off her Snake Walk, which is supposed to keep snakes at bay. I have to assume that it works; any snake who saw her walking like that would be too busy laughing to bite anyone. Fortunately I got a short video of it for posterity.

Guided by Sue's peculiar gate, we made it back to the cars unharmed and set out for the Park. The sky was dark and foreboding, and within minutes we were deep into a very powerful rainstorm. We'd borrowed a tarp from Uncle Don before we left, so everything was covered, but as she often does, Nature found a way around our defenses and soaked all of our camping gear yet again. The storm showed no signs of giving up, and all of our stuff was already wet, so we decided to skip camping that night and stay in a hotel. We came across a cute little place called the Sleepy Hollow Inn in West Yellowstone, MT, and rented a very nice log cabin. We ate very tasty stew and went to bed, hoping that the rain would be gone in the morning.

Naturally, we were wrong. If anything the rain had intensified. But, being good Oregonians we weren't going to let the wet get the better of us, so we donned the few warm clothes we'd brought with us and set out – I was the only one who'd brought an actual rain suit. We got into the park through the West Entrance pretty early in the day and we were all overwhelmed with the beauty of the landscape. The rain slowed to an intermittent drizzle, which was nice since we stopped at most every opportunity to take pictures and soak up the scenery. In some ways I was actually glad for the gloomy weather; the clouds floating by the mountains made for some nice pictures!

     We'd only been in the park a few minutes when we stumbled on a large herd of Elk. There must have been at least thirty does and calves. It took a couple of minutes to spot the bull, but we finally found him about three hundred yards across the valley. He was too far away for a good picture, but we were able to see him pretty well with the binoculars and spotting scope.

We hadn't been on the road for but a couple minutes more when we spotted our first bison. Wow! That was pretty neat. I'd never seen bison before, but as the days wore on we all became quite familiar with them, and we saw quite a lot that were bigger than this one. This first one, though, was very exciting to us. I hopped out and started taking photos, being careful to stay a respectable distance away. He let me and the other people – maybe five or six folks – take some pictures of him, but then I guess he got tired of the attention and trotted off, right down the road. I got a couple of pictures of that too!

After the bison the rain really started in again. At some point Mo had borrowed my rain coat, but since I kept getting out to take pictures, even when it was pouring, I stole it back. Pretty quick we happened on our first hot spring. We saw it off to the side of the road and Mom and I hopped out and braved the driving rain to check it out. Her finger was doing okay now, so I guess she figured she was due for another injury. I was busy taking pictures when I heard a muffled thud and groan from behind me. I turned and found Mom sitting on her butt in the mud. I helped her up and made sure she was okay, then made her pose for a picture of her muddy behind. Sympathy is kind of hard to
find around this crowd!

When we got back to the car the rain started in even harder. I took a picture of it bouncing off the ground in a parking lot. It was truly
impressive, and that means something coming from an Oregonian. We consulted the map and decided to skip the scenic byways off the main loop and head down to Old Faithful, hoping to give the rain some time to pass while we drove. We planned to back track to see the Firehole River and Falls when the weather was a little nicer. No sooner had we made that decision, though, then the rain began to let up. Hoping that it was a trend, we diverted and followed Firehole Drive up to one of the most beautiful waterfalls I have seen. It wasn't very tall, but Firehole Falls is something that I was very glad I got to see. I climbed down a fairly steep and slippery cliff to the rivers edge where I could get some better pictures. The climb backup was a killer, but it was worth every minute.

Just before we got back on the main loop we came to the Firehole

Cascades. This was easily one of the most beautiful waterways I have ever seen, with every color of nature present down the banks of the river.

Back in the van, our next stop on the path was Old Faithful. The sky had darkened again and the rain started back up, but we felt sure that it would be fairly short-lived like the rest of the squalls. When we got to Old Faithful

Inn Mo and Debbie made a beeline for the gift store – I didn't know it, but apparently they had found a rule that said they had to examine every single store for goodies to buy. Mom and I made beeline of our own, straight for the waterproof ponchos! We needed four of them to outfit the whole crew, and that was exactly the number they had. I wandered around and bought a couple of souvenirs, but basically I dislike shopping as much as I do the rain, so I went out into the Inn itself and hunted around until I found a prediction for Old Faithful. When I did I saw that we had only a few minutes, so I ran and got everyone and we donned our new raingear and hurried out to watch.

This was one of the things I wanted to get pictures of more than anything else, so
naturally the batteries in my camera died after I took the first photo, and I'd forgotten the spare set in the van. I hurried down and got the batteries, but when I got back I found that I had missed the show. I was a little bummed, but it was only 90 minutes until the next eruption, so we had some hot cocoa and coffee in the restaurant and saw the next one. That was really neat! I have to say, it was just water and steam shooting out of a hole in the ground, but getting to see Old Faithful blow her top was something that I'll always remember. I was disappointed in the photos because the geyser trail was lost in the clouds, but I was pumped to have seen it nonetheless. Loie was so jazzed up afterward that she thought she should climb the walls outside the Inn!

The weather cooperated with us and got a little nicer after that, though it stayed chilly.

We moved on down the line and came to the Grand Prismatic Spring and Excelsior Geyser. Both of these thermal vents are huge and the warmth generated by the geologic activity, mixed with the cool temperatures of the day, bathed the whole plateau in heavy mist. Loie decided she wanted to stay in the car this time in deference to her sore hip, even though we offered to push her in the wheelchair. She said she was content to watch the steaming rivers of runoff work their way into the Madison River.

Mo, Debbie, Dixie, Mom and myself set off up the trail. Debbie and Dixie were turned back by a no dogs sign, though, so they went and kept Loie company and started the lunch preparations.

     Excelsior Geyser was formed by a great series of explosions in the 1880's, shooting water 50 to 300 feet in the air! Eventually the violent eruptions changed the
underground system of ducts and the geyser went dormant in 1890. It was quiet until 1985 when, for unknown reasons, it began a series of continuous eruptions that lasted about two days, then fell silent again. No one knows when it might become active again, butut didn't do much of anything while were there.

The Grand Prismatic Spring is one of the most beautiful sights in the world. The deep blue of the water at its center radiates outward to a pale baby blue at the shore, where the mineral deposits on the earth's crust finish off the rainbow with bright reds, yellows and greens. Unfortunately, because the day was so cold and gloomy while we were there, the colors of the Spring were muted by the heavy fog. Still, it was awfully neat to be there, and I did get some good pictures of some of the smaller springs around the area. The pungent smell of sulfur permeated the air, but nothing could detract from the joy of seeing these jewels of nature.

The Great Fountain Geyser, another one of Yellowstone's premier attractions, was next on our hit list. This very large geyser erupts on a 14-15 hour cycle. We got out and started inspecting things a little bit and ran into a geologist who worked for or in


the park, I wasn’t sure which. He told us that it should go within a half-hour! We figured that was pretty good timing, so we hauled out the tripod and waited. I got some neat photos of it going off, although the eruptions were somewhat lost in the sky, thanks to the dark clouds. But oh well… I still got to see it.
And I also got to see White Dome erupt, another geyser just down the road. This one was a domed geyser and it erupted on a completely irregular basis. The colors on the sides were like looking at an artists pallet. It was simply beautiful.

By now it was close to sunset and the sky was finally starting to show streaks of blue and hinting at a nice sunset when we saw the turnoff for Firehole Lake. Having been enchanted by the Firehole Falls and Cascades we couldn't pass up the lake. What we found was almost eerie. A number of small thermal vents feed into the bottom of Firehole Lake and the surrounding waterways, warming the shallow waters and causing them to
steam endlessly. The effect of the steaming lake against the setting sun was breathtaking.

The sun was all but down now and the sky was clear for
the first time all day. We had high hopes for tomorrow, but the prospect of camping on soggy soil after having been rained on all day was too much, and we headed back for West Yellowstone and another hotel room. Along the way we were held up by a large group of buffalo crossing the road. Several cars were forced to stop while the huge animals meandered across the road, prodding a pack of reluctant youngsters along, but none of us minded.

The Sleepy Hollow was full, but we found another nice log cabin not too far away and bunked down. By the time we got ourselves fed and settled it was close to midnight. Loie was exhausted from the days adventures and was out like a light. The rest of us stayed up awhile chatting about what we'd seen earlier. Mo decided to step outside for a cigarette and Mom said she'd keep her company. Little did they know that they would attract the attention of some guys who were on their way home after indulging in some of West Yellowstone's finest brew houses. I was reading my book and minding my own business when I heard “Hey! There's Chicks!” through the open door to our cabin. Intrigued I went outside to see what kind of trouble they'd gotten themselves into now. I was apprehensive at first when a man came walking out of the gloom, a little wobbly on his feet, but soon it became clear that his intentions were honorable, and quickly he had us all laughing hysterically at his somewhat slurry tales. All we knew about him was that his name was Dave and he was from Utah. After a while he wandered off in search of the friends he'd veered away from earlier, leaving us to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
     The next day we woke and found that the rain had renewed itself, pouring all night long after Dave from Utah left. We were up around six AM, despite having stayed awake laughing at our midnight visitor. We were out the door by around eight and into the park shortly thereafter. We'd already seen most everything we could up to Old Faithful, excepting the bike routes and longer hiking trails, so we were going to just zip past what where we'd already been and start up where we'd left off. Our plan changed somewhat when we passed the valley where we'd seen the elk herd the day before. A large number of cars had stopped alongside the road and a crowd of people were looking at something, so we stopped to see what was going on. The same herd was there still, but this time the bull was up front, probably less than fifty yards from the road. I hopped out quickly and moved as close as he would let me to take some photos. I knew I'd gotten close enough when I took a step and he turned his head and stared straight at me. I got the point and stepped back a few feet and he relaxed.

That little detour completed, we hopped back in the rigs and got about two hundred feet down the road before we found another group of gawkers. It was elk again, this time the bull was way up on a hill and bugling like a madman. One of his does had wandered way down by the creek and he was looking at her and bugling. She didn't seem to care at all. I tried to get some pictures through the spotting scope, but they didn’t work out very well. A man standing next to us pointed out a coyote that was following the herd around the hillside, so we got to see our first coyote!

It wasn't long before we got to see another one, though, and this one was close enough to get pictures. We spotted him off the side of the road from Madison to Norris, which has been under construction for more than two years and is open a total of eight hours a day; four hours in the morning and four at night. The coyote drew the attention of several cars and when traffic stopped enough for him to feel safe, he crossed the road and stood right outside my window. He couldn't have been more than six feet away. I had my camera ready and started


snapping wildly, and I found that he was quite the ham. He looked me dead on, then turned his head to the left, then to right. It was as if he were posing for me! I thanked him when I was done and he sauntered off down the hillside, another tough day at the office completed.

The trip up to Norris took us through a section of the park still recovering from the 1988 wildfires and was slow because of the ongoing construction and repair work, but the scenery was as lush and gorgeous as everywhere else and we were well entertained. The guide we were given said that moose and bear were frequent visitors to this area of the park, but aside from the coyote our trip was critter-free.

When we got to Norris we cut through the center of the park and wound up at Gibbon Falls. I love waterfalls so I am probably biased, but again I thought this was just a gorgeous sight. I thought about trying to climb down and get some pictures from the bottom of the falls, but it didn't look like there were any trails down, and the canyon walls steep and looked slippery from rain. We were about to pack up and drive on when Debbie spotted an osprey perched in a tree across the Gibbon River, searching the waterway for a tasty treat. I tried to get a picture, but he was so far off that it didn't turn out well. I tried shooting through the spotting scope again, and this time had marginal success.

     Along the way we spotted a few more elk and bison before we came to the Virginia Falls. They were only visible from high-up along the canyon walls along a very narrow road. We weren't able to stop for long, but I got several pictures to remember them by.

After that we made our way to Canyon Village. This is where we found the Upper and Lower Yellowstone Falls as well as the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. We bounced from viewpoint to viewpoint, soaking up the glorious views down the deeply hued ravine leading to the Yellowstone River, and the thunderous majesty of the Lower Falls, spilling more than 300 feet into the valley.

Along the way we ran across a couple of trails that led down to other viewpoints. As I said earlier I love waterfalls and few are as spectacular as the Lower Falls, so I naturally wanted to go. Everyone else was scared by the five- and six-hundred foot drops that the trails made, but Mom sucked it up and went with me. At the bottom of the first, the Red Rock Trail, we found the namesake; a huge, tree covered boulder aired as a rosebud.
The Red Rock was very neat, but for me the best part was the view of the Lower Falls. As I recall that particular spot was named Inspiration Point, and I know exactly why. It was the closest viewing of the Lower Falls anywhere in the park and I must have taken fifty pictures from that one spot. When I was finally happy that I'd gotten a good one, a very nice lady offered to take a picture of Mom and me in front of the falls.


     The last spot in Canyon Village that we had on our list to visit was Artists Point. It is aptly named; most pictures that you see of the Lower Falls are taken from this spot. I had filled my memory card and was getting my other one ready when Mike and Becca walked up behind us like it was a carefully laid out plan. Of course, it was not. Our cell phones didn't work anywhere in or near the park, so we hadn't been able to communicate with each other. But then, Mike and I share a single brain, so it's not that big a surprise that we wound up at the same place at the same time.

We hooked up for the rest of the afternoon, heading up to Tower Falls, on the northeastern corner of the main park roads. We didn't make it far, though, before we stumbled on a young, female moose! Several rangers were around and they said she was fairly young and that her folks were around somewhere, but bullwinkle kept himself hidden.

Tower was another spectacular waterfall that I'd seen pictures of and knew I wanted to see in person. It took more than an hour to drive up and over the mountain passes between Canyon and Tower, topping out at an elevation of 8,945 feet. The thing that I found most fascinating about Yellowstone was the great diversity of the landscape. In less than an hour we went from deep, sharp, canyons etched with an artists pallet of colors, to high, grassy plains as far the eye could see, and back again. Sharply contrasting the flat plains of the west, Tower was all jagged canyon, tattooed with volcanic striations that looked like something out of a science fiction novel.

     We got to Tower Falls and Mike, Becca and myself started down the half-mile trail to the bottom – all the old folks chickened out. The river made a bend where the stream bled into it, the water a brilliant, clear blue that seemed unreal. Once we got to the base we found the falls were so tall that we couldn't fit the whole thing in the frame! Mike and I looked around and found a tall hill that looked like it would give us the vantage point we wanted, so we scampered up it as quickly as we could, drawing dirty looks from a number of people making the same trek at half the speed. Our long legs really paid off for us that day.

Once we got to the top we jockeyed around until we got the pictures we wanted. When we were done, an elderly man who had only made it up the shallower part of the hill asked if one of us would take his camcorder and shoot some pictures. Mike was closer so he agreed and pretty soon we were all three back on the flats and headed for the cars.

We'd only seen about half the park at this point, but we thought that if we wanted to see Mt. Rushmore, which we all did, we would have to leave that evening to start the trek east. Tower is closest to the road we would take out to South Dakota, and since the weather showed no signs of improving, we were looking forward to a little South Dakota sun to dry us out.

We parted ways with Mike and Becca again, and made our way toward the Petrified Tree, our last stop in Yellowstone for this part of the trip. The section of tree stood only about ten or twelve feet high, but it had been standing in that spot for two million years! It was once a redwood, heralding back to a much warmer, much

different Yellowstone area. Once upon a time there were several petrified trees in the grove where this one stands now, but poachers have stolen all the rest.

That night we took the northeast road out of the park. We only made it about half way to the park boundary when we met up with Mike and Becca again. They had stopped, along with quite a few others, when they saw a small black bear bounding down the mountainside toward the road. By the time we showed up the little bugger was way up inside some kind of bush or other, gobbling berries. He seemed a bit camera shy, spending most his time hidden in the shrubbery, but I managed to get a couple of good shots of him before he crossed the road and tromped off to the river.

One of the best experiences of our trip came next. We were headed down the road again when we were stopped by a large herd of bison in the road. I couldn't even count the number of buffalo! The best part was that the alpha bull was right next to our car. He was grunting and growling like crazy, and as we watched he called the whole herd up on the road around us. We all felt very privileged to take part in that experience with these once nearly extinct mammals. All told, we were probably in the middle of the herd for twenty minutes.

We stopped a few hundred yards farther down and watched a herd of antelope, adding another notch to our animal card, before continuing on to Cooke City, just outside the boundary of the park. It had rained off and on again all day so we were in the same predicament as we had been the previous days regarding pitching tents on soupy ground. We found a cute little hotel that was kind of expensive, but turned out to be very interesting. When Yellowstone was originally established it was under the supervision of the Army, and the cabin that we stayed in was officer's quarters for the park staff more than a hundred years before. There were rumors that a black bear had been wandering the property, but we never saw him.

     When the morning came we found another meteorological surprise; the hills just east of our cabin were dusted in snow! We knew it had been cold during the night, but we hadn't realized it was that cold. We ate breakfast quickly and hit the road, headed for the snowy hills.

     Charles Kuralt called the Cooke City Highway the most beautiful stretch of road in the United States, and I would tend to agree with him. What we found on our journey was some of the most breathtaking landscapes we'd seen yet; steep cliffs, jagged mountains, placid lakes, a really pretty waterfall across the valley, as well as the afore mentioned snow dusted hills. At the western summit we reached the highest elevation of our trip, a whopping 10,947 feet! The scenery was gorgeous, plus we found enough snow to have a little snowball fight.

After that we made the long haul to South Dakota and Little Big Horn, the plains where Custer made his famous last stand. We arrived late in the day so we were a little short of time, but we still had enough daylight to complete the walking tour. We all felt very privileged to stand in the very places where this tragic and historic battle took place. The air was alive with the memories and spirits of the men who lost their lives on those hills in 1876. All told, more than 200 people were killed and scores more wounded. I had always known that Colonel Custer had made a horrible mistake when he attacked, but what I had not realized was how recklessly he dealt with his men's lives. Custer was clearly not fit for command.

     By now it was nearing dark so we started looking for a place to camp. So far the weather was cooperating very nicely, but as darkness approached, so did rain clouds. Before we found a place to camp, it was raining pretty good again. We found a KOA near Buffalo and stayed the night in a Kamping Kabin. By now we were well and truly tired of being rained on, but we were all of us having a wonderful time despite the uncooperative weather.

The next morning we were up early and off to Mt. Rushmore. On the way Debbie joked that the faces would probably be hidden among the clouds. I was about ready to shoot her when we got there and, sure enough, the sixty foot granite faces were partially masked by the gloomy and drizzling clouds. But, thankfully, the lower clouds blew by quickly and the day dried out, giving us a wonderful view of the amazing likeness’ of four inspirational father's of our country.


     We all went off on our own for the time while we were there; Mo and Debbie shopped like mad women; Mom and Loie gazed at the faces; and I took far too many pictures. After we were content, we made our way back towards the cars, intending to return after sunset to watch the lighting ceremony. Along the way we found that a raindrop had cascaded down the cheek on the sculpture of Gutzon Borglum, the sculptor who worked for 14years to create the monument. The raindrop looked for all the world like a
tear!

We had wanted to see the Crazy Horse Memorial, which celebrated it's fiftieth anniversary still under construction recently, but the weather degenerated again and clouds obscured most of the mountain the sculpture is being carved from. We scratched that and went to find a place to stay for the night. When we returned for the lighting ceremony, Mt. Rushmore was completely shrouded in cloud. I was very disappointed, but as the ceremony moved closer and closer to the actual lighting, the clouds evaporated. Everyone was asked to sing The Star Spangled Banner while they slowly brought the lights up, illuminating the spectacular monument in a golden light. As if awed by the spectacle, the sky cleared and stars shone brightly behind the carvings of George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. I'm not usually moved by such displays, but I admit that I felt a chill watching the lights come up to a thousand people singing our national anthem. As with so many moments of the trip, it was one I will always remember.

The next morning the sky was finally clear and bright, and the temperature quickly climbed into the eighties! We were all so
excited that we could hardly contain ourselves. I said that I wanted to return to Mt. Rushmore so I could take some photo's of the mountain and it’s awesome shrine with the backdrop of a crystal blue sky. Everyone was more than willing to oblige. After I felt I had my fill, we took a scenic drive along Highway 16, where we found the very intriguing Pigtail Bridges as well as a roughly shaped, one lane tunnel blasted through the mountain which perfectly framed the president's heads!

After spending a couple of very enjoyable days in South Dakota we decided that it was time to start heading back west. Along the way we wanted to stop at a few places, most notably Deadwood, the city where Wild Bill Hickcock was shot and killed just months after the disastrous events at the Little Big Horn River. Everything we read touted the town as being a historic city with buildings and locations that dated back to the Wild West. What we found was the only real disappointment of the whole trip. The entire town of Deadwood burned to the ground, and the" authentic” buildings were nothing more than new construction in the old locations. Instead of embracing its historical past, Deadwood was little more than slot machine casino's and fast food restaurants.

Disappointed in the town, we made way for Deadwood's Boot Hill, where we saw the graves of Wild Bill,
Calamity Jane and Potato Creek Johnny – as well as a number of Civil War veterans. That part was interesting, but we were all happy to leave Deadwood behind.

That was the end of South Dakota and we were off again for Yellowstone, aiming this time for the East Entrance. The drive was long and we arrived outside Cody, WY, in the wee hours of the night. Along the way we passed the two smallest cities I have ever heard of; Shell, population 50; and Emblem, population 10!

     The weather held for the rest of our trip. One of the first sights we came across was Lake Yellowstone, and what a sight it was! Thirty miles of lake! With the exception of Grant Village, a small camping settlement designed for visitors of Yellowstone, there was nota significant human development between where we stood and Jackson, WY – over 100 miles. That means we were looking at a place farther removed from any other in the lower 48 states! It was awesome.

Next we came to Steamboat Point, another hotbed of thermal, geologic activity, part of the same underground fissures that caused a huge explosion to blast out the cavity now known as Indian Pond, our next stop. Here I was shocked by the number of grasshoppers! Every step I took through the grass was met with the leaping of thousands of the bugs! It was interesting and creepy at the same time. Less creepy and infinitely more captivating was a small herd of buffalo napping under a shade tree.

     After Indian Pond we came to the Kepler Cascades, yet one more spectacular water feature of the park. Perhaps we were getting spoiled from all the fabulous scenery, but we didn't linger here as long as we had earlier in our trip and instead moved quickly on to the Mud Volcano.

This was really intriguing. The same thermal activity that caused the other hot springs in the park caused these mud pits, but instead of beautifully clear, blue water, these pits were filled with thick, soupy mud set to boiling and sputtering eternally. For some reason these boiling mud pits were shrouded with a much stronger smell of sulfur than the other hot springs.

Since we were near and our previous attempt had been doused with rain, we backtracked to Old Faithful and watched the geyser spew forth again in the beautiful sunshine. Loaded down with pictures I felt were much prettier then my last attempt, we hopped back in our rigs and started out on a quest. We wanted to find a great big bull moose with a head full of antlers. We'd seen a smaller female already, but we weren’t satisfied. We wanted a Bullwinkle!

We consulted the maps and guides we'd been given and saw that we were smack in the middle of prime moose country, so we started driving around the marshes and streams moose like to feed in. But alas, we found nothing and the sun was quickly setting, so we abandoned the moose hunt in favor of a camping ground. We were going to get to actually camp again!

     Along the way we found a very pretty four point mule deer, who was rather inquisitive of me and my camera as I took pictures of him, poking his head out from behind a large fallen tree. Later on, just across from our campsite, we found a very courageous doe and her fawn munching on grasses. They were kind enough to let me take a few pictures of them before moving on across the campground.
     That night we ate hotdogs roasted over our campfire and smores. It was our first chance for real camping since setting out nearly two weeks earlier. We had a wonderful time, though we were mindful to keep our ears tuned for the sounds of a midnight visitor; the Ranger had said there was a grizzly bear who'd taken to raiding the campground the last few nights. We heard quite a few car alarms go off, but no bears.

That night the sky was as clear as a diamond, and littered with more stars than I thought possible. I've used the word breathtaking several times in this litany, but the incredible vastness of the clear, black sky and glittering points leaves me no other description. It was breathtaking. That same clear sky, though, made sleeping very difficult, bringing colder temperatures than we'd found the rest of the time. It was some incredibly cold sleeping, but soon enough the sun was back and we were thawed and on our way to our last stop in the park; Mammoth Hot Springs.

Before we got there, though, we ran into a couple more herds of elk. The first herd we found had a royal elk, a six-by-six, as patriarch.
He was right by the side of the road when we first saw him, and as quickly as I got out he started bugling. I was lucky enough to get a good shot of him calling, and I was surprised when I heard an answering call from across the meadow. The bull in front of me was intrigued also, and he started out across the field, bugling often. I again felt privileged to see these animals in their native habitat free of harmful human interference.

I wondered if perhaps we might find the other elk down the road, and sure enough, we did. This was a regal elk, a six-by-seven, the biggest bull we saw. He was purposefully rubbing his antlers along a tree trunk when we found him. I knew that it was mating season for elk so I had been keeping my
distance when taking pictures, but a fellow not too far from me didn't seem to have the same concern that I did, and crept to within a few feet of the elk. Without any warning at all the bull turned and charged the guy! It happened so fast that I wasn't able to get a picture of the elk chasing him, but Mom did manage to get some shots of him with his head down. At first I thought the guy would be able to get away without much trouble, but he was staggering over small bush and the elk was gaining very fast. Quickly I realized that this guy was going to be gored. The elk's horns were no more than two or three feet from the man when Dixie, startled by the sudden movement, began barking at the bull – and I think saved the man's life. The elk drew up short when the dog started in, and the man turned and booked it back to his car. Judging by the look on his face Think he needed a change of clothes. The elk snorted a few times and trotted off deeper into the woods.

Amped up from all the excitement, we saddled up and headed for Mammoth. I'd seen pictures and heard what it was like, but I was not prepared for how truly giant the thing was. Over the eons these hot springs have been building and changing, coming to life and going dormant again, building vast mineral deposits over and around everything in their path, growing like a mountain from tiny trickles of water. Without the pictures I took I cannot think of any way to describe how incredibly huge these hot springs are; it is as big as a mountain. Parts of the mammoth attraction are swathed in vivid colors covering the whole spectrum, while other, dormant sections have been bleached a brilliant, ashen white. The white areas look like a moonscape, while the active parts look like they were pulled from the pages of a fantasy adventure. Tiny waterfalls and thousands of shelf-like pools give Mammoth Hot Springs a majesty equal only to a few places on earth.

This part of the park was the original entrance and was home to old Fort Yellowstone. Most of the buildings have been converted to residences for park employees and Rangers. We did a very quick tour of the area, though we were beginning to feel pressured to get down the road. The sun would be setting soon on the 10th of September and we had a lot of road to cover.

We were on our way out when we spotted another herd of elk, this one lead by another royal bull. And this guy was charged up! He was actually herding a bunch of does and calves around, butting them with his nose and antlers to prod them where he wanted them to go. The group was close to three hundred yards distant on a hill, and as we watched he herded them all down the slope towards us. When they reached the valley near the road, maybe sixty yards away, they looked like they were going to head away from us and back up the hill. But suddenly, the group turned and charged up the hill for the road, headed straight for us! There were quite a few people gathered around, and we all realized that they were going to come up on the road right in front of us, so we started backing up as quick as we could, not wanting to surround this bull who was obviously ramped up already. We hadn't managed to get more than ten feet away before they came charging up over the hill and onto the road. The does hurried on across, but the bull turned and looked hard at me and Mom. We kept backing away and pretty quick he took off across the road and ran up the hill beside where we parked the van. Debbie
and Mo thought they could have reached out their windows and touched him as he passed by their truck. It was one of the most memorable parts of the whole trip.

After that we continued on to the Roosevelt Arch, etched with Theodore Roosevelt's epitaph of the park; “For the enjoyment and benefit of the people.” We had our pictures taken in front of the arch as well as the “Leaving Yellowstone” sign, saddened at our departure but reveling in all the memories.

We drove through the night back to Helena, arriving near midnight. We crashed and slept hard at Uncle Don and Aunt Shirley’s. The next day was our cousin Devin's 41st birthday, so we stayed and celebrated with our family, sharing with them our experiences from the vacation. Aunt Shirley made pizza and we all ate until we were stuffed. The next day we said our tearful goodbyes and started the long trek home. We pulled up to the house just after five in the morning, fourteen days after we'd left.

It had only been two weeks, but all of us, myself, Mom, Loie, Maure and Debbie, felt that it was two of the best weeks of our lives, and we couldn't think of anyone we would have wanted to share it with more than we did each other.

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Group photo’s of our vacation