JUST A GLIMPSE -

 Many of you know I am writing my first novel. 

About a group of survivors trapped in jail. About zombies. Some of you may even recognize the jail that I've used as my model.

Here is one of the chapters, most likely the opening chapter. I'm not sure yet.

How long I'll keep this on my blog, I'm not sure of that either. I kind of want to keep it a secret until I'm closer to being finished, but I also wanted to share it with those who are interested in reading it.

I've been working on this for the better part of the past year and a half. I was at about 50,000 words but wasn't liking how my main character - Jules - was developing or the direction of the story, so I started a rewrite. One of my characters, Keenan, who was to have only a minimum role, has kind of taken over. This is one of his chapters. My rewrite is now at a little over 38,000 words. 

Constructive comments are most welcome, but remember, opinions are like assholes. We all have one, and most of them smell. So, choose your words wisely. :)

Enjoy.

DEPUTY KEENEN RUSSELL (First Floor) | 

Deputy Keenan Russell is exhausted. He slumps against the hallway wall with his head drooping and hands splayed on knees that won’t stop shaking. His eyes are closed, but he isn’t asleep.

After waking up to find himself alone, this brief reprieve is the first mercy the night has allowed. Gladly accepting whatever quiet moment he can get, he sits down, gathers his thoughts, and grieves for those corralled in the holding cell across from him. Not all his coworkers are there, though, because some he couldn’t find, some he let go, and others he had to kill.

He tries to count them, to sort the missing from the alive but dead, but their names slip through his mind like water. He knows that he knows them, but he can’t remember. He tries to imagine them as they were before, but their faces remain blurry and blank.

His thoughts are disintegrating quicker than he expected.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the faces of his coworkers to surface, but everything inside him is vanishing. He’s changing so fast that even the guilt and grace that once drove him have begun to feel distant. Soon, there will be nothing left of him except for the echoes of the terrible choices he’s made and the bitter shame that will forever follow his family, but he won’t remember any of this.

His coworkers, what’s left of them, anyway, hurl themselves against the glass of the holding cell. The glass shudders with every impact. Their hands smear greasy pus from the popping blisters on their rotting skin across the window’s surface, and their exhales fog the pane in frenzied, savage bursts.

They snarl.

They moan.

They sound nothing like the men and women he once laughed with within the walls of this place, the place he’s worked for the past ten years. They’ve become something else. Something feral and empty, driven by instincts he can’t understand, but is slowly beginning to. Their eyes, wild and black, look at him as if he’s prey. Their friendship and camaraderie are long dead, and whatever does exist is buried too deep within their infected souls.

This all could have been avoided if Keenan had only told Captain Beringer, “No.”

The glass trembles again, but Keean is not too concerned with them breaking through. The glass is double-paned and reinforced, and the metal door is locked. But he is worried about his wife waiting at home.

Tears cling briefly to his long lashes before dripping to the floor.

Today is his and Michelle’s 30^th wedding anniversary.

His children, Brandon and Zahra – grown, thriving, and the pride of his life – were buzzing with plans for their anniversary party. His wife had all but begged him to call in sick so they could steal a quiet evening together before the big celebration, but he couldn’t.

The only times he ever called out were when he was really sick and had to remain housebound, and even then, he’d spend the afternoon insisting he was fine. And tonight, especially, his calling in sick would have drawn the attention of those he blames for what’s happening. The men in Army uniforms would have shown up at his house, interrogated him in front of his family, perhaps even interrogated his wife, and he didn’t want his family to know what he’d agreed to do and what he’d already done.

So, like always, he kissed his wife goodbye at the door, but since it was their anniversary, he promised to make her blueberry pancakes for breakfast, her favorite, when he got home. Something special just for the two of them.

The sun won’t rise for several more hours, but the time has slipped past midnight, so technically, it’s their anniversary. Not that it matters, though. He won’t be home to celebrate it. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

Michelle will wake and shuffle into the kitchen expecting coffee and her pancakes, or at least the banging of pans and plates as Keenan prepares them, but instead, she’ll find the kitchen quiet. Standing there in her pink robe and slippers, she’ll listen for the sound of his car in the drive or his keys in the door. She’ll peek out the window, and when she doesn’t see him, she’ll wonder what could have delayed him on a day he never once forgot.

Keenan imagines first her confusion and then, as time passes, her fear. Sadly, there’s nothing – absolutely nothing – he can do to stop any of it.

When he doesn’t come home, Michelle will sit at her regular place at the table, clutching her cellphone so tight her hand cramps. Staring at the screen, her face lit up by its blueish hue, she prays for – no, she demands! – a text or call from him, but there will be nothing of the kind.

She’ll convince herself that Keenan’s just late, that sometimes he doesn’t get off shift on time, but as time drags on, she won’t be able to deny that the knot in her stomach is anything other than fear. She’ll call him. Once. Twice. Thirty times. Each voicemail becoming more frantic, and her voice shaking despite her effort to sound calm.

But what Michelle doesn’t know is that both cell and landline service to the jail have been disconnected by the men monitoring him from inside the tents set up in the parking lot. Her messages and calls have disappeared into the unheard, unseen black hole of technology, and Keenan will never get them. He’ll never hear the way her breath catches with concern, or the happy anniversary she tries to squeeze in before her voice cracks. He’ll never hear her last message at all – “I love you, Kee. I need you to be okay.”

But Keenan knows his wife.

When her calls go unanswered, she’ll wait impatiently, but not for long. She’ll come to the jail searching for him, and Keenan has no idea what’s happening outside, but whatever it is, he knows it isn’t good. He’s afraid for his wife, afraid of what she’ll find when she finally does arrive, and afraid of what the Army men will do with her when they learn she’s come for him.

He wishes he had called in sick, not just for today, but for all the days – for his son’s football games, his daughter’s theater productions, Christmases, Thanksgivings, birthdays, and every single holiday and precious moment he’d waved aside with the same tired excuse: I have to work.

Back then, he told himself the sacrifice was a necessity for his family’s benefit. A father providing for his children. It’s what his father did, and what his grandfather did before that, but now Keenan realizes that what his family wanted and needed from him all these years wasn’t his money, but his time.

Instead of giving it to them, he gave it to his job.

And for what?

Nothing.

Time – such a clever and cruel thief of life. A person always squanders it when he has it, and wishes for more of it when it runs out, and sadly, Keenan is no different. It’s too late for him, however, because soon he will die.

Click. Click.

Keenan sighs, wipes the tears from his eyes, and pushes himself unsteadily to his feet.

Another one is coming.

When the things in the holding cell see him move, they roar as one and rush toward the window. They crash against the glass and each other, comically bouncing and spinning around the cell like pinballs in a machine, but there is nothing humorous about them or about what’s happening.

He doesn’t know how or why they became what they have, but they were once good people with families, kids, and grandkids, just like him. And who knows? Maybe somewhere deep in their unaffected psyche, his friends might still recognize him, but watching them now, he doesn’t think there is anything left of the old them, and that breaks his heart.

Underneath the bandages on Keenan’s hand, his knuckles are twice their normal size, and his gold wedding band cuts painfully into his finger. His entire hand tingles and burns, and the gauze wrapped around it is filthy and rank. He peels it off, and the medical tape rips away his dying skin. The teeth marks in the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger are red and pustulous. The infection is ripe, and storms unheeded through his bloodstream.

Hours earlier, with the pretense of hanging out, but really observing the deputy working the control tower position in one of the housing modules, Keenan had drifted off to sleep. He rarely works night shift and isn’t used to being awake at such a late hour. For a moment – only five minutes, he told himself – he shut his eyes, but the nightmare came fast, and in it, everyone was dead.

Their corpses were piled ten bodies high and set ablaze. The acrid smell of gasoline burned his nostrils, and searing white-hot flames spiraled skyward. Heavy smoke blotted out the twinkling nighttime stars, and all he could see were the faces of his friends and coworkers melting away. But just as quickly as his dream came, it left him. He awoke screaming and thrashing in his chair to find the other deputy kneeling next to him, chewing on his hand.

That was the first man Keenan had ever killed. But there have been many more since.

A greasy, stank liquid oozes from the bite marks, and he wipes the wetness on his already-soiled pant leg. He pulls another bandage from his pocket, tears it open with his teeth, and presses it to the wound. He wonders how long it will take for him to turn, and if it will be as quick and painless as it is in the movies, but there is no time – time, there’s that word again – to worry about that now.

He has work to do.

He pulls his baton from the ring on his duty belt. His fingers are stiff, and he forces them to curl around the handle. The wooden baton is battered, stained, and clumps of hair stick in the cracks, but it has been a useful tool. He’s glad he’s kept it and never replaced it with the expandable aluminum batons that the younger deputies favor. He doubts those would have held up for as long as this one has or would have done as complete a job.

He swings the baton back and forth, jabs it in front of him, and slices it down through the empty air. He can’t hold it as firmly as he would like, but he will have to try. 

The clicking grows louder, and one of his coworkers lurches around the corner. It’s a woman, and he frowns because it makes what he must do that much harder.

As she staggers closer, Keenan searches her face for any sign of humanity left within her, but there is none. The clicking from her jaw opening and closing is relentless; each sharp crack is a reminder of what she has become because of him.

She sees him, and her eyes flash gold. Each time he finds one of his coworkers, he hopes it will be alive and normal, but few of them have. She has turned completely, and the abnormal sparkle of her eyes tells him she is different from the others and possesses exceptional strength.

Keenan puffs out air between his pursed lips and slides his baton back into its place on his belt. He reaches instead for his taser. Using his thumb, he toggles the switch to the ‘on’ position and waits until the little green light blinks. It’s charged and ready. He lets her take a few more staggering steps, then aims and pulls the trigger.

The cartridge ejects with a loud pop. The probes blast forward and penetrate her uniform. It’s a well-placed shot. The darts stick in her flesh, one in her paunchy stomach and the other just above her left breast. A sizzling 1,000-volt current courses through her body. She stiffens and tips over, temporarily incapacitated.

Her body straightens and convulses once more as he zaps her with another five-second round. He releases the spent cartridge, and it drops to the floor. He holsters the taser and pulls out his baton again. He runs his hand along its pitted shaft – How many more times must I use you? he wonders – and plucks away a strand of long blond hair belonging to one of the nurses who worked on the second floor.

He gazes down at his coworker. She has recovered from the jolt, and her eyes bore into him, but there is still no recognition. Her lips peel back, revealing eager, black teeth. The sound gurgling up her throat and out of her mouth is not human. It’s primordial.

Behind the woman, high on the wall, a small, black dome fits snugly in the corner where the ceiling and the walls meet. A red light from the camera inside winks at Keenan as it records his every move.

“I am a man laden with the guilt of human blood,” Keenan screams at the camera, “and I will be a fugitive until my death!” Then, softer, to the woman lying at his feet, he whispers, “Please forgive me, Deputy Madrigal.”

She sits up with a jerking stiffness. Her eyes lock onto his just as his baton crashes down with a sickening thud atop the crown of her brown, curly-haired head. She collapses back onto the floor, her limbs twitch, and she claws at the air in unnatural spasms.

A low hum vibrates from her throat, like the buzzing of a million insects, “Keenan…” 

His heart slams against his ribs as his friend’s honey-colored, tear-filled eyes gaze up at him. He hesitates with the baton frozen in mid-air. The old her is there. He leans closer, searching her face. “Maddy?”

Her glistening eyes flick from him to those in the holding cell, then back to him again. They widen in fright, then narrow into madness, and go a smoldering golden black. She is back to being the inhuman thing that she was. She lunges, snapping and snarling, with the intent to rip the skin from Keenan’s bones and feed upon his organs.

He stumbles backwards, raises his baton higher, and bashes her skull over and over until her diseased brain spills out onto the floor, and her convulsing body lies still.

Keenan looks up and points a swollen finger at the black dome and blinking light. “This is your fault,” he accuses the men observing him, and then shatters the camera with his bloody baton.

A camera monitor in one of the tents outside blinks and goes dark. The silence that follows tells the two men watching Keenan that this nightmare is far from over.

 

Road Trip #2 of 2025 : What Yellowstone Gave Me

September 28 – October 9, 2025 (12 days) | Mileage: Unknown

I hadn’t planned on a fall road trip, but when you’re retired and have zero responsibilities, there’s no reason to stay home. So, I didn’t.

What Yellowstone Gave Me

Safety first! Bear vault.

The night before departure did not go as planned. 

I read, I relaxed, I even meditated, but sleep would not come. I twisted myself into a knot in my sheets and dreamt of mountain lions roaming a ballpark across from my parent’s house, which doesn’t exist in real life – the ballpark, not my parents' house. 

The lions exist too, somewhere in the wild lands nearby. Others have seen them, but I haven't. I have no idea what any of that means symbolically, but I hoped it wasn’t some ominous prediction of how this trip would unfold.

Despite an unhappy sleep score of 49 (according to my Garmin watch), I was up and at ‘em, running purely on adventurous adrenaline. By the shockingly early hour of 7:30 am (for me, at least), I was already chasing the long white line of the freeway heading north.

As with all my road trips, my truck, Lily, was absolutely packed to the brim. I never know where I’ll end up or how remote things might be, so I pack like a doomsday prepper. Since I was heading into bear country, all food was responsibly crammed into a bear vault. Because bears. Sidenote: Has anyone else watched the 1976 horror film Grizzly? I did when I was a child, a young child. You’d still be traumatized, too.

I normally avoid starting trips on weekends – higher hotel prices, more traffic, more people – but my excitement bested me, and I left a day early.

Welcome to Idaho

The drive to West Yellowstone is usually an easy 4 ½ hours, but by leaving on a Sunday, as opposed to Monday, I had to come up with an alternate set of plans. Instead of driving directly to Yellowstone National Park and checking into my hotel that afternoon, like I would have had I left as scheduled, I decided to drive to Craters of the Moon National Monument with an overnight stay in Rexburg, Idaho.

But even that changed. 

I bypassed Craters, just kept driving a little farther north on I-15, to Camas National Wildlife Refuge. Since I arrived midday – a less than optimal time for birdwatching – the stop turned into more of a scouting mission than a serious hunt for birds. I did spot a few birds, but the water areas were empty. It'd been a dry year. Still, the refuge had tons of potential, so I’ve already mentally scheduled a return trip during the wetter months of Spring. 

My trips are usually about something – healing, building confidence, processing life – but never intentionally. Long stretches of highway and the steady hum of tires on asphalt have a way of lulling my brain, and whatever thoughts that want to be thought waltz right in uninvited. On my last road trip, things got a bit heavy and introspective, so this time, I told myself that this trip would not be about anything.

But… that lasted less than five minutes. Whether I liked it or not, this road trip had already decided what it was going to be about, and that was spontaneity and changing my plans every few minutes.

While lying on a lumpy mattress in a Super 8 motel in Rexburg, Idaho – I really need to start booking better hotels – I made plans. I even wrote them down in my travel notebook to solidify them. I checked out the next morning with those plans still firmly ensconced in my brain... and then immediately abandoned them. I hadn’t even left the parking lot yet!

Instead of heading north on Highway 20 towards West Yellowstone, I turned east and drove straight to Grand Teton National Park. That was a good decision as it turned out.

The fall colors at Grand Teton NP were poppin'!

I arrived later than expected thanks to traffic, but that minor annoyance vanished quickly when I spotted two moose – a bull and a cow within minutes of entering the park. I didn’t see much wildlife after that, but I was able to check off a new bird, a Canada Jay, in my bird book, which always makes me happy.

Canada Jay

***

When I entered Yellowstone National Park through the southern entrance, I was greeted by two lady elk, but I was exhausted and didn’t stop. I figured I’d see plenty of elk over the next couple of days – and I was right – so I didn’t regret passing them by.

The next morning, I awoke later than I wanted, but I was staying at the Gray Wolf Inn & Suites in West Yellowstone, which meant the park entrance was only minutes away. I passed through the gates at 7 am on the dot!

By 7:15 am, I saw the first elk of the day. There wasn’t much room to pull over, and the herd was way out in the meadow, so I kept driving. A much closer herd appeared near Beryl Spring. The elk standing amidst the drifting steam from the hot springs was one of those magical Yellowstone moments. I slowed down but didn't stop. I should have, but I wanted to get to where I was going.

Beryl Spring without the elk

Mammoth Hot Springs Terraces is one of my favorite spots in the park for birdwatching, and it’s usually my first stop. A narrow one-way road loops around the terraces, but once the midday tourists arrive, it can get quite congested. That makes it tough for someone like me who wants to stop every ten feet to take a photo and spend an hour watching the light playing across the leaves of a tree.

It’s about 1 ½ hours from West Yellowstone, which is why I tend to skip over everything on my way there. That's why I regrettably skipped Beryl Spring.

I despise small talk, but those that know me, know that already. If I can avoid people and idle chit-chat entirely, I will, but on this trip, I took my extroverted friend Pat’s advice and “put myself out there.”

“Just try it,” she said.

So, I did, and suddenly this trip became about that too – an introvert attempting to be an extrovert.

A lady elk, Yellowstone

My first interaction happened in a small parking area at Mammoth Hot Springs Terraces. A solo traveler in a rented Sprinter van asked me about the birds in the area. As an avid bird watcher, I was more than happy to share what knowledge I had. Luckily, the birds she asked about were American Robins – a very common and easily identifiable North American species, but she was from Australia and unfamiliar with the bird. 

We stood on the boardwalk, taking photos, pointing out birds, and chatting. It was a genuinely pleasant experience. Maybe risking a step outside my comfort zone to talk to a stranger wasn’t that bad after all.

September is usually my Yellowstone month. It’s prime time for the elk rut, and photographing these bugling, raging studs has become something I look forward to doing about every other year. However, the last time I caught the rut was in 2022, so I was more than ready to photograph it again. A prior appointment, unfortunately, delayed my departure, and those two lost weeks made a difference.

By the time I arrived, the rut had wound down. I heard a little bugling around Mammoth, but no hormonal beasts running amok through the meadows or across the roads. It was disappointing, but Yellowstone has a way of changing my expectations, offering me alternatives when I least expect them.

Bear!

Black Bear at Yellowstone

My first black bear sighting happened a short time later, after leaving Mammoth Hot Springs.

I don’t drive fast in nature areas. Wildlife is unpredictable, as are many of the clueless tourists traversing the same roads, so I stick to the speed limit. When no one’s behind me, I go even slower. 

That habit paid off big time, because as I rounded a corner, there she was – a black bear meandering down the middle of the road like she owned it. Had I been driving faster, the story for both of us would have been very different and very tragic.

I slowed immediately, flipped on my hazard lights - the common sign in National Parks to precede with caution. For a few seconds, I was the only car. Just the bear and me, but as other vehicles arrived, a small traffic jam formed. Tiring of the attention, the bear gave us one last look of annoyance, clambered down the side of the mountain, and disappeared from sight. 

By the end of the day, I’d spent nearly nine hours in the park, driving less than 155 miles, and seeing just a fraction of Yellowstone's 3,468.4 square miles.

Mammoth Hot Springs Terraces, Yellowstone

But tomorrow is another day.

*** 

I woke up earlier than yesterday, but took the time to heat up some Hot Pockets and make a bagel with cream cheese to-go, and entered the park roughly about the same time as the day before. The morning arrived cold and dark with a fine mist drifting across the landscape, but I felt none of the gloom that I normally would if I were anyplace else. This was Yellowstone National Park after all, and the wet and changing weather only exemplified her beauty.

Wildlife activity was much more abundant than yesterday. Several herds of elk grazed along the Madison River, along with a herd of bison. This area almost always guarantees elk sightings and comes within minutes of passing through the west entrance. 

Then, an hour later…another WOW moment!

Grizzly along Dunraven Pass, Yellowstone
 

Flashing hazard lights gave it away, a sign that something big lay ahead, and as luck would have it, near that big thing was parking. It was around 8:15 am, and the park was relatively quiet. Most of the people out at that hour are serious photographers and wildlife enthusiasts, but a crowd had already gathered. I whipped my truck into one of the empty spots at the viewpoint and hurried back down the hill to join the others. 

What did we see? 

A grizzly! A female, petite (as petite as an adult bear can be), and gorgeous. 

She paid us no mind, too busy digging for grubs, her long claws raking up the dirt and flipping over rocks. A woman with a Canon R5 and a massive telephoto lens stepped up beside me, and channeling my inner extrovert once again, I struck up a conversation. Pat would be so proud!

It started raining harder, but neither the grizzly nor I cared. The temperature hovered around 40 degrees, and my hands were frozen, but I couldn’t leave her, not yet. For half an hour, I watched her with water streaking my glasses and beading rain droplets running off the shoulders of my jacket. This may sound strange to some, but before walking away, I thanked her. Thanked her for allowing me to witness a small, fleeting piece of her life, which immediately became a huge and continuous part of mine.  

***

Don’t pet the fluffy cows! But I want to!

In National Parks, the required distance between people and bison is at least 25 yards. It’s for everyone’s safety – humans and bison. We’ve all seen the online videos of bison launching Tourons (tourists + morons), who strayed too close, into the atmosphere. The warning videos are even played in the visitor centers.

But what do you do when the bison come to you? 

Short answer: you pucker.

I love bison.

I never expect to get caught in a bison jam, but I’m always delighted when I do.

Yellowstone’s bison population fluctuates between 3,000 to 5,000 animals, making it one of the largest and most-important bison populations on public lands. They live in matriarchal family groups that can range from a handful of individuals to thousands.

I was crossing the bridge near Tower-Roosevelt on my way to Lamar Valley when I saw them clustered at the far end of the bridge, blocking the way. There was construction nearby, and a metal plate had been laid across the bridge’s entrance. The bison weren’t thrilled about it and huddled together, figuring out what to do.

There is no other way for them to cross the Yellowstone River here, the cliff face is too steep, so they share the bridge with cars. The lead bison stepped onto the plate with no problems, but the rest were hesitant.

A bison taking the easy route, Yellowstone

Unfortunately, an impatient idiot in a Subaru (with Montana plates) came up behind them and threaded his way through. Too close for comfort, and the herd stampeded. Perhaps stampeded isn’t the right word, but they started running. Really, more of a gentle jog, but when bison move, the land moves, and they were coming directly at me. 

The entire bridge vibrated.

Adult male bison (bulls) can weigh up to 2,000 pounds and stand about 6 feet tall at the shoulder, while females (cows) typically weigh around 1,000 pounds. Cows are about 4-5 feet tall. Despite their massive size, bison can run at speeds of up to 35-45 miles per hour and are capable of impressive athletic feats, such as jumping high fences and swimming. And, in this case, leaping over metal plates in the road.

My window was down, and I was filming with my cell phone. Their hooves clicked against the asphalt. They grunted as they passed, one after another, enormous beasts right outside my window. Almost every single one made eye contact with me. They were so close I could’ve reached out and touched them. I wanted to, but I was also terrified.

Getting closer....

In that moment, I realized that a thin car door offered no protection at all if one of them decided to charge. When one passed so close it barely missed my side mirror, I yanked my arm back inside and rolled up the window, but this was something to be seen. Another unforgettable Yellowstone moment, so I left enough space to stick my phone out and continue recording, because it was awesome!

The grizzly and bison herd should have been enough excitement for one day, but it wasn’t. 

Yellowstone wasn’t done giving just yet.

Another close encounter with a herd of bison….

Less than fifteen minutes later in Lamar Valley, I stopped to photograph a distant bison herd. When I turned back toward my truck, I noticed two bison approaching from the opposite side of the road. I got back in my truck, rested my camera on the door sill, and waited.

More bison came around the small hill, and they were once again coming straight at me.

Soon, the entire area across the road from me was packed with bison. They stepped into the street, creating another traffic jam, and stood nonchalantly in the opposite lane – not more than ten feet from where I sat in my truck.

Stare down! He looks rather cute and fluffy in 
the photo, but was much scarier in person. 

Of course, I took photos, that’s why I was there, but these are wild and powerful animals. The same thoughts played out as when I was on the bridge. I could die. Death by Bison. 

Dramatic? Maybe so, but also realistic. 

Eventually, I put the camera away and just sat there, quiet and still. Letting the moment happen. I also hoped my stillness wouldn’t draw their attention, but after the third time a young bull stopped and stared me down, I decided our moment of bonding was over and promptly drove away.

But – I’ll never forget him.

At Gibbons Meadow picnic area, I stopped for a snack. I sat by the river, pulled out my sketchbook, and took a moment to breathe; to replay the short time I’d already spent in the park. The ravens came, and I shared my bag of Cheetos with them.

Raven (with a small dot of Cheeto on his beak,
Yellowstone

And yes. I talked to them, too.

Just like I talked to the grizzly.

The bison.

And every wild thing that’s crossed my path.

Even the chipmunks at Mammoth Hot Springs.

Out here, wrapped in so much beauty, talking to the animals feels natural, feels like the polite thing to do. I am in their house after all. I may sometimes struggle with small talk with humans, but I’ll talk to a wild creature every single time.

Yellowstone didn’t give me the rut this time. It gave me something else entirely. Something quieter, deeper, and unexpected. A feeling that fills my being so completely and intensely that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to explain it. You’ll have to go yourself. Experience the park firsthand, feel what I feel in your own way. And then you’ll understand.

My time here has come to an end, but my adventure hasn’t.

Stay tuned.

To see more of my photos, visit me on Instagram or visit my Facebook page. And, as always, thank you for sharing in my journey. 

Least Chipmunks, Yellowstone

Fall colors along Black Plateau Road, Yellowstone

A young bison was also staring me down, Yellowstone

Road Trip: May 20 - June 20, 2025

How time flies.

It’s been a year since I’ve posted anything on this blog.

I’ve taken a couple of fun road trips this past year, and started writing about them, but never finished and never posted. So, let’s begin with Road Trip #1 of 2025.

West of Cheyenne WY on I-80

May 20 – June 20, 2025 (32 days) | 3,463 miles

The scattered rain and chilly morning felt refreshing as I crossed into Wyoming, but only briefly. The winds soon arrived. I’ve never been to Wyoming when it hasn’t been windy. Does it ever stop?

Zipping along I-80 while gusts clocked in around 30 mph, I practically blew through Rock Springs and Laramie before landing in Cheyenne for my first overnight stop. 

Bella 

I had ambitious plans: The Cheyenne Botanical Gardens, the State Capitol Building, Curt Gowdy State Park, and of course, finding some good BBQ, but the wind and rain thwarted everything. I stayed holed up in my hotel room instead, watching TV and eating my entire stash of road trip snacks for dinner.

The next morning, I dropped down into Colorado and stopped to stretch my legs at PoudreTrail in Greeley. It was a pretty place for birdwatching, except for a suspicious-looking guy hanging around. I kept my knife handy, stayed close to the parking lot, and made it a very short nature walk.

Bella! 

I finally arrived at my best friend Christy’s house and went straight in for a hug with her dog. Priorities. I adore that little fluff ball. I hadn’t seen Bella (or Christy) since January 2024, when I dog-sat while Christy went on a cruise. Of course, that’s when Colorado had some of its worst weather with temperatures plunging into the negative. There’s nothing like bundling up a tiny dog to take outside to poop while an arctic blast freezes us both in mid step. I felt so bad for taking her out in such horrific conditions, that I figured she could poop on Christy's carpet, and I'd clean it up later. But being the good girl that she is, she never did.

A Royal Evening with Dr. Hawass and Christy

Anyway... Christy and I had tickets for a lecture the following evening to hear Dr. Zahi Hawass speak, a big name in Egyptian archaeology, and often touted as a “real-life Indiana Jones”. We were thrilled, but sadly, our Royal Evening with the renowned Dr. Hawass was less than royal.

Our tickets were a painful $239 each. The “upgrade” got us maybe five rows closer, but we could’ve seen and heard just fine from the cheap seats. He flipped through his PowerPoint photos so quick that I missed half of them, and the images I did see, I had no idea what they were of because he was either talking too fast (in his heavy Egyptian accent that I had trouble understanding) or wasn’t taking the time to explain them at all.

The book signing afterward was chaotic, and the books themselves were pricey. Neither of us bought any books, but we stood in line anyway just to meet him. Except, he wasn’t doing a meet-and-greet. Just signing. There was a preshow VIP meet-and-greet lasting between 30-45 minutes, but those tickets were about $795 each!

Riding the carousel at the Denver Zoo

The line moved speedy-quick and when it was our turn, we were swiftly ushered behind Dr. Hawass for a photo (taken with my cellphone) while he continued signing books for the couple who had gone before us. Not once did he look up to say hello or even acknowledge us. I kept waiting, but nope. The photos were taken before I realized what was happening, resulting in a series of blurry images where I’m looking everywhere except at the camera. #ugh.

Day 4 of my road trip started with a visit to the Denver Zoo with Christy. Somewhere along our 4+ mile walk through the zoo, we rode a carousel. I’ve ridden carousels before, but not in years. Probably not since I was a kid but riding one was on my 56 x 57 list – 56 things I wanted to do before my 57^th birthday. I was able to get that activity checked off. Thanks Christy!

The next morning, I said goodbye to my friend and pointed my truck south on I-83, but I didn’t get very far.

Castlewood Canyon
State Park

Less than a ½ hour after leaving Christy's house, I pulled into Castlewood Canyon State Park in Franktown, a spontaneous stop that turned out to be a highlight. The park protects more than 2,000 acres of Colorado’s Black Forest region with elevations ranging from 6,200 to 6,600 feet.

I wasn’t dressed for hiking, but it didn’t stop me from wandering. I took a short walk along the East Canyon Trail and then along a paved path. About 100 bird species have been recorded in the park, and while I didn’t see that many, I was able to check off two new birds in my bird book - a Pygmy Nuthatch, and a Plumbeous Vireo.

Castlewood delayed my original plan to visit Garden of the Gods, but I headed there next anyway. I arrived about 1 pm and immediately regretted it. The place was packed. My weather app claimed it was only 73 degrees, but it felt much hotter. I decided Garden of the Gods deserved a better visit with me in a better mood, so I kept driving.

That night I stayed in a less than luxurious Super 8 motel in Trinidad near Colorado’s southern border. I fell asleep fully expecting my truck to be stolen or broken into during the night, but the next morning, she was still there, as was all my stuff that I'd crammed inside of her.

Maxwell NWR, New Mexico

I was back on the road by 7:20 am, heading further south, but with no real destination in mind. About an hour later, I made another impromptu stop at Maxwell National Wildlife Refuge in Maxwell, New Mexico. I added another new bird to my list – a Lark Bunting – along with sightings of Horned Larks, Eastern Kingbirds, and a Northern Mockingbird, which I’d seen only once before.

By lunchtime, I was craving Mexican food. In Las Vegas, NM, I searched and searched, but most places were closed as it was Sunday of Memorial Day weekend or looked sketchy enough that I wasn’t willing to risk food poisoning (or perhaps a kidnapping by a cartel). I finally settled on a small, local diner where it was immediately clear I was an outsider.

Two Swallows Tattoo

People who arrived after me were served first. My club sandwich came out minus the fries, which they’d apparently run out of and had to make a new batch, but other plates had fries, so who knows? The food was mediocre, and the service sucked. Nearly everyone who worked there or who came in to eat, looked like parolees, and after working law enforcement for 26 ½ years, that made me a bit uncomfortable. I paid the bill, ate quickly, although I had a long wait before my fries finally arrived, and headed back to my truck, once again expecting it to be gone.

I usually seek out mom-and-pop diners when I travel, preferring to support local establishments over fast-food chains, but in hindsight, McDonalds might have been the better choice.

Originally, I planned to head west to Santa Fe to check out the art scene, then down to Alburquerque for more sightseeing, and then eventually to Bosque del Apache NWR for more birdwatching, but I had a calling. A calling to turn southeast and head towards Roswell. 

I’d passed through this part of New Mexico during the pandemic, but never actually made it as far as Roswell. Everything was closed back then, including the International UFO Museum and Research Center. This time though, it was open.

The International UFO Museum and Research Center, Roswell, NM

Believe in aliens and UFOs or not, the museum is worth a stop. If you’re skeptical, take time to read through the volumes of witness accounts about the 1947 “weather balloon” crash and stories of alien abductions. You might still leave unconvinced, or you might start looking at the sky a little differently like I did (and still do).

My tattoo

After the museum, I wandered through the town in 80+ degree heat, buying postcards and souvenirs, but there was one souvenir I wanted, and had been wanting for a few years. One that was a little more permanent.

I had a design in mind when I walked into Two Swallows Tattoo, but after flipping through their flash art, I chose something completely different. Jessie, my tattoo artist, has been an artist her whole life, but tattooing for only about five years. I couldn’t be happier with her work.

And yes – I got a UFO tattoo in Roswell, a town famous for a UFO crash. Does anyone else find that as amusing as me? If that’s not a better souvenir than a refrigerator magnet (although I bought one of those too), I don’t know what is. I still laugh every time I look at it, and I suppose a return trip to Roswell to attend Alien Con is inevitable, if not just to get another tattoo.

From Roswell, the miles started stacking up. I spent a night in Alamogordo, NM then crossed into Arizona for lunch in Tombstone at the Longhorn Restaurant. It was 101 degrees, far too hot for a walkabout in the desert. The Courthouse Museum was about all I could manage.

Next stop: Tucson, where I stayed two nights at My Place Hotel – a great base for exploring Saguaro National Park. I’d never seen saguaro cacti in bloom before, and it was stunning (see photos below). Even better, I added two new birds to my list: a White-winged Dove and a Pyrrhuloxia, a gray toned cardinal found only in the Chihuahuan and Sonoran deserts.

Mom

On Day 10 of my road trip, I arrived in San Diego, where I quietly celebrated my mom’s 80^th birthday. We visited La Jolla Cove, Santee Lakes, Balboa Park, and a few other touristy areas that neither of us had been to in a while. She even tried sushi for the first time. She didn’t like it though. What was to be a short visit with my mom turned into nearly three weeks before I finally began my journey home.

Traveling is my jam. 

I’m always grateful for the miles, the detours, the exciting sights along the way, even for the wind and rain, because they add to the story of my life, a story that only a road trip can deliver. 

Probably not the best story to come out of this trip, however, was after I got home, I accidentally deleted about 200 of my photos before I’d uploaded them! #ugh!

To see more of my photos visit me on Instagram or visit my Facebook page. And, as always, thank you for sharing in my journey. 

A White-winged Dove on a Saguaro

Saguaro cactus in bloom

Northern Mockingbird, Maxwell NWR, New Mexico