Welcome to Egypt!

Egypt.

 I have been dreaming of pyramids and riding a camel in the Sahara Desert for many years. My bucket list is long with dozens of places I want to visit and just as many experiences I want to have, but money always seems to be a factor in what I can and, most often, can’t do. 

However, when my friend mentioned Egypt was also on her bucket list and she wanted to go, I didn’t care how much the trip would cost. I was going!

A man walks alone in the Sahara Desert.

Unfortunately, our adventure didn’t start out as smoothly as I’d hoped.

First, as much as we planned, everything was done last minute by our travel agent, which caused us a fair amount of anxiety. She over-nighted our travel paperwork to us two days before we left, so of course it didn’t arrive in time. However, that was just a minor inconvenience as compared to what followed.

To put it mildly, American Airlines/British Airways suck.

A delayed flight into Heathrow Airport from Dallas/Fort Worth – or an on-time flight, but an hour sitting idle on the tarmac because airport personnel didn’t know what they were doing – made us late for our connecting flight. 

Even with the hour delay, however, we were still 45 minutes early for our connection, but the apathetic woman at security wouldn’t allow us through.  She said we wouldn’t have time to get to our gate and instead, directed us to stand at the end of a very long line of angry passengers who had also missed their connecting flights.

Heathrow Airport sucks.

One after another, travelers took out their hostilities on the clerk working the rebooking window as if everything was her fault. With tears in her eyes, she tried her best to appease each customer. At one point, I heard her on the telephone saying that if someone wasn’t there in ten minutes to help her, she was walking out!

Good for her, I thought, but bad for us because we were still in line. When it was our turn at the counter, we were polite. We hoped our kindness and understanding for the shitshow that Heathrow is, made up for all the rude people who came before us and, who I’m sure, were to follow.

Our original flight was scheduled at 9:45am, however our rebooked flight wasn’t until 4:45pm, so that meant several static hours at the airport. Our frustrations worsened when we learned our original connecting flight had been delayed an hour. We would have made it had we been allowed through security!

This is all just part of the adventure

I told myself this many times, both in my head and aloud, but it did little to improve my mood. It was at this point I learned my dislike of people hadn’t lessened any during retirement and travel-bloat is a very real and painful thing! My feet and legs were so swollen – cankles! I was ready to cash out and book a flight home, but the thought of seeing the pyramids and camels I’ve dreamt about for so long persuaded me otherwise.

It was an excruciating 12-hours of wandering around a very busy Heathrow, eating crappy airport food and trying to find a seat to elevate my feet. At 8pm after about a half dozen gate changes and numerous other delays, we finally boarded our flight to Cairo.

Flying into Egypt at night.

The next morning, I am exhausted and cranky, but eager to begin our explorations of Cairo. We meet our guide from Gallivant Egypt Tours in the lobby of our hotel, the Kempinski Nile Hotel.

Our guide is a beautiful young Egyptian woman with dark hair and an engaging smile. Mariam does not wear a hijab and against tradition, has moved out of her parent’s home and lives as a single woman who attends and pays her own way through college.  Her English is perfect, and she smiles appreciatively as we tell her how proud we are of her and her accomplishments.

Me, Christy, Linda and our guide Mariam Zaky.

She takes us to many historic places, but first we visit the Great Mosque of Muhammad Ali. It is built from limestone sourced from the Giza Plateau and, having been built in the mid-19^th century, is considered a newer construction. With its great central dome and two towering minarets, it is one of the first landmarks to be seen when entering Cairo from any direction.

The Great Mosque of Muhammad Ali.

Next is Saint Virgin Mary’s Coptic Orthodox Church, one of the earliest churches in Egypt dating to the 4th century. It is more commonly known as the Hanging Church because it was built on top of a Roman fortress. Logs from palm trees and layers of stones were stacked above the ruins to be used as the foundation.

It is one of Cairo’s most exquisite churches, but I can’t concentrate on its beauty. The thought of standing on such a precarious foundation gives me a stab of anxiety, especially after seeing a window in the floor exposing what can barely be called a ‘foundation’. However, since it hasn’t collapsed yet from all the tourists tromping through, I suppose it must be rather sturdy, but nevertheless, I imagine myself crashing through the floor at any moment.

The Hanging Church was destroyed during 11th century.
Expansion and reconstruction have gone on ever since, making
 it difficult to date precisely any specific part of the church.

From Coptic Cairo we drive towards St. Simon the Tanner Monastery, but first we must travel through Garbage City!

Driving through Manshiyat Nasser, the proper name for the village, is a wonderful surprise. The streets are narrow and full of garbage. However, it’s not casually discarded trash, but trash carefully collected and sorted for recycling. There is no efficient garbage collection in Cairo, so the residents have taken it upon themselves to become unofficial garbage collectors.

Daily life in Garbage City.

Almost 90% of the garbage is recycled and prior to 2009, much of the organic waste was given to pigs for disposal. The villagers would then slaughter them and sell their meat. However, as a preventive against swine flu, the government ordered all the pigs in Garbage City to be culled.

A girl walks past stacks of garbage.

No surprise that the village stinks and is swarming with flies. It is not a healthy environment, but it is a photographer’s dream. As much as I want to wander the streets with my camera, it is highly discouraged by Mariam. Instead, I take pictures out the van window. Garbage City has become a highlight of this trip!

A man makes basbousa on the street corner in Garbage City.

 I am disappointed when we leave Garbage City behind, however the monastery complex with the Cave church is magnificent.

The Cave Church is exactly that, a church built in a large cave. The stone walls surrounding the church are adorned with sculptures depicting the life of Jesus and the amphitheater has a capacity of 20,000 people. We wander through the complex, also visiting St. Marks, but now it is time for lunch.

Entrance to the Cave Church.

I am hungry to try authentic Egyptian food!

At Bonne Soiree Restaurant, lunch is buffet-style. Mariam recommends the Mulukhiyah soup. She explains it is the national dish of Egypt and is made from jute, which is a green leaf vegetable. I am eager to try it, but it has a slightly bitter taste with a slimy texture. 

Mulukhiyah soup.

I swallow a few more spoonful’s so I can say I at least tried it, but I can’t stomach much more. I push it aside and move on to more delicious foods like rice, fish, meatballs in a red sauce, and Egyptian basbousa. Basbousa is a sweet, syrup-soaked semolina cake that is sometimes filled with cream. I am hooked!

At Khan al-Khalili, a historic market built in 1382, we push our way down passageways, past rows of shops full of trinkets, clothing, and other souvenirs.  Vendors call out to us from the doorways. I notice they are all men, and each has his own way of attracting attention.

A vendor stands in the doorway
of his shop.

“Welcome to Alaska” one of them jokingly calls, while others simply smile and wave. The more aggressive ones hurry along beside us, thrusting their wares in our faces and shouting out prices in hopes of negotiating, "Five for a dollar!" Bargaining is a must in Egypt!

The sounds and sights of the bustling market are dizzying.

A vendor smiles at tourists 
walking past his shop.

The Arabic language is harsh and raspy. The men’s voices are loud and spirited as they shout from the doorways of their shops. There are no discernable words, only what sounds like throaty coughs and expulsions of air. I don’t know if they are arguing or discussing their evening plans. Occasionally, someone will shout in English, and I know it is directed at us. They want us to look their way. If I make eye contact or show the slightest bit of interest, then they become unrelenting. I’ve learned my first Arabic word: La, meaning no.

Merged with the harshness of sound is the beautiful, vibrant colors from the many scarves, dresses, and other fabrics stacked on floor to ceiling shelves inside the shops. Every available space is taken; sometimes there is only enough room for the shopkeeper to stand. Tables are set up outside full of souvenirs making the walkway even narrower. Chintzy trinkets sparkle blindingly under the light.

A shop displaying vibrant fabrics.

It is breathlessly exciting, but I am glad when Mariam stops at a small café and we can sit down and relax, but it doesn’t last long. Three very white American women make for an easy target. Several vendors approach and are persistent in their attempts to sell us their cheap tokens.

La. La. La. La. La. La.

But the vendors will not go away. Mariam snaps at them in Arabic. I don’t understand her exact words, but I get the gist of it by the tone of her voice and the abrupt turnaround of the vendor as he heads in another direction. Mariam looks sweet, but do not be fooled, she is very capable and not to be trifled with!

And then, unfortunately, I must go to the bathroom.

The café we are in doesn’t have a toilet, so Mariam takes me in search of one. Again, I don’t know what exactly Mariam says to a nearby shopkeeper, but I notice his body language and demeanor. He smiles at Mariam and seems fine with her request, but when she gestures towards me – which I assume is her telling him the bathroom is for me – he shakes his head and sends us elsewhere.

Several times we stop, and Mariam asks about a bathroom, but each time we are directed to another place. People either don’t have a bathroom in their shop, which is possible because the shops are small and crammed full of touristy stuff or they don’t want to let me use it.

Finally, we find a bathroom and it is disgusting!

Christy wanders down one of the rows
of Khan al-Khalili market

It’s not even a proper bathroom, just a toilet shoved into a closet with a rickety door that doesn’t close all the way.  It’s dirty and dark, with water on the floor from a leaky toilet and of course there is no toilet paper. However, Christy has come prepared with travel size rolls, and we each carry one in our purse. There is no sink to wash my hands, but again I am prepared. Wet wipes! When I push open the door to leave, a man is standing just outside waiting for his turn. No privacy at all.

Because we had to go to several different places to find a bathroom, Mariam is uncertain of how to get back to the café. Down various alleyways we go, sometimes two or three times down the same one as Mariam tries to orient herself. It doesn’t help that there are five cafes within Khan al-Khalili that all have the same name. It seems each time Mariam asks for directions, she is directed to a different one. Eventually, we find our way back to Christy and Linda who thought we had abandoned them.

As much as I think the market is crazy, it’s about to get worse.   

Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and observed by Muslims worldwide as a month of fasting, prayer, reflection, and community.  We knew we would be traveling to Egypt during Ramadan, but I cluelessly had no idea of what it consisted of.

People gathering for Ramadan just 
outside Khan al-Khalili Market.

Fasting is from dawn to sunset, and we are out well past sunset. We emerge from the market into streets packed with hundreds upon hundreds of people. Rows of tables are set up where anyone can sit to have iftar, which is the nightly meal with which Muslims end their daily Ramadan fast. Free food is given so everyone can eat, regardless of their status in life.

People are everywhere!

People sitting down to enjoy Iftar.

Mariam leads us as best she can through the crowd to our awaiting van. At times we all hold hands or grab onto each other’s clothing, so we don’t get separated. It’s a bit disconcerting, but we make it unscathed to the van, however, once inside, I realize our ordeal is not over.

Now our driver must carefully maneuver the van through the throngs of people.

I don’t know if they are police or security guards, but there are men in uniforms manning a blockade to control the flow of people. They are attempting to let only a few at a time into the area where the food is being served, but it’s not working. There is lots of yelling and hand gesturing as people push past the guards. Soon the area is overrun, and our van is surrounded. Based on the angry words shouted at our driver and the banging on the sides of the van from pedestrians, I’m pretty sure we hit a few people as we made our getaway.

And this was only our first day in Egypt.

The upper terraces of the Citadel offer spectacular views over the city of Cairo.

A big life change? Maybe.

 This road trip is different. 

It’s not about adventure or travel.  It’s not about photography, visiting national parks or about getting back to nature.  This road trip is different because it’s about finding another place to live that’s not in California.

Normally, I am well prepared, packed a week ahead of time, but this time everything was done at the last minute.  It wasn’t from lack of planning, but from my wanting to put off for as long as possible the emotions that I knew would come.  There have been fleeting moments of excitement for this “new chapter” in my life, but mostly there has been guilt and indecision. 

When most children are returning to their elderly parents to care for them, I am abandoning mine.  It seems selfish for me to want to leave San Diego, the place I was born and raised. It seems selfish to leave my parents at a time when they are needing my help the most.  I can afford to live in California, but I can’t afford to live my life in California. 

The decision to move was not one made in haste.  These thoughts have been in my mind since 2018, actually for much longer.  Moving was something my ex and I discussed doing when we retired.  I’ve been retired now for over three years; however, it’s taken me this long to get the confidence to even consider it.  It is a huge life change for me and I’m not sure if I am ready for it or if I can do it on my own.

The rollercoaster of emotion is fast and fierce.  I don’t know if I am making the right decision.  I make excuses as to why I should stay in San Diego, but then I use the same excuses as to why I should leave. The arguments within my mind are endless.   Half the time I am excited, the other half I am crying.  And then there are those rare times when I am absolutely terrified by even the thought of leaving San Diego and it takes a moment for me to catch my breathe.  I wonder if this is what a panic attack feels like?

The road to Utah is long and the severity of my mood increases with every mile.

I’m driving north on Interstate 15 when there is an accident, or so I think.  Otherwise, why would traffic be at a complete stop on the freeway?  It’s stop and go for twenty minutes, but there is no sign of anything that shows cause for the traffic, but in that time, my mood worsens. 

I am tired.  I got on the road at 6:30am, but it wasn’t early enough to beat the heat of the Nevada desert.  It’s 100-degrees when I reach Las Vegas.  I am irritated at everyone and everything, so it only seems fitting that when I cross the border into Utah, a rock hits my windshield causing a crack to snake its way across the window. 

I’m wondering if this is a sign.  Maybe I should go home, abandon all thought of moving to Utah?  Maybe I should return to the familiarity of a lifetime spent in San Diego?  But I don’t.  Instead, I check into a Motel 6 in Cedar City where the lobby smells like poop.  How apropos.

The next morning, the lobby still stinks, but now the entire hallway does as well.   The woman behind the counter puts down her spray bottle and rag that she’s been wiping everything with to give me my receipt at check-out.  I consider telling her about the smell, but then I wonder why she can’t smell it on her own?  Plus, I don’t have the energy.  I let her go back to sanitizing against COVID without saying a word.

Focusing on getting to Draper, where I have made hotel reservations at the Hampton Inn, has helped to subdue the voices in my head, but my thoughts are still heavy.  Doubt creeps in at every opportunity and I feel myself returning to the foul mood of yesterday. 

Along the freeway, I see a sign for Cedar Breaks National Monument.  I have never been, so I quickly exit.  The drive from I-15 to Brian Head along Hwy 143 is a pretty one.  My thoughts soon drift to nature and my mood improves. 

Cedar Breaks is a natural amphitheater, stretching across 3 miles, with a depth of over 2,000 feet.  The rim sits at about 10,000 feet in elevation.  The rock of the amphitheater is like that of Bryce Canyon National Park, but unlike the national park, Cedar Breaks attracts less visitors.   For the most part, I am alone.  It takes me only an hour and a half to drive through the park and back again, but it is exactly what I need to soothe my soul. 

The next day I begin my search for apartments, but it is disappointing.  I cross many off my list without even touring them because I don’t like the location.  And those in my preferred location don’t have the amenities I am looking for, like a garage, or they are older builds when I am wanting something new.  I have a long list of apartments to see, but there is white smoke billowing up from behind the Wasatch Mountains.  The air is thick and it is difficult to breath.  I cut short my apartment hunt and retreat to the air conditioning of my hotel room. 

Maybe the fire is another sign I shouldn’t move to Utah?

The Parley Canyon fire was caused by an overheated catalytic converter on a vehicle.  It is east of Salt Lake City on the south side of Interstate 80 near Park City. I am in no danger, but the air quality is horrible.  It is Sunday and the leasing offices of the apartments I want to look at are all closed.  I knew the offices would be closed, so instead, I planned on going to Antelope Island State Park to see birds and wild bison, but it is recommended that people stay indoors because of the smoke.  So I stay indoors.  It is like being at home.  I watch TV while not wearing any pants and snack on trail mix.

Monday morning is spent getting my cracked windshield replaced and then it is back to apartment hunting.  The air quality is still bad, but I wear a mask and spend as little time outside as possible.  During my downtime on Sunday, I re-prioritized my wants and have decided to add townhomes to my list.  From American Fork to Ogden I drive, identifying possibilities and eliminating others.  The next day I drive back and forth again looking at more and more apartments.

Over the past six days, I have looked at dozens of apartments and townhomes and have a folder full of literature, along with a binder of handwritten notes about each one.  It has been overwhelming and exhausting.  The internal bickering resumes as do my tears.  More questions, more doubts.  I have had a stomachache for two days.  Because of my mood and of the wildfires that are burning pretty much in all the western states, I decide to end my trip early and return home. 

The uncertainty and doubt that plagued me on my trip to Utah, stay with me all the way home.  I am even less sure as I sort through all the information I have gathered.  I ask myself the same questions, make the same rationalizations, and experience the same guilt and anxiety as before.  However, it all comes down to one simple question that I’ve asked myself a million times over the last few days:  Should I move to Utah?

And the answer is YES.  Yes, I am moving to Utah in October.

Part 2 of 2: Potatoes, dead fish and no cell phone reception

It’s 36-degrees and sunny when I say farewell to West Yellowstone.  I drive south on Highway 20 and further still on Interstate 15, but I don’t get very far.  I have my sights set on Salt Lake City, but I see a sign along the freeway that reads, “Potato Museum next exit” so I exit. 

The Potato Museum in Blackfoot, Idaho was built in 1913 and originally a railroad depot.  It was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1974.  However, in 1984 the Union Pacific closed the depot leaving the building abandoned.  It became the Potato Museum a few years later in 1988.

I’m not expecting much but I am pleasantly surprised. 

The museum is small, but full of potato paraphernalia as well as a few pieces of machinery used in harvesting.  I never thought much about potatoes, but the history and trivia are interesting.  Did you know the largest potato ever grown was 7 pounds, 1 ounce?

Welcome to Utah!  

A night of rest in Brigham City and then a short drive the next morning to Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge.  The refuge contains nearly 80,000 acres of marsh, open waters, uplands, and alkali mudflats.  It lies along the edges of both the Pacific Flyway and the Central Flyway, making it an important area for birds.  More than 250 bird species use the refuge.  It is my first time here and I am excited to do some birding.

Right away I see a Ringed-necked pheasant.  I get some decent shots and that makes for a promising day.  In the Bear River Channel, there are ducks and a few American White Pelicans, but then I see something that isn’t familiar.

It swims along the water’s surface and then lumbers briefly onto shore.  It’s a beaver! A big, brown blob and all I see is its butt.  Then it’s back in the water and swims away.  This is the first beaver I have ever seen in the wild!

I follow the auto tour route along a dirt road through the refuge.  The road and channel parallel one another, but then the water level gets extremely low.  The main channel has taken a turn and, I think, this shallow pool is overflow.  I’m not sure, but it is full of dying carp.

They flounder and float on their sides while seagull’s peck at them.  It is a carp graveyard with fish carcasses in varying degrees of decay and bones scattered along the shoreline.  The carp are an invasive species, so I’m not saddened at their demise.  Plus, I know their death is a benefit to other wildlife in the area that will feed on them.

It stinks and the seagulls squawk loudly.  As disgusting as it is, I am very fascinated and get out of my truck to take a closer look.  However, I am suddenly attacked by large flies that bite my back and shoulders through my shirt.  It hurts! 

I jump back into my truck to escape the flies, but the interior is now infested with mosquitos.  I have left the windows open!  The mosquitos cover the inside roof like a carpet.  I turn the air on super blast, but it does little to dispel them. 

I take a few quick photos of the seagull-carp carnage and quickly drive away.  The flies follow me, however.  I roll up the windows, but they keep pace with me.  They are so big that I can see them flying next to my window and when I stop, they land on the windows and hood to let me know they are still there.  It’s as if they are stalking me!

I grab a can of bug spray from my camping gear and attempt to spray both the inside of my truck, which is still covered with mosquitos, and myself.  However, the nozzle is broken, and it doesn’t spray properly, just bubbles, but I’m able to get enough on my skin to keep the bugs away.  

The flies quickly lose interest, but the mosquitos remain.  I squish a few, but they leave tiny blood stains on the fabric of the roof.  Since they are not biting me, I leave them alone. 

The bugs are horrendous and it’s scorching hot.  Apparently, the entire western half of the United States is in a massive heat wave.  I have picked the wrong time of year to visit, but the birding is good, so I see the positives in that.

Sandhill Cranes with a colt, Yellow-headed Blackbirds, Cliff Swallows, egrets, herons, coots, ibises, baby geese, and Black-necked Stilts…I am getting some great photos, but my favorite are the Western Grebes with chicks riding on their backs.  Adorable!

I exit the refuge 5 hours later with a card full of great photos and go to Salt Lake City in search of a laundromat.  Some of the mosquitos are still hitching a ride with me and I continue squishing them for the next several miles until they are all gone.

The next day, I meet my friend Christy at the Radisson SLC Airport.  She has flown in from Denver to help me look at apartments in the Salt Lake City area.  We spend the next three days driving from one side of town to the other touring apartments and stopping every so often for ice cream because it is over a 100-degrees every single day. 

We also take time to eat delicious Mexican food at Red Iguana, which was featured on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives with Guy Fieri.  The food is good, and the waiter is a cutie.  He charms us two old ladies with his smile and customer-service flirtations.  It works.  We leave him a big tip.

At the Capitol building, we take a self-guided tour.  I ask Christy if it is illegal to have a gun in the building.  She responds with an expletive.  I tell her I’m asking for a friend.  I don’t know what the statue of limitations is, so I will neither confirm nor deny anything remotely associated with anyone possessing or not possessing a firearm inside or outside of a federal building or any building for that matter.

Our stay at the Radisson SLC Airport is only three nights, but unfortunately, they are not good ones.  From mold and a persistent musty smell in the bathroom to highly incompetent staff, our time there flat out sucked.  Plus, the cleaning staff threw away our personal toiletries that we had in the bathroom.  Including my purple soap box that I’ve had for, like, 20 years!

My numerous complaints are met with half-hearted apologies, and not once did they offer to replace any of the items they had thrown away.  Not even with cheap hotel soap!  I give them one star in my Yelp review only because I couldn’t rate them a zero.

After saying our goodbyes, Christy heads east and I head west on Interstate 80 towards Great Salt Lake State Park.

Great Salt Lake is one of the major tourist destinations in Utah.  It is the largest saltwater lake in the Western Hemisphere at 75 miles long and 35 miles wide.  It is too saline to support fish and most other aquatic species.  The only living things in the lake are algae, bacteria, brine shrimp and brine flies. 

It is also a popular spot for birding as it provides a habitat for millions of native and migratory birds.  However, I am disappointed when I arrive.   There are no birds, no shade, and the visitor’s center isn’t open yet.  I walk around in the 85-degree heat for about 45 minutes waiting for the visitor center to open only to discover that I am at the wrong part of the lake. 

I am at the boat marina. 

If I want to see birds and other wildlife, I should have gone to Antelope Island State Park, but that is an hour away and back the way I came.  It’s a disappointment, but all part of my journey.  There will always be highlights and lowlights to my trip and this just happens to be a lowlight, but at least I can say I saw the Great Salt Lake. 

With a pocket full of caramel candies I bought at the visitor center, I continue west on Interstate 80.  Past the Bonneville Speedway where many speed records have been set, the first being in 1935 by Sir Malcolm Campbell and where I wish I would have stopped. At West Wendover, I turn south on the 93 towards Ely and spend a quiet night at La Quinta planning my next stop.

I have my America the Beautiful park pass ready, but Great Basin National Park does not have an entry fee.  It’s a beautiful morning, sunny with wispy clouds, but at 8:30am it is already 80-degrees.  At Lehman Caves Visitor Center, I am met with another disappointment.  Reservations are required to tour the caves and I haven’t made any.  The next available time slot is a month out! 

Great Basin National Park was established in 1986 and is just over 120 square miles in size.  It’s known for its groves of ancient bristlecone pines and the Lehman Caves at the base of 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak, as well as Wheeler Peak Glacier.   

From the visitor center, I drive Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive.  The road twists and turns as it snakes up the mountain, however there are very few turnouts for me enjoy the views, and no vast meadows where I can view wildlife.  I stop when I can to take pictures and then the road ends at a parking lot. 

There is a kiosk showing the many trails branching out from the parking lot.  I’m not dressed for hiking, I’m wearing jeans, but I stuff several waters and a first aid kit into a backpack and wander off down the trail. 

The high elevation is making breathing difficult, and I stop frequently to catch my breath, but I don’t want to turn back.  It’s quiet, beautiful, and I want to push myself, but then I start thinking about bears.  I have left my bear spray in the car and I am hiking alone.  I wonder if I should turn around for safety reasons, but I think, “oh well” and keep hiking. 

I am hot and sweaty in my jeans and it feels like I’ve been hiking for days, but it’s been less than a hour and I’ve gone only ¾ of a mile. The trail has steadily gained in elevation and for a moment I think I might vomit, but just up ahead I see an opening and a sign that reads, “Teresa Lake, Elevation 10,230 feet.” 

I’ve made it and I’ve done so without hurling my breakfast.

Teresa Lake is a small, glacial lake near Wheeler Peak along the park’s Alpine Lakes Loop Trail.  Most of the water comes from snowmelt, but it also has a spring flowing into it.  I find some shade along the rocky shore and soak my feet.  The water is very cold but refreshing.  It’s been another good day.

When I leave Great Basin National Park, I have two options.  I can drive east and eventually connect with Interstate 15 that I’ve driven a thousand times, or continue on Highway 93 and see all new territory.  I opt for the unfamiliar and head south on Highway 93 in search of a hotel, but there are none.  In fact, there are no services at all, including cell phone reception.  I am a bit uneasy about my choice in routes, especially when it starts to rain.  I wonder how long it would take someone to find me if something happened….

I drive almost a 100-miles without services, but I eventually reach Panaca, Nevada where there is a gas station.  Civilization!

Another 150 miles on Highway 93 gets me to Interstate 15 just north of Las Vegas.  It’s 111-degrees when I arrive.  I want to make a mad dash for home, but I am too tired.  A Motel 6 near the Las Vegas Motor Speedway provides adequate accommodations for the night.  

The next morning, the last 340 miles home is a breeze.

Total trip mileage: 3,362.

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Yellow-headed Blackbird at Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge.

Part 1 of 2: Open road therapy, bison, and a baby bear

At the end of Day 1, I am almost 560 miles from the comfort of home, but lately, home has been a place of restlessness.  Restless because I have not traveled in six months, and I am feeling stagnant and depressed.  All my attention was devoted to college, but now that the semester is over, my focus has quickly shifted.  My road trip could not have come at a better time.  I am in desperate need of some therapy that only the open road can provide.

And the open road is currently leading me north on Interstate 15. 

The midday sun is sweltering and when I reach Las Vegas, it is already 108-degrees.  Sin city is coming to life now that Covid restrictions have loosened, but I find no glamour in it, only irritation at being stuck in traffic.  And the heat is ridiculous.  Just north of Las Vegas, the temperature gauge on my truck reached 111-degrees!

I cross into Utah and the oppressive heat follows.  

Near Beaver, the temperature has cooled to a tolerable 91-degrees, but I am still grumpy.  I pull off the highway for a break and the hot gusting winds suck the life from me as soon as I exit my truck.  Not even an ice cream helps my mood, so I call it a day. 

Day 2 is another uneventful travel day, but it adds an additional 420 miles to the odometer.

I continue north on Interstate 15 and into Idaho where the air is cooler, fresher, and invigorating.  My excitement propels me forward through Pocatello and into Idaho Falls.  I want to keep going, but I don’t check into the hotel near my first planned stop until tomorrow, and after consulting my map, I think Idaho Falls is the best place to rest. 

The next morning, I long to stay snuggled in bed with the air conditioner on artic blast mode.  I have only 110 miles to go to my next stop.  It’s a short drive compared to the last two days, and since check out at the Super 8 isn’t until 11am, there is plenty of time for laziness.  As tired as I am though, I am also energized by the thought of today’s adventures.  Fortunately, my excitement prevails, and I get an early start to the day. 

It is an easy and beautiful drive along Highway 20 to West Yellowstone.   The line of cars at the park’s entrance winds slowly through town and after a 20-minute delay, I am finally where I want to be:  Yellowstone National Park.

Yellowstone was established in 1872 and is the first national park in the United States.  It spans approximately 3,468 square miles and is the largest and most famous megafauna location in the contiguous United States.  

Herds of elk and bison, along with a few scattered pronghorns, welcome me as I head towards Mammoth Hot Springs and then to Lamar Valley.  

Wildlife is abundant, which is good, because that is what I came for.  Bears, wolves, and moose are the Top 3 on my list of what I want to photograph, but the bison are so awe-inspiring that I stop frequently to admire them.

These animals are beasts!

A bull can weigh up to 2,000 pounds and stand 6 feet tall, while a cow can weigh up to 1,000 pounds and reach a height of 4-5 feet.  Bison calves, which are called Red Dogs, can weigh anywhere from 30-70 pounds at birth.  They look docile and slow, but don’t be fooled.  They can run up to 35mph and have been described as having a “wild and ungovernable temper”! 

The herds in Yellowstone are also rather unique. 

Yellowstone is home to the oldest and largest public bison herd in the United States and this is the only place in the U.S. where they have lived continuously since prehistoric times.  Their population within the park fluctuates anywhere from 2,300 to 5,500.

I leave the bison behind but continue stopping wherever I can.  Pictures of Canadian geese floating in a pond, an osprey successfully fishing in a river, and pair of sandhill cranes with a colt (the name for baby sandhill cranes) fill up my camera’s memory card.  

The endless views of valleys, mountains, and meadows are stunning.  Click click click.  More photos of bison, clouds, flowers, trees, and whatever else catches my eye.

And then there she is.

The traffic jam is a giveaway.  A Park Ranger is trying her best at traffic control, but it’s complete chaos.  In their excitement, people aren’t paying attention.  They stop in the middle of the road and hold their cell phones out their windows in hopes of getting a picture.  A passenger jumps out of a car and runs through traffic to get a closer look.   

The ranger toots her whistle toot toot to get people’s attention.  She frantically waves cars forward and yells at people to get of the street, but her efforts do little for crowd control.  I am lucky and get one of the last available spots on the edge of the turnout.  I join the throng of spectators to see what they see, and my heart skips a beat. 

This is what I came for and she is beautiful.

A cinnamon-colored black bear is radiant under the afternoon sun as she forages in a grassy meadow among fallen trees.  She climbs atop a log and looks at the people looking at her.  She is perfect.  But wait! There is movement at the base of a dead tree not far from where she stands.

A murmur arises from the crowd as two adorable cubs scamper up the tree!  They are so tiny and one of them sits on a branch with one little baby bear leg dangling.  It is the cutest thing I have ever seen.  

I realize that if I am to die today, it would be because I tried to hug a baby bear and was mauled to death by the mother.  Part of me thinks that would be okay because they are that precious.

**

The following day begins with another early start. 

Just a few miles past the west entrance gate is a small, paved parking area that is easily overlooked.  Most people zoom past as their enthusiasm pushes them towards the tourist-friendly attractions, like Old Faithful and Mammoth Hot Springs, but it is a stop worth taking. 

The air is clean and crisp at 52-degrees.  

I walk to the edge of the Madison River and a  raven caws loudly in response to my appearance.   The gurgling river and chirping birds drown out the buzzing of tires on the road behind me.  An occasional small chunk of ice floats by on the current as the spring thaw catches up to the upper elevations.  The water is frigid as I dip my fingers in it.  

The entire scene is ethereal as clouds filter the morning light.  I try to capture the magic with my camera, but it’s not the same as seen through my eyes.  More importantly, I can’t adequately portray the emotions welling up inside of me.  I put my camera away and sit in silence. 

I was last here in 2011 and from this exact spot I saw a bald eagle perched high in the trees across the river.  

I scan the treetops, and in the distance, I see a far-off speck.  It is a bald eagle, and she is majestically backlight by the rising sun.  It’s probably not the same one from twenty years ago, or maybe it is, but either way it makes me smile. 

It’s going to be another good day.

Yesterday, while watching the mama bear and her cubs, I overheard another photographer telling someone in the crowd where to see wolves.  From the size of his camera lens and his knowledge about the park, I knew he was a professional and inched closer to eavesdrop on his conversation.  He said Slough Creek on the way to Lamar Valley was a good place and that is where I planned to go today. However, after seeing the morning light, I change my mind.  

Instead of wolves, I concentrate instead on landscapes and, since it is still early enough to avoid the crowds, visit the more popular areas. 

Causal strolls through Lower Geyser Basin and Black Sand Basin to photograph geysers and hot springs make for a relaxing morning.  

At Old Faithful, I am about 40 minutes too early to see her erupt.  I sit for maybe five minutes, but impatience gets the best of me, and I continue on. 

Yellowstone Lake is 7,733 feet above sea level and the largest high-elevation lake in North America.  It is roughly 20 miles long and 14 miles wide with 141 miles of shoreline.   

I find a quiet picnic area along Gull Point Drive with views of the lake.  I sit under a canopy of pine trees and and heat up a can of beef stew for lunch.  Boats cruise the lake, birds chirp from above and a group of six talk loudly at a nearby table. 

At first, I am irritated because they are disturbing my peace, but as I watch them, I can’t help but smile.  They are of retirement age and all have gray hair and wrinkles.  They crowd around a table, sharing sandwiches while they chatter and laugh.  I smile at their good time and when they leave, they drive away in jacked-up Jeep Wranglers. 

My smile remains as I spend the next four days racking up the miles driving from one corner of Yellowstone to the other.  From seeing wolves in Lamar Valley (albeit about three miles away) to at least a dozen black bear sightings (eight in one day!) to hunting badger with no luck, and simply being in nature has done wonders to reinvigorate my spirit.

My time at Yellowstone National Park has come to an end, but my journey has not....

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A black bear looks back at the traffic near the Roosevelt Lodge

The meaning behind an original drawing by Me

When I sat down to start this drawing, I was unprepared for the level of emotion that emerged.  Of course I can't create without some degree of feeling, but the intensity was surprising and overwhelming.  I don't usually share much about the meaning of my art.  I like to let the viewers experience their own emotions without influence.  I want them to imagine with innocence rather than to try and see my intention.  However, I think this piece needs the story behind it to be told, not only to show how I create, but also the degree of my vulnerability while creating.  Besides, I am really proud of  it and kind of just want to show it off.   And hopefully after reading the short story,  you will see where my emotions are reflected in the drawing and perhaps relate to them in your own life as well.  Enjoy.

Sometimes you find yourself on a path in life with no clear direction.  You follow, not sure of where you are, but you keep going because you know no better. 

Sometimes the walk turns into a climb.  It is hard and you struggle.  You want to quit and return to the easy path, even though you know it was not right.  From somewhere a whisper urges you forward.  You do not recognize the voice, but you are compelled to go on.

One, two, a dozen hurdles overcome.  

With each step you become stronger physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  The whisper becomes louder.  It is encouraging, supportive, reassuring.  It sings in your ears. A beautiful and melodic expression of love.  Your confidence grows.  Your steps quicken.  You recognize the voice now.  It is your own.

You strive to climb higher and higher and then suddenly, you find yourself on another path, in another place.  This path ventures further outside of your comfort zone.  Further than you have ever been.  Further than you have ever imagined.  You do not know where it leads or what lies ahead, but as terrifying as that is, you continue to walk because you like the direction in which you are headed.  

You do not know when it happened, it just was, but no longer are you following a path, you are now creating one.  This new path is of your own doing.  You are forging it for yourself and no one else.  The only footsteps you see and hear are your own.

You do not know when it happened, it just was, but you have found that you like walking.  Sometimes you even run because it feels like flying and that makes you feel free.  And after what seemed like an eternity, you are no longer afraid to be yourself.

And with that discovery, you are finally happy with the woman you are.

The process of my drawing