Up early with the neighbor's hot water faucet screaming and screeching. A slow walk to the lobby of Yellowstone Lodge for coffee and giant window view of Old Faithful. The Lodge, not to be confused with The Inn, is more modest in trappings and closer. Almost killed poor Sarah walking her to dinner. Any exertion at this elevation puts her into pursed lipped breathing at a rate of about 30. We now plan our day literally by steps. How may steps must Sarah take! Sarah bought fixin's for lunch at the Yellowstone Store. (paying way to much for way limited selections) while I gassed up. Breakfast at Old Faithful Snow Lodge. This is the lodge they use in the winter for the skiers and snowmobilers. A comfy place but they are building a huge new something between it and the geyser spoiling the view unless the new something is going to be a big fancy new snow lodge.
Our goal for the day was to get to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone so we went there without sightseeing stops along the way.
The Yellowstone River, by the way apparently very popular with the fly fishermen, snakes thru green meadows and rolling hills till it cascades in a series of spectacular water falls carving the Canyon deep into the soft sandstone. With its abundant turn outs and parking areas it is not surprising that the Park Service has made accommodations for viewing this wonder as well.
Across the river a narrow wooden stairway cascades down the cliff face to provide a viewpoint from the north. On our side of the gorge a trail of switchbacks dropping 600 ft in 3/8 mile leads those sturdy enough or foolish enough (my category) to a platform extending out on the very brink of the lower fall. Clear smooth water suddenly changes to thundering white mist as it plummets hundreds of feet into the chasm below, disappearing into the distance between near vertical walls of crumbling rock.
Doubling back as we head for the south entrance and our route to Jackson and Driggs we stop at a few more geysers, mud pots and fumaroles. In our attempt to find Lake Yellowstone Hotel, a wrong turn stops us dead in the middle of a "critterjam".
Cars and RVs are backed up in both directions as a small herd of bison slowly amble across the road for greener pastures. These huge beasts do not seem to be at all concerned about vehicular traffic and indeed several would simply get to the middle of the road and stop as if to say, "This is my road and I'm bigger than you".
A ranger strolls down from the nearest cluster of buildings to keep the peace should it be necessary and even an ambulance pulls into the parking area to "stand by". We slowly move on passing a huge bull standing immobile in the other lane, his enormous head inches from my window.
Entering the bright yellow Yellowstone Lake Hotel we are transported back to the lost elegance of the past when cultured (and obviously monied) patrons would arrive by steamer from West Thumb across the largest lake above 7000 ft in the US. Stately white columns support a driveway and veranda. Two yellow vintage tour busses await passengers in the shade as the lake shimmers with the afternoon sun. Beyond the lobby and bell captain's desk, and through the bright sun light parlor where guests lounge on floral print and wicker chairs and couches we enter the formal appointed dining room. We are slowly led to our window table by an ancient and stooped woman in white shirt, black pants and cumberbun. We are nearing the end of lunch service and there are only a few tables occupied as patrons leisurely finish their meals. Sarah chooses Lobster Ravioli and a salad from the small plate side of the menu as I go for the bison burger. I change to pork belly when informed that it will take a while to thaw the bison. We share the enormous salad with crumbled blue cheese as we fantasize about a time when people came to this place as a destination. Not "passing through" on a whirlwind travel jag...a time for leisure and comfort. Our lunch is served by a uniformed young lady, Abigail, working at the park as she pursues a Hospitality Degree and has plans to soon climb the Middle Teton. Sarah's Lobster ravioli is perfectly al dente and bathed in a slightly pink cream sauce, garnished with a single huge red mottled perfect lobster claw. The delicate sweet buttery taste and smooth texture forces eyes closed as mind pauses to explore the subtle sensations. By contrast, my serving of pork belly is a thick square of two textures of lean meat topped by a half inch of fat cooked to an unexpected firmness. Basted with a light brown sugar glaze it is the perfect compliment to the mildly tart bed of sauerkraut upon which it rests. We eat slowly, imagining the past, as, thru the window of rippled glass, the sun drapes it's self across the tables of white linen and sparkling silverware.
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