Heart Lake Solitude

NOTE: This account was written when I worked at Yellowstone for the summer of 2007. It was one of my favorite times spent in the park. This is an older essay, and long, but it's a good representation of the experience.

Heart Lake is about 17 miles away from the station—as the crane flies—and is a fairly remote location in the South Yellowstone Backcountry. The official trailhead is roughly 20 miles to the north near Lewis Lake. I have three days away from the infernal confines of the booth and the plan is to hitch-hike to the trailhead and then, after a couple days at the Lake, hike along the Snake River back to the complex. I suit up with my hiking gear and place the bear spray in a nice accessible spot. Dismantling a map box, I make a cardboard sign:

Ranger needs Ride

To the

Heart Lake Trailhead

I figure this is a pretty good sign although the one my friend and neighbor Chris made last week was pretty good as well. Basically the same sign, but with the added phrase: “I don’t smell!”. Despite efforts of my coworkers to solicit me a ride, I wait for a long while as tourists in their shiny rental cars or gear-stuffed station wagons pass me tactfully not meeting my eyes. A rental SUV stops 100 feet past me, I run up to it and ask “did you stop for me?”. “No.” the husband responds quickly. “I’m a ranger, I actually work in that booth over there” I say, gesturing back to the small log prisons behind us. The wife looks at me and asks “Where’s Heart Lake?” I tell them where, and point out that it’s on their way to where they’re going. The wife looks at the husband and back at me; I give them my most adorable starving college student look. 5 minutes later, after wrestling my backpack and flyrod into the back of the SUV, I am wedged between two young boys in the backseat and giving a full tour of the Lewis River Canyon.
The family drops me at the trailhead and thanks me profusely for riding with them. I remind them that I needed the ride and thanked them again, the boys were reluctant to let me go, but I think that I might have just recruited two new rangers to the cause… The weather is menacing but not storming yet as I begin my walk. I meet very few people along the way and the trail winds through lodgepole forest and burn with the occasional meadow starred with white, late summer flowers. It is intensely still in the woods although the tree tops whisper an occasional warning from the sinister clouds. Soon, the trail tops a rise and I can see Heart Lake. Mount Sheridan looms above it, behind the fire ravaged Factory Hill. The white splotches of Geyserite scattered along Witch Creek mark the Heart Lake Geyser Basin; through the trees an occasional plume of steam or gleaming blue pool can be seen. The mountains of the remote Southeastern backcountry can be seen beyond the lake, sometimes obscured by the rain that is tracing ghostly lines across the water. The rain does not reach me and I descend, the occasional smell of rain or whiff or sulphur from the geyser basin coming up from below on the wind. The trail winds along and I cross Witch Creek in the middle of the basin. I round a bend and am suddenly confronted with my home for the weekend. Heart Lake patrol cabin.

~

It is a small two room log cabin with stout wooden shutters and a firmly locked door—which clicks open easily when I use my government keys in padlock. Ah, to be a ranger. I set my bag inside and hail Liz, the heart lake ranger, on the radio. She is out on rounds and is still a couple hours away. She tells me to go ahead and open the place up. I walk inside and unscrew the bolts from the shutters and go back outside to open them up. I go back in to have a look around. The front room is a living/bedroom with two bunk-beds on either side of the front door and a woodstove and writing desk against the back wall. Above the desk hang pencil sketches of park wildlife: grizz, wolf, and coyote. On the shelf above sit nearly 50 years of green, government logbooks filled the thoughts and duties of the rangers who have stayed here during that time. The woodstove has a one match fire already built inside the firebox. Standard procedure to leave any cabin with a fire easily lit by any hypothermia victim who happens to have a government key on them… A door beside the desk leads into the kitchen. On the door there is an old photocopied sign from the Canadian Northwest Territories that shows a sketch of a large grizzly with a human hand hanging from its mouth. The caption reads: “THE HAND THAT FEEDS COULD GET EATEN”. That’s more like it! Maybe if we were allowed to have signs like that, people would get the message not to feed the bears! But, of course, the moment we post anything like that, some sue-happy flatlander will drag us into court saying it scared her daughter and “ruined” their vacation. America… Anyway, the kitchen, yes the kitchen.
The kitchen has two stoves, one old wood cookstove and a small gas range that is run on propane, as are the series of wall lamps located in both rooms. A kitchen table with a checked table cloth is set up against the back wall and there is a sink (no running water of course). Two large cabinets make up the pantry and a small cellar is located underneath the floorboards and exists to holds Liz’ stash of Pabst Blue Ribbon. A backdoor exits the kitchen and I go out to look around. The outside of the door has an antler handle and two muddy bearprints about halfway up. Looks like someone was curious as to what Liz was cooking. A barn/woodshed is up the hill behind the cabin along with the outhouse (also with an antler door handle. Classy.). I walk the hundred feet to the lake shore and sit for a moment in the volcanic sand. Mount Sheridan is reflected in the mirror smooth water and you can see the tiny box of the fire lookout tower on the summit 3000 feet above. I walk back to the cabin and give water to an under-prepared YCC group that was supposed to be met by the lead backcountry ranger, Michael, later that night. After they left, I sat on the cabin’s porch and wrote a little in my journal, looking through the trees at the sparkling lake. I go to grab my flyrod and wade out into the still water. The perfect stillness is broken only by the swish of the line as it arcs over the water. I make my way down the bank toward the mouth of Witch Creek where it empties out of the basin; a couple bites, but no fish. I see a gray and green figure emerge from the trees on the opposite shore and I come back on the bank to meet Liz as she walks up.
I don’t know if it was the size of the backpack or the Pulaski and Crosscut saw sticking out the top over her head, either way I am impressed. She smiles at me and tells me about her day of trailwork and tourist herding. We go back to the cabin briefly to get the water jugs and take a government canoe across to a point where a crystalline stream enters the lake. A visitor is camped here and is attempting to fish, he looks bewildered as we pull up out of the lake, which is glowing with the golden sunset. Liz chats with him and his family while I fill the jugs. We canoe back, the lake slipping silently past, and arrive back at the cabin. Liz and I lift the heavy jugs to fill the gravity-feed filter so we’ll have water for the next day. We settle in to make dinner.
Later that night we sit at the table bathed in the yellow light of the gas lamp. A generic green logbook that is often seen in government work sits between us. We notice the different style of the previous Heart Lake Ranger—Liz’ predecessor—who seems substantially more passionate about his surroundings. This is not to say Liz does not love Heart Lake, she does so most intensely, but that she chooses not to write about it every day. Tonight however, we compose a log entry together that is short and to the point as is Liz’ preference, but with a concession to the sensitive with the ending: “the loons are calling to me…”. This became our catchphrase for the rest of the season, and when I left to go back to school and the real world, she left a note in one of my books: “Good luck Charlie. May the loons forever call your name.” I still smile when I read it.
We bed down soon after laughing ourselves silly about the logbook, Liz on the bunkbed across the room from me, our clothing and gear either drying from the rafters or piled on the unoccupied top bunks. We turn off the gas lamps and the cabin is plunged into a primeval darkness.

~

I awake in the dead of night, the newly risen moon shining through the windows of the cabin. Liz’ steady breathing from her side of the room tells me that I am the only one awake. What woke me? There is no sound for a few seconds, and then it comes again: a single trembling note, the howl of a lone wolf. It is a deep music, the music of the spheres if there ever was such a thing. It resonates with a deeper part of my soul, sending chills down my spine harking back to a time when man stood alone with his back to a fire, spear in hand, listening to the quavering song and seeing the glint of green eyes just outside the firelight. At the same time, I feel a sense of wonder and sadness, for the wolf’s call alone in the wilderness night sounds like a cry of mourning, a call for companionship. I long to understand, yet at the same time relish the ancient mystery of this wolfsong, this original call of the wild, may it always echo through the high, cold mountains and the dark, mist-shrouded forests to remind us of a past now forgotten, and to give us hope for the future of wilds.

~

Liz and I rise with the sun and eat a breakfast of oatmeal together in the kitchen. I step outside while Liz gets ready for the day and calls in on her Radio. I gaze out at the mirrored surface of the Lake and up at the rust colored massif of Mt. Sheridan, which I plan to climb later in the day. When I return, Liz informs me that Michael will not be able to make it to the cabin tonight and that I am on my own. I have been given an unprecedented honor, to be new ranger and be trusted with a backcountry cabin is nearly unheard of: tonight I will be the only representative of the USNPS for many miles, any emergency is mine to deal with. I thank Liz for her hospitality and promise split some wood for her while I am there. We gather our gear and part ways, me hiking up the mountain and her over the ridge toward the Snake River and the south gate for her days off.
It is hot on the mountain, much of the forest being fire scarred with the trees resembling giant silver toothpicks standing in orderly rows among patches of wortleberry and late summer flowers. The trail is long and tortuous with many switchbacks. The fire lookout does not seem to be growing much closer until I gain the ridge, then I am upon it in a matter of minutes. The lookout tower is an old structure built by the CCC during the depression out of quarried stone (packed in by mule), wood, and glass. The lookout, Bill, seems at first to be rather taciturn, showing little interest in my presence or that of the small band of tourists that have arrived before me after camping on the lake the night before, instead scanning the horizon and sniffing the air for storms, rain, lightning, the enemy. The view from Bill’s eyrie is incredible, the cabin that I am staying in looks like a speck on the edge of the meadows of the geyser basin and heart lake itself, lines traced by the wind dancing across its surface. To the north, Yellowstone Lake is visible, as is much of the terrain short of Mammoth, to the west Shoshone Lake and the verdant forests of the Bechler River—the river of reliable rainbows. In the southeast is the incredibly wild backcountry of the Two Oceans plateau and Thorofare. It has been said that the plateau is the finest Grizz habitat short of Alaska, and that there are bears there that have never seen a human being. I go to find Bill’s restroom, a pit toilet perched on the edge of a nearby spur, the inside of the door reads: for full effect, latch door open. I refrain from doing so, but I like the idea...
As I return to the lookout, the tourists begin to filter back to their campsites at the bottom of the mountain and, many of them, to hike out, back to the real world. I stay. Bill approaches me, a look of friendly openness on his face now that the tourists have gone. “Would you like some lunch? I just made some stew if you’re hungry.” I quickly agree, and join him inside his glass house, with the myriad bird guides, fire-finder and small woodstove. We talk about the NPS over chicken and barley stew, with a small loaf of bread split between us, surrounded by sky in all directions. We continue to talk, about family, about Ed Abbey (another lookout, who Bill says could not have been serious about his job if he spent all of his time watching birds or young women), about the wilderness and fires. Clouds are building in the north now, rain curtains sweeping the ground near Old Faithful. Bill resumes his duty as lookout, watching for his electrical nemesis, and I thank him for the excellent meal and company before beginning my hike down racing the approaching rain.
The rain passes without incident and I make it back to the cabin within an hour or so. Toward the bottom of the mountain I leave trail and walk out onto the white sinter of the geyser basin. Backcountry thermals areas have a wild and untamed feeling about them. There are no boardwalks to keep you safe, no five-language sign every six feet to warn you of danger. No, only your wits and knowledge of thermal, personal responsibility for one’s person… I came to have a look at ‘rustic’ geyser whose steam-plume I could see reflected in the lake this morning.
It is dormant for the moment, simply a gently bubbling pool of steaming water surrounded by several more colorful hot springs, all varying shades of cerulean and ultramarine. The reek of sulfur mixed with the tang of spruce and the fresh lake breeze to create the unique scent that is only present around the wildest thermal areas. It is quiet here, the stillness broken only by the occasional roiling of the pools. Looking out over the lake, I can see rain curtains continuing to brush its surface, tentatively, as if tasting it.

~

A short time later I arrive back at the cabin and reopen the shutters to let the place air out. It is dead quiet. The sun was back out and not a breath of air stirred the meadow. Liz is long gone by this time and I am completely alone.
I spend the afternoon occupying myself with simple tasks, splitting wood, as promised, reading old log entries, and simply sitting and thinking. I read some Ed Abbey, walk to the lake and sit on the black sand of the shore, listening to the wind stir the water and watching steam rise from Rustic Geyser. Bill’s lookout glistens like a diamond on Sheridan’s summit. Darkness falls before I know it, and I call to
check in on the radio:

“700, 700, four-sierra-four-seven” (4S47-my call sign)
“4S47, 700, go ahead.”
“4S47, checking in from Heart Lake Patrol Cabin”
“Copy, 1902”

Stroganoff for dinner, found it dehydrated in the food cabinet. It’s tasty enough, and I boil water for tea as well. You can feel the wild pressing in on all sides of the tiny cabin and I sit at the kitchen table in the glow of the gas lamp but this time without Liz. I write a short entry in the logbook, making sure to comment on the loons, and retire for the night. I lie still in the silence before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

~

I rise early, and eat a brief breakfast of oatmeal, and go through the checklist that Liz left, locking down the cabin. I shoulder my pack and look south across the lake. I have 17 miles to hike today, best get started.
After a last fond look at the cabin, I start around the lake. I find wolf tracks in the mud of the trail, they are huge, the size of my open palm. At the southern edge of the lake, I run across a group of campers on the lake’s edge. They are not supposed to be there, but they are practicing leave no trace and I decide not to report them. They are leaving today anyway. I round a bend on the trail and the forest swallows me whole. It is a thick forest of lodgepole pine and visibility is poor.
I pad along on the crushed needles, shouting “hey bear” or clapping my hands. I hate to disturb the silence, but it’s better than running head-on into a surprised grizzly. The forest opens around a lily-pad choked lake, and I look back to see the hulking massif of Mount Sheridan sharply etched into a backdrop of brooding storm clouds.
Sheridan disappears as I am swallowed by the forest again, the trail is faint, but discernible and soon opens into a small meadow full of nodding wildflowers, the trail vanishes but I can make out a faint blaze cut in to the trees on the opposite side that I make for. To my left, Basin creek stretches away to the east and winds away into the hazy mountains around Thorofare and the Two Oceans Plateau. I continue southwest and walk through a burn area from the ’88 burn, which seems to be growing back nicely. It begins to rain as I reach Basin Creek Lake, the raindrops hitting the water sound uncannily like a rainstick. I continue on, stepping evenly but trying to stay aware. The forest opens up again, this time the meadow is larger, with several rolling ridges and a creek snaking lazily through the willows. Prime grizzly habitat, but I don’t see one.
Wending my way down a narrow, red walled canyon, the forest is silent, no sign of man or beast, not even birdsong. The trail climbs onto an open, burned plateau and, as I come to the edge I find I am overlooking the Snake River. It is wide and swift, but not too deep here and I ford it without difficulty. The forest here is very old towering spruce and fir, with waist-high undergrowth. It is quiet and the fragrant trees sigh in the wind. I pass in and out of meadows along the river until I enter the area of the Snake River Hot Spring, a maze of ultramarine and cerulean pools surrounded by the twisted forms of extinct geyser cones. A large marmot regards me reproachfully from one of the cones near the trail, whistling tentatively.
The forest deepens as I near my destination, most of the day has gone and I am still unsure how far I have yet to go, and there are few landmarks in shadow of the trees. Finally I come out of the forest into a familiar thermal meadow; the Lewis River meets the Snake off to my right and the Ranger Station is barely visible on the far bank. I walk the last half-mile and ford the river one last time, walking up the steep bank, across the road behind the kiosk, and finally up my front steps. Another adventure draws to a close, and I fall exhausted into my bed, soon slipping into a dreamless sleep.

-Charlie Kolb, Snake River Ranger Station, Yellowstone National Park

The Presidential Suite

NOTE: This essay was written in my first month as a seasonal Ranger at the South Gate of Yellowstone. Enjoy.

24th of May, 2007

Long day of work today, 0700-1700, working in the booth and stuffing newspapers in anticipation of the upcoming swarm of tourists on Memorial Day weekend (starting tomorrow!). Snow in morning, rain in afternoon. A constant light mist, a female rain according to the Navajos. Not many of them up here, unless they’re on vacation. Nope mainly just the Shoshone, the sheepeaters, from the reservation near Dubois (doo-boys, if you’re local) coming up with kids and grandparents in tow. They flash their tribal ID cards which automatically waive the now $25 entry fee and sends us straight from “hello” to “have a nice day, watch out for those bears!”. Of course they know that, but apparently the photographer that got mauled up Trout creek yesterday wasn’t listening. He survived but I’m sure the bear won’t for much longer as they still haven’t found it yet…
After my shift ended I clean the kitchen and cook a large pan of Dirty Rice (Zatarain’s: Ranger’s best friend) and then venture back out into the rain to send a brief email home. On the way back I stop at the “Presidential Suite” and, stowing my bike around the side, I slip inside. A little history: The Presidential Suite is old park housing that is now considered a historic structure and so cannot be torn down or even renovated to make it liveable again. John (my boss) has written off the place and just keeps it sealed up, using it now and then to store some pieces of miscellaneous equipment.
It is an interesting building, about 50’ by 30’ with exposed rafters and the occasional water stain where the copious winter snows have found a way in. The floor is old hardwood, any semblance of stain long since gone, with scraps of spotty beige carpeting laid out around and under the hodgepodge of furniture. There is no paint on the walls, or even drywall for that matter, and there are various bits of miscellania pinned into the spaces between the exposed studs. The former occupants were students about my age, I’m not sure how many years ago. They leave traces of their presence everywhere; guitar tablature in one of the dusty cabinets, notes to eachother about various aspects of the job long past now. There is a sheaf of green papers in the metal cabinet by the kitchen with a whole bunch of recipes, most of them variations on a theme of Buffalo. I guess after a summer here you do start to hate the huge, dumb bastards. Although I do have to admit though that my heart still skips a beat when one walks through my yard unexpectedly. I go into the small kitchen which fills one corner of the building. Some utensils sit in jars, a mix, no rhyme or reason to what’s there. I count three spatulas. An aborigine stares down serenely from a postcard between two studs above the scarred kitchen table. Other postcards cover the walls, mostly of cities in other countries that I may never see. Old trail signs from deep in the Yellowstone backcountry sit on the rafters interspersed with the occasional Elk antler (illegal to collect those now) or ancient beer can. From one screw hangs a steel cookpot with the bottom burned out.
I like it here, the place has character. It reminds me of a little trading post or other equally interesting structure from another era. There are walls dividing the remaining space into 3 bedrooms and a small bathroom which sports a faded sign on the door that reads “private function”. The filtered grey light of the storm is fading fast and rain continues to drum softly on the roof filling the room with a sort of quiet music. I go in search of the breaker box to see if I can turn on the lights in here. I find it, after a brief hunt, in a bedroom stacked with boxed picnic tables. I open it up and play with some of the switches inside until the lights work. Now the whole place is lit up with the warm glow of the bare bulbs of the simple fixtures. I wouldn’t mind living in here, sure I’d have to share it with some of the woodland animals; no big deal really, since I already share my bunkhouse with a squirrel as well as my roommate. Not sure who is more of a rodent… Ed Abbey shared his NPS airstream with a bull snake for a month in Arches, so why shouldn’t I room with a squirrel or two?
There are some large solar panels which I move laboriously across the room into one of the empty bedrooms so I can work on the living room. I rearrange the some furniture, and take the small coffee table off of the dusty couch. Behind it, between the studs in a shadow is a photocopied drawing of four people; there is no label or hint to their identities but I know them at once. It is Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang, with Hayduke glowering through his beard, Doc Sarvis chomping down on his customary cigar, and Seldom-Seen and Bonnie looking vaguely abashed on either side of Doc. Whoever lived here, I think they were my kind of people… I switch off the power and get back on my bike.
The rain has lightened a bit as I ride back to the bunkhouse. This afternoon has been an interesting glimpse of something that I can't quite put my finger on, yet it feels as though I have accomplished or learned something. Maybe it was simply the experience of being in a place so heavy with stories...

-Charlie Kolb, Snake River Ranger Station, Yellowstone

Riverwalk

NOTE: As you can see from the date below, this essay is about 3 years old, and comes from a body of work that I typed up while I was working my summer season at Yellowstone National Park.

22nd of June, 2007

Flowing past my home at the South Gate of Yellowstone is the Snake River. It is a constant presence at the station, and most of us here have used it to calm our nerves a time or two when the booth was threatening to drive us to distraction. I was working a late shift tonight and decided to take a river walk before it got dark.
Being the day after the summer solstice, darkness does fall fully until about ten o’clock at night so I had two hours between when I got off at eight and full darkness—it always seems twice as dark in grizzly country. I change out of my uniform and throw on some shorts, a t-shirt, and my Chaco sandals and walk down to the riverbank. I cross several small channels and am soon confronted with the main river. It is swift and wide but I am able to cross it with little difficulty at a shallow portion. I am now in the area closed for Bear Management until next month and where off-trail travel is illegal. Remembering that I had just seen the Backcountry ranger hanging his clothes out on the line as I left, I leave the trail, confident that I would not be seen.
I wade through the lush forest undergrowth and emerge into a large meadow that extends up to the edge of Huckleberry Mountain to the southeast. Cranes and geese call from an unseen marsh. I continue to walk north along the river soon coming jumping and swearing occasionally as I tread on an overlooked thistle. I see a point of bone sticking out above the grass and I reach down to grasp it, coming away with a massive elk antler. I weigh it silently in my hands, contemplative, wondering where it’s previous owner was. I return it to its grassy bed; by summer’s end it will be gone, giving calcium and sustenance to the many small critters that love to gnaw on antlers. Osteoporosis suffers might be better served to simply gnaw on the occasional antler rather than swallow pill after pill… I continue my riverwalk and come to a small thermal stream, I test the water, it’s not steaming down here by the river and is pleasantly warm like a freshly drawn bath. I wade into the river and enjoy the odd sensation of hot thermal water clashing with the cold snowmelt of the Snake.
I follow the stream toward its source, wading through a small field of thermophilic yellow flowers. I stop short of the stream’s source, however, as I am getting dangerously close to the Wolf den. Not that wolves are a danger, in fact it’s not unheard of for humans to enter a wolf den—with wolves in it and come away unscathed. No, I am primarily worried about disturbing the pups, who are too young to move which is the alpha female’s usual course of action when humans intrude too much. I haven’t seen them yet, but maybe next week I will. The only wolves I have seen in my month and a half here were across the Hellroaring valley through a very powerful spotting scope. I haven’t heard a wolf yet either, although some of my friends here have. I hope to hear one soon.
The sun is beginning to set behind the pitchstone plateau, and I start looking for a place to cross. I start across a patch of riffles but it is too deep and swift for me to cross. I start walking back toward the ford I had used earlier which was now out of sight. The bugs are terrible. Mosquitoes attack any exposed flesh and night begins to fall. I realize that I need to cross soon, since I am on the wrong side of the river, in shorts and sandals, with no Bear Spray (courage in a can!). I walk by a calm, deep stretch where the water slips silently past.
It is in this silence that I heard it. A faint but unmistakable wail, soon joined by others. Wolves. I am listening the ancient primeval music of the wild, a sound that sends chills up the spine of even the most seasoned outdoorsman. I smile and stand still, listening, drinking it in, the bugs forgotten for the moment. The wolves stop their serenade and I look back at the darkening river. I decide to cross at the deep spot and peel off my clothes holding them in a bundle over my head as I cross. The water is cold but not compared to the icy rivers back home.
The water is up to my chest but I sink down further as the bugs begin their assault on my bare back. I crawl out on the opposite shore and pull my clothes back on and begin to walk back to the complex. I look at my watch, only 45 minutes have passed since my first crossing…

-Charlie Kolb, Snake River Ranger Station, Yellowstone