Bison Rule!

August 25th

Leaving Custer's last stand, we take the Beartooth Highway from Red Lodge to Cooke City, the Northeast entrance to Yellowstone. The highway is stunning and, it turns out, was closed last summer due to mudslides, the first in 68 years.

Despite the hype, the highway does not disappoint, and after stopping at the Box Car Drive-in for a hamburger just like the hamburgers mother would have made if mother cooked (sorry, Mom, just kidding) we began the climb to 10,000 feet, surrounded by peaks and valleys and alpine meadows and glacial lakes. The road's only open June through October, and the reflectors along the side of the road are extended with slender tree trunks so that the snowmobiles can stay on the road during the winter.

In Cooke City, we stay at the Alpine Inn, a modest roadside hotel with North Woods-themed bedspreads and two chairs outside the door of the room, facing Main Street. Yellowstone is three miles away, and we spend three hours on slow roads. There are fisherpeople on the Lamar River, and herds of Bison wandering on the roads looking for food.

Dinner at the Beartooth Cafe is overpriced but good, and I am happy to report that my mashed potatoes, served with trout, were NOT covered with glossy brown -- well, glossy brown whatever it is ---

The modest look of the town belies its role as a tourist trap. Gas is $3.80 a gallon, and a bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot, usually $8.99 retail, is $17.00 in the grocery store. I won't tell you what we spend on a bottle of Zabaca Zin at the Bearclaw. It's obscene.

In the morning, we take the North route through Yellowstone, and at 8 AM, as the park opens, the Bison are feeding openly on the road. A flyer we have been provided with warns us that Bison, although they appear docile, weigh over 2000 pounds, and can run 30 miles an hour and have gored careless visitors to the park. We have come to a dead stop as a bull, clearly the Leader of the Pack, undeniably grumpy, and with a head as large as a Volkswagon Bug, takes his stand on the road while his herd feeds. Ethan gives one feeble yip, thinks better of it, and whines under his breath in the back seat. We nose our way through the herd, and traverse the roads through Missoula and on to Coeur d'Alene, Lake Coeur d' Alene sparkling in the late afternoon sun.