Ice sculptures

A unique treat for a cold morning: ice formations on the window panes.

 

 

 

Smooth Roads and Sunshine

Today, I am thankful for smooth roads and sunshine. Snowmobiling aficionados affectionately call Yellowstone’s groomed roads the Autobahn of the over-snow world—it doesn’t take much skill or machine to maneuver on a twenty-foot wide, packed trail. However, for three days we've had constant snowfall and warm temperatures, and the roads have been chomped to pieces by dozens of coaches and hundreds of ‘biles. I felt like I was swimming the breaststroke yesterday as I drove to Fishing Bridge, for as I gassed my sled through the night’s eight-inch snowfall, I splayed waves of sticky powder up and over my windscreen. I had to stand up on the running boards every few minutes to catch my breath through the snow which poured over my helmet. As I trenched through the new powder, I left a tunnel which was followed by the sleds behind me and the coaches behind them. By the end of the day, the road was sliced in every direction by skids and tracks, and the trip home had me gripping the steering column for dear life while my sled bounced into, over, and through the foot-deep ruts carved into the day's snowfall. On one guided tour, eight out of nine snowmobiles overturned in the afternoon, because after a day of mid-20s temperatures and a few busloads of visitors shuttled into the Snow Lodge, the road is plowed out like a potato field and snowmobilers who are just minutes away from a hot shower and dinner in front of the fireplace too easily give in to the tossing and turning of the machine.

Thus, when I set out this morning on a smooth, packed surface, watching the sun push through the clouds over Yellowstone Lake, I gratefully settled in for a smooth drive to Fishing Bridge. (As a bonus, for the first time this week I wouldn’t have a foot of snow to shovel once I got here, either, which would cheer up anyone on a cloudy day.)

The back-up Bombardier

For those who haven’t driven the Yellowstone Superhighway, perhaps I can explain the operation a bit. Every afternoon, as the temperatures begin to drop, the road crew pulls out huge Bombardier tractors for the night’s grooming. The front of the “Bomb” is just wider than a lane of traffic, scooping all the snow into the jaws of the machine where it is pounded and compacted into a solid surface. If conditions allow, the Bombardier can tow behind it a large weighted attachment which will smooth the packed snow into a flat surface, like the metal edge of a spatula spreading icing over a cake. Crawling down the road at about four miles per hour, the groomers work late into the night to tear down the day's ruts and re-build the road surface.

The key, I’ve been told, is cold temperatures. If the mercury drops deep overnight, then that smooth road firms up and is able to withstand a beating the next day; if the temps stay high, however, the road is smooth but not solid, and the first traffic on it in the morning sinks in, rutting the road all over again. While one year a Hummer drove all the way to Old Faithful on a cold night, during last night’s warm-ish temperatures an Explorer attempted to drive the road and dug in deep just a few yards in. The rangers at the South gate spent much of their morning working on that extraction. (The Hummer story, by the way, is fantastic: a couple international visitors rented the car in Jackson, drove around the Road Closed signs, and headed straight to Old Faithful. They pulled into the Snow Lodge at 2 a.m. and asked the night clerk for a room. Without pausing to consider how they got there, the clerk checked them in, and when they asked where they should park, gave directions to park around the side of the building. When they moved their vehicle into the softer snow around back, at last their vehicle sunk in and after driving 33 miles of snow-covered roads, they were finally stuck. And the fine for driving a vehicle into the park, illegally, while the roads are closed? Nothing. You just have to wait until the snow melts and remove your own vehicle. In the meantime, that’s one huge rental car bill!)

They say that plowing the roads in the wintertime would be more cost efficient than grooming them, and I believe it. When it snows, the groomers go out; when it warms up, the groomers go out; when the wind blows, the groomers make extra runs to knock out the drifts that drown out the previous night's grooming. They attend to these roads diligently, working with or against the weather to open the park for the tourists. These folks are technicians and artists, specially trained to run the machines and skilled enough to tackle the worst conditions, which means that when the road needs attention, night or day, they get called in for the extra work.

The bison love the groomed roads, of course, saving thousands of calories by trodding trails packed by machine instead of their own hooves. I've heard tale of snowstorms so deep that the bison who bed down on the road during the night end up expiring in the storm. Then, along comes the groomer, packing the snow right over the top of them, preserving their bodies in the snow until the spring plowing returns them violently and bloodily to the surface. Try not to think about what's caught below that glassy, smooth surface!

And so, while we snuggle up at night in our cozy beds, the groomers are out on the roads getting the park ready for another day of tourists. It takes a full shift to drive to the South Entrance and back… fifty miles in just under six hours. The operators sit in their cabs, blasting the radio, crawling along and cleaning up the mess we left during the day, only to have us tear it up again while they sleep away the day. And yet their work is what sets the tone for the entire day. When the roads are bad, that’s all I hear about from guides and visitors alike. Everyone has something to say about a bad road—and we don’t spend enough time thinking about the good roads. So, today I am grateful for a GREAT road!

The Winter Migration of the Yellowstone Marsupials

When my supervisor asked me what size of snowmobiling coat I wore, I said I’d take one as large as she had. Though I prance around all winter with a DDD-sized chest, in reality my bust is crammed full like a glove compartment with all the miscellaneous items I might need for a day on a snowmobile. Want to keep that camera close at hand? Stuff it in the front of your coat. Here, Mel, will you take this up to Fishing Bridge? Sure, I’ll just tuck it inside my jacket. Many of you still mock me because I once confessed to cramming produce down my sleeves in order to keep it from freezing while snowmobiling back from the grocery store, but so far that’s the only technique I’ve found for transporting fresh greens in February.

Today I noticed that my pouch-stuffing habit has gotten a little out of hand. By the time I dressed, prepped my snowmobile, stopped by West Thumb, and journeyed to Lake, I’d managed to acquire the following items in the front of my coat:  radio and harness, keys, headlamp, matches, pocket knife, hand warmers, pen, Chapstick, binoculars, camera, video camera, fleece hat, balaclava, spare gloves, water bottle, two letters to be mailed, a notepad, a chocolate bar, an orange, and the morning weather report. And that doesn’t count the items which were actually in a coat pocket or strapped to the snowmobile itself. Now, picture me coming into the warming hut, taking off my helmet, and unzipping my coat, and then watching the contents of an oversized junk drawer pour out all over the floor. What a spectacle!

A former colleague once advised me to keep essential survival items on my person while snowmobiling, so if I were thrown from the sled (or sunk the ‘bile in the bottom of the lake) I’d still have what I needed to stay alive. If I that had happened this morning, I’d have had enough gear to keep going for a week or two. They’d find me perched on the side of the road, sitting by the fire, chomping on a chocolate bar and video-blogging the whole adventure. I may not be very huggable, but I’m Boy-scout prepared!

Christmas in Yellowstone... Better than the PBS Special

Merry Christmas!
Thought I'd share a few photos from my day.

Sunrise over Grant on my morning ski.

Haze over the Red Mountains on the snowmobile ride to Lake.

Christmas Breakfast for the Wolves. I passed this carcass near Arnica Bay on my way to Lake. The bison was taken down by wolves sometime during the night (based on the tracks, after the groomer passed through, so likely early morning.)

Santa's new transport: Snowcoach.

Commuting

I am prepared to argue that I have the greatest commute in the world. Okay, perhaps there is someone out there commuting between tropical islands on a sailboat, basking in sunbeams while dolphins frolic over the hull, but I’m certain I have the continent locked up. Driving a snowmobile along the shores of Yellowstone Lake, watching the sun rise over the Absaroka Mountains, and dodging the occasional herd of bison—aside from slightly nippy temperatures (though it doesn’t feel THAT much colder than a sedan with the A/C on full blast in July), I couldn’t ask for 20 miles of more scenic and lively highway to drive every day on my way to work.

Packing West Thumb Geyser Basin

In order to provide more of a community for the interpretive staff this year, we are all living in the Grant area (at the bottom of the figure-eight), and taking turns driving to Fishing Bridge to staff the warming hut. Today was my “Monday,” the first day of my work week, and as usual it took a few extra minutes to put on all my layers and gather my gear for the ride. After checking over my snowmobile and fueling it up, I pulled out onto smooth roads. The groomer had neatly packed down yesterday’s snowstorm, and I was stopping by West Thumb Geyser Basin to do the same with snowshoes on the boardwalk. The thermal area was fogged in, cooler temperatures trapping the steam from the geysers close to the ground. Though the sun was trying to peek through, the air temperature hovered around freezing, and the basin was steamy and mysterious. The West Thumb of the lake is almost completely frozen, now, and the stillness of the ice only added to the eeriness of the fog. It seems more familiar to snowmobile along the frozen lake, however, and I have been caught by surprise a couple times over the past week to find myself snowmobiling alongside open water. (Even more disturbing, a colleague reminded me that I could still be kayaking on the lake today. Brrrr….)



Otters at Pumice Point

 Ten miles up the road, the sun was finally breaking through the fog and I pulled over at Pumice Point to look over the lake. At this promontory where the Thumb meets the main part of the lake, the sheer layer of ice gave way to open water, though the shores were stacked with blocks of ice pushed up by the waves and the expanding flows. As I was admiring the force evidenced in these ridges, I saw two dark shapes slip out of the water onto the ice. The river otters had discovered the boundary of their habitat, too, and seemed to be out testing both the ice and the sunshine.

Though I was the only snowmobile on the road that morning, it wouldn’t be a true commute without a little traffic jam. Three groups of bison stood today on the road to Fishing Bridge. The first group seemed startled to see the first snowmobile of the day, and quickly moved to the side of the road. Three miles north, I encountered a second group, just three cows and their calves. I pulled close to the animals and waited for them to move to the side of the road, but they hardly seemed to notice I was there—or at least they didn’t care that I was there. It was breakfast time (or perhaps time for a mid-morning snack), and for the next ten minutes I watched these three mamas nurse their calves. My thoughts on this public display:  first, OUCH! Though I can’t speak to it firsthand, I’ve heard that breastfeeding can be somewhat painful. Apparently it’s even worse when it’s three degrees outside. This was not the tender, nurturing experience we claim in our culture. Second, watching these cows stand in the middle of the road giving food to their offspring, when there was absolutely nothing around for them to eat themselves, I was impressed by the sacrifice of their own calories on behalf of the next generation.

Ever the impatient commuter, at one point I boldly tried to slip between the trio, only to come far too close to an awkward dance between a cow bison and a calf clinging to her teats with its mouth. I pulled back, hoping the loud beep of the reverse signal wouldn’t further aggravate the animals, and waited. Eventually, snack time ended and the group started walking, allowing me to zip by on one side of the road. The third group of bison were walking head-to-heel, just like they describe in the textbooks, and I was halfway around the group before I realized we were side by side on the bridge over Bridge Bay. I punched the gas and prayed the bison wouldn’t have the same compulsion my brothers do to throw random objects into any body of water, just to watch it splash and sink.



Pumice Point at Sunset



On the return trip, I now faced the bison head on, and this time the lead animal was the meanest looking bull I have ever seen. Not particularly large in size, this creature had the same look in his eye as those bulls they cinch up at the rodeo. His horns were literally askew, the left one curving gracefully upward, while the right horn pointed directly out from the skull, then bent ninety degrees at the very tip, pointing exactly at the eye-level of a 5’7” human straddling a snowmobile. Perhaps because of the skull injury, the animal’s fur grew forward on the right side, dropping into his eyes and giving him a one-eyed, crooked-horned look which was probably as neutral as any bison stare, but registered in my mind as “I want to beat my head against something… right now!” I drove a little faster, just in case.



Avalanche Peak



Now, I am a tremendous fan of the Winter Solstice, mostly because it marks the moment when the days will finally start lengthening again. One great thing about commuting on the shortest day of the year, though, is that the sun begins to set just about the time I head south. The mountains were glowing pink, doubly so because of their reflection in the lake. I watched a coyote testing the new ice floes, taking a shortcut across the neck of the lake. To round off my second “Three Dog Day” of the season, a fox scampered down the road for twenty feet before bounding easily over a four-foot snow bank. I pulled up to the garage just before night set in, and was home strapping on my skis as the nearly-full moon was rising, calling me out for an evening ski.