"Out here in the west were still free..."

The above header image is the art work of Jack Unruh and is currently in Mother Jones magazine.


The road leading into Yellow Stone National Parking Lot from Cody, Wyoming is amazing. Steep mountain walls along both sides lines with running water, green trees and brown bears. I saw it with my own eyes and smelled it with my own nose and was in it in the middle of nowhere in the least populated state in the Union of them. Little did I know what lurked just behind the east gate of the martnini-shaped super volcano, waiting there to remind me of exactly where I was and what I was in. Wonderous nature? Serene scenery and Earthly vibrations? Mystery of life and rain? Try "red tape".

We waited in a long line of cars at the toll entrance booth and when it was our turn to cram thru the turnstile I took it upon myself to explain, "Hey, I'm on bike, this is how im traveling, I'm not responsible for road damage in the park or pollution or any of the other "reasons" that the federal's are insisting that I pay a fee and an extra tax to view nature in the country in which I'm a citizen. I don't think I should have to pay." No dice, something like 20 bucks a head for both of us on bicycles since they were two seperate vehicles. I was also reminded that that fee did not include the camping charge, and that there was no camping in the park other than in designated camp areas, aka, gigantic pields of suburban style street layout with no McToonHomes but empty lots instead anticipating the weekly/daily/hourly arrival of gigantic RV's which are a very popular way to "see the west" for many in this nation.

Money paid, argument lost, temper kept in check, lets move on. What's this, a line of dead still rush-hour traffic? Wasn't I just in the middle of nowhere? Huh? We'll have to load our bikes in a work truck and be transported for seven miles across gravel construction? Seven miles, five years, five million dollars. Thats what it takes to pave a road in Yellowstone. A woman with a radio is ordering us to get off the biks and put them in the truck. We do and I go to get in the back, it's a s-10 and she has a broken arm, K is with me and I figure Ill just take it easy in the bed and glance around at the view. Illegal. I, a grown man, can't decide to ride in the bed of a pick-up if I choose too. Instead I'm to squeeze into the cab and ride the seven bumpy miles engaged in a bitter argument with the woman driving and working for said quagmire construction project about whether bicycles should be allowed in the park at all. Another fellow is the one who informed me of the illegal nature of my desire to ride in the bed and when I retorted with, "You can buy beer from a drive-thru on a four wheeler but you cant ride in the bed of a truck in this state?" he said, "Out here in the west were still free." He looked at me like he was free and I was not. He seemed to imply that I was just visiting freedom and one day would hang its north face labeled threads from the hook on my guest room closet door and simply remember through the photos of a disposable camera freedom and when I had seen it.

"Youre free from everything except the tourist dollar," is what I said back to that. And then I got in the truck, got transported and dropped off seven miles in the park. Wonder and amazement coupled with the most traffic I'd seen since Rapid City. Multiple honks and verbal commands to get out of the road. Being passed by macho male white life is good vacationers in RVs called "The Rambler" and "Wild Explorer" and other such names of non realistic views. Passed on roads with no shoulders. Passed closer than a city bus.

Oh, where the buffalo roam.