Yellowstone, Pt. 9: Some Photos

UPDATE: I recently learned that The Chemist got some kind of recycling job, so he is now a recycler in real life. In the story, he will continue being The Chemist. This update had the sole purpose of making everything less clear and more confusing.

Part 8

After waking up, The Chemist goes to start a fire so we can cook breakfast. Some campers come over and complain about the smell of our self-lighting charcoal, which is apparently oppressive. We apologize and use wood instead.

One shoe is visible in this picture. Whom does it belong to? You will never know.

The Chemist and I are still refusing to purchase firewood, so we use more of the stuff we collected. It's passable, but just barely. C- overall.

I decide to take pictures of the elk and bison right in our campground. During this time, The Recycler, The Chemist, and The Sojourner are all sitting around the fire, talking idly.

When I come back, they inform me that a nearby camper approached them and said, "Really nice Bible study you guys are having," then left.

Here is some stuff I left out of the narrative, because I didn't think it would be important: There are no Bibles in our campsite. No one was discussing anything regarding religion. In fact, all four of us are atheists. This other camper apparently thought three people sitting around a campfire early in the morning meant a Bible study was happening. In fact, she was happy at the amount of Jesus he saw in each of us. She saw us a beacon against sin in the wilderness, the same way I see Bright Spot.

Even worse: We had discussed doing a podcast together called "Four Atheists Read The Scripture" (FARTS, a name I came up with), in which we would read the Bible and discuss it secularly. (Mmm, secularly.) I guess this could be a "Bible study" in the loosest sense, although I imagine it's far from what that camper expected.

I suggest to get a Bible app on our phones and actually have a Bible study, and invite the camper to join us. This plan does not work because I have no service, and the other three are unwilling. I sigh. None of them ever want to do anything fun.

The plan for today is to visit Grand Teton National Park, which is something fun. We all jump in the van.

We first visit a lake, where there is a giant log:

The lake is teeming with insects. They are everywhere, swarming, not unCruiseAmericalike.

The Chemist wants to push the log in the water, just like when we threw that stick in the water back in Part 5. This time, we are older and wiser, and do not attempt it.

The lake has a view of some Tetons, their peaks obscured by fog.

The nearest path is called Lakeshore Trail, and we hike on it for a while.

Another of my favorite pictures from this trip.

I could go on about the serenity and beauty of nature, the austerity, the grandeur, the purity; I could use thick, juicy words like this to try and plant some piece of my experience into your mind -- but it reminds me of the difference between reading Henry David Thoreau, and experiencing the scenes he wrote about. The difference is immense. Even if I could find the best words, and even if I could put them in the right order, you will still not feel what I felt hiking around that place. The only way to get the most out of this blog post is to go see the scenes yourself.

After a good half-day of hiking around, The Sojourner and The Chemist become nervous about bears, so we turn around and head back home.



We drive home from the Grand Tetons and debate whether we should visit one more attraction. In the end, The Sojourner stays back at camp while the three of us move on to Dragon's Mouth Spring and the surrounding mud pools, fumaroles, and hot springs. They are the same as always: Churning, boiling, frothing and steaming over. It is surprising how such an extraordinary geothermal phenomenon has become mundane. I meditate again, this time to the sound of bubbles.

Before we head back to camp, we decide to spend some time sitting and talking by the vast Yellowstone lake. The surrounding forest frames the wide expanse of the lake and far-off mountains. It is before sunset when we sit down, and we talk until the moon is shining in full force. For me, this moment is when the trip feels less like a checklist, and more like authenticity. We talk about things and make some dumb videos. There is no haste to move on to the next sight to see. It is simply a moment shared between friends in the wilderness. I consider the extreme commercialization of Yellowstone. It seems like everything railroads you onto a consumerist, tourist type path. It's not surprising, but this is the moment I feel separated from it all.

Yellowstone, Pt. 8: Drone Strikes, Ranger Danger, And Bearbox Hypotheticals

Part 7

Whilst driving around, we notice an abundance of vehicles bearing the Cruise America logo. They are everywhere, swarming, overbearing in their sheer numbers. As we pass Cruise America after Cruise America, I begin to think of them not as individual vehicles each containing unique human beings, but as a homogeneous hivemind, a collective group of mindless drones all tasked to  ACCOMPLISH TOURISM. At first, "tourism" and "unthinking mob" seem incompatible to me. Then, I actually think about a group of tourists.

If a fleet of Cruise Americas coagulates into an attack, I will call it a "drone strike". It is much easier to dehumanize and label groups than individuals. In this case, the Cruise Americas have not been condemned by their action or their intent; merely their quantity. If a Cruise America makes some kind of driving error, it seems more egregious than a non-Cruise America error. Human nature and tribalism at work.

Earlier, while pulling into our campsite, The Chemist is "pretty sure" he ran over a slip of paper. We think the paper is some random litter the wind carried to us. This is not true.

When we exit the van and try to start cooking dinner, we discover our grill is missing. It was sitting on the picnic table when we left, and it's not there anymore. We check the bear-proof boxes (explicably called "bearboxes") scattered around the campsite, which are apparently difficult to open even by the dexterity of the human hand, check the van, tent. Nothing. We conclude the grill has been stolen.

To make matters worse, one of us goes to use the restroom and find that someone has pooped on the floor. It smells terrible -- Even now, I can softly close my eyes and recollect the odor. Doesn't look too bad though, if I'm being dishonest.

A park ranger approaches our campsite. She informs us we left our grill, a bear-attracting machine, out in the open. So, she took the initiative to stow it in a bearbox. It is the closest bearbox we didn't check. This is basic camping stuff, you guys. You don't leave bear-attracting stuff out in the open, ever, for any reason. I mean, come on, it's even in the little leaflet we gave you when you drove in on Day 1. How did you not put your grill away? You morons. This is what the ranger says, only in much nicer terms. She concludes by telling us to enjoy the animals right in our backyard.

We hang our heads. It wasn't supposed to be like this. We were supposed to be smart, self-aware, responsible campers. Instead, we endangered the campsite and forced the park ranger to waste her valuable time giving us a talkin'-to, when she could have been doing other things, such as conserving, or protecting, or using the restroom. Literally anything would have been more useful, if we had only remembered to put our grill away. But our laxity has cost her precious minutes of her time alive on this green Earth, and as death inexorably approaches her, we will know we joined hands with the Grim Reaper, and sent her into His cold embrace that much faster.

She did her job and defended the campsite against hungry bears. We did not do our job and made entering the campsite more appealing to those same bears.

As it turns out, the piece of paper The Chemist saw earlier was a park ranger note telling us not to leave grills out in the open. Apparently she left the note without securing it (e.g. by putting a rock on it), so it blew away at the first gust of wind. Oops.

Throughout dinner, we construct various hypothetical scenarios. In one scenario, the park ranger comes up to our tent and starts scattering bear bait around it, then complains, "Ugh, you can't keep letting me do this, you guys. Bear are attracted to bear bait left out in the open." In another scenario, she hides away all our stuff in a bearbox, going what is known as "a little too far." In another, she destroys our grill and goes off to hide in a bearbox herself, then jumpscares us when we try to find our grill. In another, she seals us all in bearboxes permanently, going what is known as "way too far." In another, she puts on a bear costume and paws our tent in the middle of the night, making bear noises all the while, to make good and sure we learned our lesson. In another, she takes off her human costume to reveal that she was actually Three Ninety Nine, a bear, the whole time.

Eventually, none of these scenarios came true, and none of them will ever happen. They were merely distractions to offset the reality of our own blunder. Some men are born mediocre. Some achieve mediocrity. Some have mediocrity thrust upon them.

We go to bed early that night, which The Recycler says makes him feel like a "scrub camper", because most of the other campers are still awake. Others think it's wrong to deny their upper eyelids from joining their lower eyelids in sweet embrace. Others win out in the end.

Next time: A Bible study and the Grand Tetons.

Part 9

Yellowstone, Pt. 7: In Which I Might Actually Discuss The Beauty Of Nature For Once

Part 6

The mandatory Old Faithful visit is done. It is at this time the trip begins to feel like a checklist, a connect-the-dots-enterprise with as much freedom as an actual connect-the-dots enterprise. There is nothing wrong with that; in fact, I'm not sure how it could be any other way, but for some reason it feels a little artificial to me. Maybe I'm just a terrible tourist.

Some people fall asleep on the car, so The Chemist and The Recycler spontaneously decide to take us to a third waterfall: Gibbon. We get to the waterfall parking place. The view is grand:

Below is a collapsed beaver dam. We saw many beaver dams during the trip. I thought this was really cool.

We sit here for a while. The sound of the water is loud, but not harsh; ceaseless, but not tiresome. For me, listening to it is a profoundly peaceful experience.

Prior to the trip, I'd been earnestly attempting to meditate, and failing miserably. I understood that meditation is about getting rid of the inner monologue endlessly going through my mind, a voice of insecurity and worry and stress. It is hard to eliminate this voice because it's on all the time. It is a default setting.

Listening to the waterfall somehow makes it easy. At first, I contemplate the water perpetually and inevitably crashing into the rocks, compelled by gravity, the monotony of it, the eternalness of it.

It occurs to me that some people live mundane lives: Wake up, go to work, come home, pay the rent, watch TV. Lather, rinse, repeat. Some people get bored because there is nothing to do. Some people go skydiving and set things on fire. Politicians dictate the rise and fall of nations, they go to war, they try to increase their own power, they struggle to please an insatiable constituency. Scientists make astonishing discoveries and try to secure funding. Janitors purify buildings, ward away disease, make our hypocritical indifference towards our own environment tolerable. People fall in love and enact revenge.

Throughout all of this, the waterfall at Yellowstone is flowing. It does the same thing every second, oblivious to the romance and sorrow around it. It does not love or hate; it simply is. There is nothing else. The water itself is meditating, or at least I consider it to be, and that helps me clear my own mind.

We climb back up after a while. I do not know how long; I lost track of time down there. We drive to the hot springs so we can check off one more attraction, during which time The Chemist finds Alvin. Alvin does not look happy. Then again, Alvin's facial features have not changed ever since he was birthed in geologic chemistries I will never understand, up until someone gave him the gift of sight by gluing googly eyes on him.

As we drive, a bison comes up to the minivan:

The Sojourner informs us that bison live in the Americas, whereas buffalo live in Africa. CU Boulder has been getting it wrong. My silent, conspiratorial gasp goes unnoticed.

I am aimlessly clicking the camera at this time, which annoys The Chemist. I continue, mostly due to inertia.

In the primordial soups of being stuck in a small metal box together, proteins sythesize themselves into writhing meme-jokes compelled with all the force of the biological imperative. The Chemist, who is driving at this juncture, says the following:

"If I were playing GTA 5 right now, I'd jump this van off the cliff, do a 360, crash, take my gun out, and start shooting people and bison."

This is when I learn that in GTA, if you are in a vehicle, you take no fall damage.

Around the same time of this quote, The Sojourner asks:

"What's our ETA?"

Can you feel it? Can you see the amino acids lining up into chains, coalescing into self-modifying cells, coming alive? Can you hear the joke writing itself?

From then on, we constantly ask the driver (whoever it is) "What's our GTA?" and The Chemist comes up with increasingly violent, illegal, and physics-violating activies he would be doing if he were playing GTA instead of being in communion with three other breathing human beings.

The animal-spotting contiunes, and we manage to grab some great bear pictures:

Let's assume for the moment that Buddhism is true, and we reincarnate when we die. This bear right here has more swagger than I will ever have in every lifetime I will ever live. I mean, just look at him or her. You are looking at the definition of cool.

Check the hot springs off our list:

That is not smoke on the water. It is just steam.

See an elk on the way out:

White butt, tight strut.

Forested cliffs surround the hot springs, tall and austere. I think back to junior year of high school, when we read some Henry David Thoreau writing regarding the transcendence of nature. It occurs to me that, back then, I had no idea what Thoreau was talking about. In Yellowstone, however, I can see the awe-inspiring scenes that inspired his writing firsthand. The feeling makes me want to write some poetry myself. I compose a verse or two in my head, then scrap it. This place is too good for my words.


Next time: Ranger danger!


Part 8

Yellowstone, Pt. 6: Old Faithful, or: True Art, A Lack Of Defiance, And Redacted Images

Part 5

We wake up the next morning to a breakfast of eggs and precooked bacon. The plan is to go see Old Faithful and the various other geysers/hot springs around Yellowstone.

The drive to the geyser area takes a little under an hour, during which time Alvin negotiations between The Chemist and me crescendo. The situation is tense. I know if I find Alvin, The Chemist will not be receiving him. The Chemist knows the same thing.

We get to Old Faithful, where I take one of the best pictures of the entire trip:

When you look at Bright Spot, you gaze into the face of God. When you gaze at this sign, it's hard not to like it.

Look at that warning sign. I don't know if I've ever seen something that so perfectly captures the ephemeral nature of human life, the terrifying eternity that awaits us all, the dangers of going off the prebuilt path. This picture is tragedy. This picture is the naivete of childhood and the grief of losing a child. This picture is the unabated, callous wrath of Mother Earth and the apathy of a stranger. This picture is art.

Prior to the trip, someone told The Chemist to hike up a hill and watch Old Faithful from there. We decide to do this, judging from the lack of crowd that we will have time to look around at the surrounding hot springs and geysers before Old Faithful erupts.

One particular geyser, called the Beehive, unpredictably erupts somewhere between ten hours and five days following its previous eruption. Old Faithful far overshadows Beehive with her regularity and size. I take many pictures of the geothermal phenomena, most of which look the same.  They are all ceaselessly churning and steaming and giving off sulphurous fumes. Here is a sample:

Going swimming in this is not recommended, because it is way too small. You could barely tread water in this thing.

After seeing a sign telling tourists not to throw coins, rocks, or other objects into a boiling pool, The Sojourner suggests we throw coins, rocks, or other objects into a boiling pool. We do not, each for different reasons. The Recycler deeply respects park rangers and does not want to anger them. In fact, The Recycler wants to be a park ranger when he grows up. The Sojourner understands the underlying chemistry behind these steam vents and the negative consequences of disrupting said chemistry. The Chemist is too afraid. As for me, my excuses total to zero. But that's something my excuses and my regrets have in common.

While we are looking at hot water, I am thinking about the live supervolcano beneath us. It is an awesome thought, by which I mean it induces awe. The volcano could erupt at any time, killing thousands of people, annihilating billions of dollars of infrastructure, and blotting out the sky with ash. Such a catastrophe might bring about a second Ice Age, an Ice Age I wouldn't get to see, being dead and all. That's fine. I've seen the Ice Age movie. Plus, if "Died in supervolcano eruption" is to be my cause of death, I have no complaints. Shoutout to all the Romans who lived in Pompeii. I've got Yellowstone here -- she says, "Vesuvius ain't got nothin' on me."*

I look around at the carefully positioned walkways, the hotel, and the other tourists, and wonder what this place looked like hundreds of years ago. I wonder how mystified I would have been if I had stumbled on this place, where water is boiling, in 1442. I wonder what explanation I would have come up with. I think about science overcoming myth.

I also think about profit overcoming the environment. I do not like the state-sponsored commercialism all around me, but it is what brought me here. The paths and hotel corrupt the scene, but without them I would not be able to enjoy it. This juxtaposition between artificial and natural will recur.

The hike is strenuous, but doable. We make it to the top without Old Faithful going off behind us. The view is fantastic. I take the following picture at the top:

After admiring the hotel's architecture, I wait with a camera. Old Faithful erupts a couple minutes later. I video it. We hike back down for lunch.

We drop inside the hotel, to look at the architecture some more. I take a picture of the large clock inside:

A paragon of timekeeping.

Back out, and our lunch has taken long enough for us to watch Old Faithful erupt again, this time much closer. While we wait, the Beehive goes off:

I am lucky to have this picture, given the rarity of the occassion.

Here is a picture of the crowd around Old Faithful:

The crowd is much, much, much larger midsummer.

I withhold actual ground-level Old Faithful images. Go there and see it yourself. I hear real life has very high definition.


Part 7





*Sorry, Pompeiians. Your tragic story lives on in my heart. The readers, though, all they want is an effigy to crucify.

Yellowstone, Pt. 5: White Water, Dogmatism, And Percy Bysshe Shelly

Part 4

On the drive over to see our first Yellowstone attraction, The Chemist discovers Alvin is missing. I immediately lambast him for his negligence and boldly claim Alvin as mine if I find him. The Chemist may tell you I threatened to keep Alvin as a slave, but in that hypothetical circumstance I would exercise my Constitutional right to plead the Fifth Amendment. Molly is tucked into my coat pocket, away from all harm. She'll be safe from all the flares, although I know she doesn't care.

There is a scenic viewpoint right where we park, and a hiking trail nearby. We take the picture below and go hike. The Chemist leaves his plastic water bottle at the trail's entrance with the intention of re-getting it when we make it back out. Temporary litterer.

We discuss whitewater rafting and decide this place is too easy to be the children's introductory course, so it must be where they store the rafts before they get you started. We never make it to the observation point in the picture because we suck at tourism, unlike Macau, a place where tourism comprises over 50% of its GDP.

Notably, I was using my sister's camera, which was extremely fancy, but also conferred an inescapable touristy look as it swung below my neck. An appropriate look, but a distasteful one.

The trail goes up right next to the river:

We throw a stick into the river so we can watch it get sucked into the white water. There is a video of this, but it's a terrible video for many reasons. The stick is nearly invisible, it gets stuck before it can make it to the end, and the basic premise isn't even entertaining. That's why instead of posting the video below, I've posted a picture of a bridge. If you really want to see the video, let me know and I'll help you waste some precious seconds of your valuable time.

The constant sound of running water has a deep, calming effect on me. More on this in a future part.

The hike is pleasantly long. We quietly admire the serenity all around us until the trail hits the main road, at which point we turn back and head back to camp. The time is around 7pm.

The Chemist is eager to start a campfire and sip beverages of a very specific type around the fire. For firemaking supplies, we have self-lighting charcoal and the firewood collected earlier. The firewood is soaked through from the earlier rain/hail, but we remember how you only live once, so we put everything we have into the firepit and go for broke:

We are utterly broke at this point. We had to sell off the shoe in the picture just to have the gas money to make it back home. None of this is true. 

The charcoal catches just fine. The firewood fails to catch in spite of prolonged coaxings. It gets burnt but does not burn, an annoying non-paradox. Evidently, the secrets of combustion are unknown to such inexperienced campers. The Recycler suggests to simply buy firewood, which is close by. The Chemist and I categorically reject such a bourgeoise solution. We prefer to build our mighty fire on the mighty back of the mighty worker, like how a Mighty Duck might use a Mighty Mite and his mighty might to vacuum a mighty mite off the back of a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger. Might makes right.

Besides, we will have plenty of time to buy firewood when we are dead from hypothermia. Firewood goes to Valhalla, and we have warrior spirits.

Dinner is hotdogs and bratwusts, which involves certain esoteric mathematical methodologies to ensure fair division, methodologies colloquially referred to as "division", complicated by the fact that The Sojouner only wants dogs and no brats, complicated slightly more by the fact that the abbreviation for "bratwurst" is the first half of "bratwurst", while the abbreviation of "hotdog" is the first half of "dogma". English makes no sense. We eventually get the math right and move on with our lives.

The Chemist wants to play the card game Mao, which I've blogged about before. Mao, unlike my opinions on Jay Z, stratifies people into two distinct groups: Lovers, and haters. (I think Jay Z is just okay.) The Chemist falls in the former category. The Recycler falls into the latter category, which wrecked the experience. We stop after one round. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal Mao wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level night stretches far away.

I did bring a few board/card games, but none of them are playable in the dim light and awkward tent space. Outside is not an option because the wooden table is on a slope and, much like our firewood, permanently wet. As such, we go to sleep early. More time for visiting attractions the next day.

Part 6

Yellowstone, Pt. 4: Google Is God, Tent Incompetence, And Semipermeable Materials

Part 3

4 parts into a series entitled "Yellowstone", and no Yellowstone. You've waited long enough.

We drive into the south entrance of Yellowstone, passing through Grand Teton National Park and paying a $25 entrance fee. This pair of national parks is heavily commercialized, so we buy groceries before getting to the campsite. I can't imagine Teddy Roosevelt predicting the sentence "We buy groceries at the national park" would ever be used, but some of us wanted eggs to go with our precooked bacon.

The grocery store is also where we find out there is a bear named Three Ninety Nine. This name was funny at first, but now it reminds me of the vicelike anthropocentrism and commercialism endemic to our Yellowstone experience. I wish Three Ninety Nine had a different name. Less wallet-and-consumer-friendly-start-savin', more top-of-the-food-chain-magnificent-hunter-and-scavenger.

Even after getting into the park, it is a long drive to the campsite. We are camping at Bridge Bay, near Yellowstone Lake. We pass other, smaller lakes along the way. Each successive lake is the largest body of water The Chemist has ever seen. That drive broke one record several times for him.

We are driving along when, out of nowhere, Google Maps predicts an extremely high-density traffic zone. When we get to the zone, we see a large group of people pulled over, so many the parking lot is overfull. It blows my mind that Google Maps had the ability to sense and inform us of traffic like this. In fact, Google Maps did not incorrectly predict anything for the whole trip. The Sojourner is unimpressed, missing his sense of wonder just as he is missing a gem bug. Coincidence? I think not!

The people are pulled over because there are bears in the distance. They (the people, not the bears) sport binoculars and cameras with comically long telescoping lenses. We debate over whether we should stop, and end up deciding not to. The parking area is already overflowing, and setting up our tent is the first priority.

We pass more people gawking at distant animals (mostly bison), which will eventually turn out to be hilarious, because bison are everywhere. We had two bison and an elk right in our campsite. We could've gone up and touched them if we'd wanted to. But here are these crowds of shiny-eyed tourists jumping at the chance to catch sight of a tiny black dot five miles away.

Seriously, they were just right there. Here are two who happened to be in the same place we camped.

We get to the campsite and claim our reservation, choking on exhaust fumes the RV in front of us is emitting. The park worker at the booth warns us that bears are present and they can smell anything -- food, cosmetics, food wrappers, grills, boxes -- anything. I wonder why bears aren't already in the campsite, rummaging through supplies and trying to get into vehicles. Even I can smell the campfires and exhaust fumes. You'd think Three Ninety Nine would know about this place by now.

At the campsite, we split into two groups. The Chemist and The Sojourner go to the nearby forest to collect firewood, while The Recycler and I put up the tent. There is not a good tent location, as most of the ground is either sloped or very muddy. We lay down two tarps and start setting up the tent on a muddy patch. The time is a little after noon.

It starts to precipitate lightly. We have to hurry, or we will be caught tentless in the rain. Due to misunderstandings and fails, the process does not go as smoothly as possible. One fail has us putting a fiberglass pole in the wrong spot, causing the material to overbend and splinter. No worries though, we correct our mistake and it appears as though the splintered pole will be fine. That's what we tell ourselves anyway, because the rain is coming down heavily now, actually, ouch, it's coming down really heavily, and then we realize it's hailing.

Luckily, The Sojourner and The Chemist are back from their firewood expedition. We have four people to put the tent up and toss in supplies in a hailing, pressure-high situation. Fails continue. The top of the tent is just mesh; there is a cover that goes over the top of it. We fail to align the cover properly the first time, so we have to rotate it -- hang on, did we put it on upside down? Whatever, there's no time.

The temperature gets colder and we hit full-on panic mode, frantically putting in stakes that fail to find purchase in the more-water-than-dirt ground, realizing we have no time to figure out how to push out the tent windows, guessing what we will need: Sleeping bags? Toilet paper? Board games? We throw all of these and more into the tent haphazardly, muddying pillows, boots squish-squashing in the severe mud around us, making the interior of the tent filthy. Alvin is lost somewhere in the chaos.

This is he.

.
Eventually, we manage to stabilize and get all the supplies we think we need into the tentlike thing we put up. The thing is currently sporting a splintered pole (holding steady... for now), a possibly upside down roof, and is smaller than usual because we failed to put the windows out. We huddle around, look at each other, and relish in the victory we've achieved. We made it. We showed how human-made equipment can block out nature, even when that equipment is assembled terribly.

Our mission of completely separating ourselves from nature on a camping trip is not 100% successful. It is so cold we can see our breath -- not wisps and vapors; full-on dragonbreath-steamengine-cigarsmoke style condensation. We have some superabsorbent towels, which we inevitably call ShamWows, we use to clean the tent floor. The ShamWows are highly effective and allow us to lay down, layer by layer, blankets, mats, then sleeping bags. That's six layers separating our bare skin from the cold, muddy ground: Tarp, tent floor, blanket, mat, sleeping bag, clothes. Six seems like a small number when you count it up like that. But it is enough.

The Recycler came equipped with a full raingear ensemble, or the worst Ironman suit ever: Heavy waterproof pants, heavy coat with hood, gloves, and waterproof shoes. The rest of us did not come so prepared. As such, The Recycler is the conduit between us and the outside world. Fetching supplies, fixing the tent, etc., these responsibilities all fall on his shoulders.

The Recycler looked better than what this guy tried to do, at least.

We sit back a little, consolidate. It is warm and comfortable in the sleeping bags. Someone says the tent might be semi-permeable, because they can feel water on the inside. I don't think this is the case, because (a) It took us a long time to set up, so the rooftop mesh was exposed to the rain for a long time, but, much more importantly, (b) Whoever designs a semi-permeable tent is the dumbest designer ever. That's like if I designed an unbounceable basketball, or transparent tinted windows.

After less than half an hour, the hail stops and we are ready to go see our first attraction. The Chemist has a checklist of items to view, and among them are the two waterfalls in Yellowstone.

Will we find adventure and excitement? Will we drown in the river? Will The Chemist ever recover Alvin? Find out next time.

Part 5

Yellowstone, Pt. 3: Pretty Girls, Hypothetical Rebellion, And A True Patriot

Part 2

Four guys arrive in a tiny Wyoming town. This may sound like the setup to a mediocre joke, but it isn't. It is me reusing a blog intro for comedic effect. It is more like a Shenzhen factory suicide net: Seems like joke. Isn't.

We find our hotel without issue. Across the street from it is The World's Largest Jackalope Exhibit. We are all eager to see this mythic animal, but it is too late tonight. We are all tired. It is around 9pm, and we need to find a place to eat.

The woman in charge of the hotel attempts to sell us a room $10 more expensive than the one we reserved, saying it has more room and that she'll give us a military discount. It works. We tell her we are hungry, so she calls her friend Harley's personal cell phone to check if Harley's restaurant (The Cobbler) is still open. She looks out her window to check the status of another restaurant, the Outlaw Cafe. More reminders of the size of this town.

Exhibit A: The bustling downtown scene of Dubois, Wyoming. The road you see is also an interstate. The only thing more eye-catching than the sleek, modern buildings are the endless throngs of pretty girls.

We unload some things in the room and proceed to The Cobbler, which is a little farther down the road than Outlaw Cafe. We get there just as Harley is closing down -- out of luck. Outlaw Cafe it is, then.

The portly, mustachioed man running Outlaw Cafe is the host, chef, and waiter of the place -- that's judge, jury, and executioner, in that order. When we walk through the door of Outlaw Cafe, he is in complete control of our fate. In the moment we cross that threshold between Outlaw Cafe and the rest of Dubois, a silent conversation occurs as we lock eyes:

Him: I own this place. I do everything in this place. Consequently, until you leave, each and every one of your wretched souls is mine. For these few moments, I own all of you. They say the customer is always right. Well in this place, there are no customers. You are my peasants. I am your king.

Me: Would you like that soul before or after you take our orders? I am pretty hungry.*

He sits us down and fetches drinks, 4 waters, then takes our orders. The Chemist is first. He orders a cheeseburger without lettuce, onion, or tomato. Outlaw Cafe God (henceforth, OCG) narrows his eyes and pauses.

Pauses.

The silence becomes uncomfortable. The atmosphere thickens. He asks a clarifying question, receives a response, laughs derisively. At long last, OCG scritch-scratches many words down on his notepad with a snort, then looks at The Sojourner for his order.

The Sojouner, now slightly intimidated, orders a Philly cheesesteak with no peppers, causing OCG's eyes bug out of his head in utter disbelief. Another clarifying question, another response, another shortform essay scrawled out onto the notepad. OCG looks at me. I keep my order simple, smoothly transitioning over to The Recycler, who orders hot wings.

"How hot you want 'em?"

"As hot as you have."

OCG cackles and stares at The Recycler. The message is clear: The temperature of these hot wings will be somewhere between hellfire and an exploding star.

"You sure?" He is eager, waiting for The Recycler to say yes, waiting to pounce on The Recycler and destroy every taste bud in his victim's body. The Recycler wipes the sweat from his brow and seizes upon the opportunity to retreat.

"Ackcherlly, give me the Sriracha instead."

OCG nods, a little disappointed, a little approving of The Recycler's conservative style. He goes into the kitchen.

There is no music in the Outlaw Cafe, only the beating of your heart reminding you of your own inescapable mortality. Lack of ambiance exacerbates the already-long wait time, during which the four of us discuss the nature of OCG. Perhaps he will serve The Chemist nothing but a slice of cheese smeared on a loaf of moldy bread and charge him a thousand dollars for the privilege. Then, when we protest, he'll call the Dubois sheriff and we'll spend the night in the town jail. I suggest, if this were to occur, that the four of us could easily overpower the sheriff, subdue him, and gain control over Dubois. That's right, officer, I am talking to myself now.

The other three do not agree with me. The sheriff is armed and dangerous, they say. He has tools to quell an uprising, they say. I ignore them, blinded by visions of power. Let's make Outlaw Cafe a real Outlaw Cafe. If the sheriff comes, we have four people -- one person suppresses each arm, nullifying weapon advantage, another one blinds the poor guy, and the fourth one can provide moral support by kissing a Dubois girl in the background. Plus, we have the element of surprise.

Sometime immediately after this hypothetical situation, one of us suggests the reason Outlaw Cafe doesn't play music is because it has hidden microphones, recording every word out of a customer's mouth. I loudly mention how I think Outlaw Cafe is the best restaurant I've ever had the pleasure to dine in, then return to planning treason.

After what seems like an unreasonable amount of time, which it probably was because he's doing everything around here, OCG exits the kitchen with our meals. Every order is 100% correct, looks good, and in large portion sizes. He generously provides the hottest hot sauce he has to offer on the side, in case The Recycler hates his own tongue. Asks us if we need anything else, we don't, he nods and leaves.

We all try the hot sauce. It isn't that hot. I mean it's kinda hot, but it's not the scorch-flesh-dead kind of hot I was expecting based on OCG's behavior. What an anticlimax.

Back to the hotel, and we finish unloading our stuff. I get the bed because everyone else wants to try out their sleeping bags.

Our room is small, but it does the job. Just like certain... other things.

We finish the night by playing card games while drinking beverages of a specific type (which will go unspecified here.)

Monday morning, and we all take turns showering. The Chemist wakes up early, showers, and goes to do things I have no knowledge of. I wake up next.

I get into the shower, turn the water on. It is scalding hot, somewhere between hellfire and an exploding star, and it's impossible to turn it colder. I stand under a dribble of water, not able to withstand the temperature, and wash myself. Later, I will found out you actually can turn the water colder. I just don't know how to operate a shower.

After everyone showers, The Sojourner leaves the shower on its hottest setting in an attempt to steam up the bathroom in an attempt to iron his pants. Needless to say, this worked perfectly and resulted in the smoothest pair of pants I've ever laid eyes on. (Just kidding, I have no idea why you would believe that. If anything, his pants came out more wrinkled than before.)

We break our fast at The Cobbler, which is a biker gang hotspot. Most of the bikers are fat and bearded, wearing jeans under assless chaps. The Sojourner laughs at one biker's fashion choice before we realize all of them are dressed the same way, and they surround us. Plus, jeans under assless chaps is probably the most practical way for a biker to dress. None of us would know.


I don't understand the appeal of being in a biker gang at the time, but after reading the Wikipedia article on them, I have a better grasp over the interesting aspects of counterculture and belonging inherent to the outlaw motorcycle club dynamic. I wonder if there are any law-abiding motorcycle clubs. I wonder if Harley, the owner of The Cobbler, had a biker gang father named who named her after his motorcycle. It seems likely. The Cobbler is extremely biker gang friendly.

The food is pretty good, large portion sizes. Lots of bikers to feed. The four of us stand out dramatically, but thankfully are not harassed.

We decide to check out The World's Largest Jackalope exhibit in Dubois, Wyoming. The large, plastic Jackalope replica outside has an extremely humble man sitting on it:

We take a picture of him and move on.

Inside is the real Jackalope:

Pictured: A true patriot.

The mythic beast is not impressive to us, probably because Bright Spot took all the glory. Separating it more from Bright Spot is the fact that we do get souvenirs at this place. The Recycler, The Chemist, and I all purchase gem bugs -- rocks with googly eyes and feisty personalities. Our gem bugs are named Izzy, Alvin, and Molly, respectively. These gem bugs will be our companions and dear friends for the trip, and we will spend much time discussing their status. Some of us will take care of our gem bugs. Some of us will be negligent owners. A hostage situation may or may not develop. Stay tuned.

Molly Moonstone has had a very sheltered life.

The Sojourner gets a shot glass. I have nothing to say about this purchase.

Dubois is done with. Next stop, Yellowstone.

Part 4





*This silent conversation never occurred and I've fabricated the entire exchange. If the man in charge of Outlaw Cafe is reading, I sincerely apologize. You are a smart man making an honest living, and I admire that. The readers are vicious, though. Like jackals. They just want a corpse to feed on.

Yellowstone, Pt. 2: False Prophets, Aliens, And W. E. Dubois

There is a single image in this post which I did not take (shoutout to Google Images). I assure you, there will be at least one self-taken picture in the next part of the story.

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Part 1

Four guys are in the middle of a Wyoming oil field, about to run out of gas. This sounds like the setup to a mediocre joke, and it is, but it is also the situation I find myself in after I mixed poor planning with a pinch of hubris.

To recap: The Recycler is driving. The fuel light is on, and The Sojourner tells us on most vehicles, this means there are 3 gallons of gas left -- around 60 miles' worth. The nearest town where we think we can get gas was Moneta, around 80 miles away.

As it turns out, neither of these things was true. The fuel light, as we discovered later, meant we had only a single gallon of gas left. And Moneta had no gas station.

We remain cruising without cruise control at 65 mph, suppressing panic. I am looking up the phone number of Triple A, but having no success due to bad Internet coverage. As I am doing so, we enter into another diminutive Wyoming town. Hope surges into us as we see a large sign proudly declaring GAS -- FOOD -- LODGING ahead. The Recycler brakes, ready to pull in. We examine the building behind the sign.

I notice that, curiously, the windows of this particular establishment have been boarded up. I look closer and notice a real estate sign, signifying that the property is for sale. Tumbleweeds roll by in cliché fashion. Frustration rises as we realize this place has been closed for a very long time. It was nothing more than a mirage in the desert, a false prophet, a bait into nothing. Worse, our detour has caused The Recycler to brake, and hence, cost us fuel. We grit our teeth and set back out onto the road, our souls a bit more jaded than before. Talking has become infrequent.



A new hope emerges like a Skywalker on Tattooine: There is a place, according to Google Maps, called Gas Hills, and it is within 5 miles of us. We relax. If we make it to Gas Hills...

We make it to Gas Hills. It is a simple dirt road leading to what appears to be a tiny trailer park. There is a building or something at the end of the dirt road, but none of us care. There is no gas, which is the only thing we care about.

Of course, it is reasonable to name a place Gas Hills if it is in the middle of an oil field, but it did not seem so to us at the time. If we had become seduced by that name, if we had been overcome by the promise of that sweet gasoline nectar, if we had let our guard down even just a drop, we would have gone off the main highway, even more out of our way, lost even more momentum slowing down and stopping, lost even more gas for no reason, lost even more hope realizing our mistake, had our souls become even more jaded, and probably would have resorted to eating each other alive in a frenzy of panic and desparation. One thing in that last sentence isn't true.

If the aforementioned boarded-up gas station had been a false prophet, then Gas Hills was the Antichrist himself, alight in Satanic power. Luckily, we do not succumb to the siren's call. We plug our ears and forge on, stoically despairing. I estimate we have less than 10 miles in the tank, and the nearest gas is over 70 miles away. I do not say anything out loud. Silence blossoms.



Now there is serendipity, and there is miracle. The place called Bright Spot falls squarely into the latter category.

We did not take any pictures of Bright Spot. We did not get any souvenirs. There is no evidence of its existence but in our memories. Bright Spot, to us, is a Shangri-La, an Atlantis, an El Dorado. It is mythic, and I kind of like it that way. Perhaps Bright Spot was a group dream. Perhaps it was a hallucination, brought about by stress. Perhaps we should have bought a lottery ticket, and pushed our luck even further. The specifics do not matter. What matters is this: When you look at Bright Spot, you gaze into the face of God.

My phone labels Bright Spot with the words GAS -- FOOD -- LODGING, and my jaded soul immediately narrows its eyes in suspicion. Another siren's call, luring us to lose more fuel, I think. Still, I let the other three know about the existence of another potential false prophet. They are as wary as I am.

Now in some versions of the story, we roll into Bright Spot just as the last drop of fuel in our tank is being converted into axle-turning and exhaust fumes. In another version, we have to push the van a few hundred feet to make it to the pump. In a third version, the Yellowstone Supervolcano explodes -- somehow behind us -- and we have to race the lava on less than half a gallon of gas, bouncing comically along the suddenly undulating highway like we are in a Saturday morning cartoon. In this version, when the van inevitably runs out of gas, we call Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and he lifts the last of us into his helicopter just before the lava kisses our toes. I leave it to the reader to decide which version they prefer. (The third version does not have Bright Spot in it, so it sucks.)

Bright Spot is composed of two buildings: A small convenience store and a smaller motel. The pull-in is dirt and tumbleweeds. The gas pump does not have a digital display or a credit card reader; it relies on turnstiles and trust instead. This is almost exactly what it looked like:

Note the PAY BEFORE YOU PUMP sign in lieu of a credit card reader and the analog display.

An elderly Hawaiian woman emerges from the store half of Bright Spot and asks, "Do you need gas?".

Never before has a question been so incisive, yet so simple. Here was a woman just doing her job, performing a routine she had doubtless performed countless times before, yet to us, she was a messiah. In the moment she asks her question, we know we are saved, the lion lies down with the lamb, and all is good in the world.

She fuels us up, operating the pump with arthritic joints and atrophying muscles. I talk to her as she does it, learning of her Hawaiian heritage and her job working in the oil fields. I go inside to pay. I regret not leaving a tip, or some token of appreciation, even though this would somewhat degrade the mythic nature of Bright Spot. The other three do not understand why I would want to tip someone for simply doing her job. They do not fully appreciate the nuance of subjective perception -- how her doing her job means the world to us, in that moment -- but, then again, they also do not understand how melodramatic I can be in blog posts.

The only way this story could have been more perfect is if there had been a total solar eclipse, thereby making Bright Spot a literal bright spot out in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. In some versions of the story, there was a total eclipse, plus the four of us heard the voice of the angel Gabriel coming from the heavens and are now devout Christians. In another version, we heard Mohammed and are currently on our Hajj. I leave it to the reader to decide which version they prefer.

We leave Bright Spot with smooth, clean souls. Back onto Highway 26.



It is somewhere between 6 and 8 hours into the drive, which I know because I was driving and I had the last shift. We are all tired and anxious to arrive at our hotel in Cody, Wyoming. The folio for the reservation I printed offscreen is ready to deploy.

Highway 26 diverges in the town of Shoshoni, Wyoming. Cody is to the north, along Highway 20. We drive into Shoshoni, slowing to comply with the city speed limit. Shoshoni is a thousand times larger than Bright Spot and a thousand times less bright. It is all motels, convenience stores, and boarded up windows. We prepare to drive onto Highway 20.

The large procession of cars preceding the highway indicates something is wrong. The large, flashing sign saying ROAD CLOSED -- HEAD BACK TO SHOSHONI indicates the road is closed, and we should head back to Shoshoni. We pull off to the side of the road. I exit the van to ask someone about the situation. Hi, sir. Do you know why the road is closed? (No, but we saw a bulldozer driving in, so we suspect it may have been falling rock.)  How long do you think it will be closed? (We have no clue. It could be 20 minutes. It could be 5 hours. It might not reopen until tomorrow morning.) Is there another route to Yellowstone? (You can go through the southern entrance, which is mountainous. We are not so lucky. This highway is the only way back to our home.)

I return to the van to discuss. Apparently, while I was gone, an SUV flew past the line of pulled-over cars, far exceeding the speed limit, irreverent of the flashing road sign. I get back in time to see that same SUV flying back out the other way. This confirms the fact that we cannot roll the dice and ignore the sign -- not that such a thought ever crossed our minds, officer.

We decide to first take a bathroom break at the nearest convenience store, weigh options, get out of the van for a little bit. There are condoms for sale in the bathroom. 75 cents. We do not buy any.

We could try to wait it out. We could try the alternate route to Yellowstone -- but wait, we have to get to a hotel tonight. Either way, we are not making it to A Wyoming Inn. Later, I will cancel the reservation, thereby making the folio I had printed out offscreen totally useless. It is a sad moment.

We return to Highway 20, wanting to be ready in case it reopens. We sit for a short while when the sheriff drives out from the highway. I roll down our window. He rolls down his window and elucidates us.

"The road'll be closed for 3, 4, 5 hours at least. They're talkin' 'bout not opening it until tomorrow morning."

Crestfallen, we reevaluate. Smartphones roll out like autobots. The Recycler finds another town, another possibility: Dubois, Wyoming. It is to the west, not the north, and we can make it there tonight. For some reason, Dubois sounds familiar to me. Much later, I will realize this is because it reminded me of civil rights activist and prolific author W. E. Dubois, a cofounder of the NAACP.

We decide to go for Dubois. I turn the van around and set out toward the west, an agent of our own kind of Manifest Destiny. The Sojourner looks up inns in Dubois, finds one, calls it, makes a reservation. Our plans have rapidly changed, but the profound synergies of our group have made the major adjustment painless and smooth. We are back in business.

En route to Dubois, we speculate as to why the road was closed, as we never got to see the source of the blockage. It could have been falling rocks, but it also could have been an alien invasion the US government efficiently suppressed. This theory sticks immediately, becoming a sort of conversational stomping grounds. As we drive westward, we imagine a full-out scorched-Earth war taking place between the aliens and the US military, hidden just out of our view by the hills to the north. I imagine the US troops becoming overwhelmed and retreating to none other than Bright Spot Wyoming, where under the strategic genius of that Hawaiian woman, they commit to one glorious last stand. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is among them, for some reason.

We arrive in Dubois. The population is under a thousand.

Next time: Cowboys, outlaws, and the world's largest Jackalope exhibit!

Part 3

Yellowstone, Pt. 1: Humble Beginnings

Below, I chronicle the journey three friends and I took to Yellowstone National Park. It is filled with adventure, excitement, and betrayal. Everything is 100% true, except for the parts where I tell you it isn't. I would not recommend reading on if you are weak of heart.

____________________________________________________________________________

The characters are as follows:

The Chemist
The Recycler
The Sojourner
Me

I apologize for the lack of pictures in this section of the story. I assure you, they will come in future sections.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It is the day before the drive to Yellowstone. Myself, The Chemist, and The Recycler convene for lunch and to buy groceries. The Sojourner is flying into Denver International Airport at 9 pm, and we are to pick him up at that time.

We shop at King Sooper's because of its regal name and low prices, purchasing hot dog supplies, condiments, and water. The water we purchase comes in two varieties: Bottled Arrowhead, and a gallon of El Dorado. The El Dorado water costs two more cents than a generic gallon of water, but The Chemist and The Recycler go for it in spite of my mild protest. Apparently labeling your water El Dorado is worth two extra cents in their eyes. This is not the case in my eyes, which at the time I was rolling.

I can neither confirm nor deny the purchase of alcohol of any sort. I will, however, testify that The Chemist purchased a bottle opener on a separate day. Why did he do this? I leave it to the reader to decide.

There is a lot of time to kill before we must arrive at the airport. We spend this time playing catch and various card games at The Recycler's house. Nothing of note happens during this time and I will probably remove this entire paragraph during editing.

I drive all of us to Denver to pick up The Sojourner. There is not much conversation during the 90 minute drive, a bad omen for the 8+ hour drive we have ahead of us. We arrive at the Denver airport through a toll-free route on the highway and wait at The Cell Phone Parking Lot to avoid paying for parking. We are careful to keep one person on their cell phone at all times to maintain the integrity of the lot. We notice other people around us not using their cell phones and realize the futility of our efforts. Note to all journalists: The integrity of the DIA Cell Phone Parking Lot has been compromised. I expect a front page Gazette article on this by tomorrow morning.

A theory emerges among us: If we had a brightly-colored vest, such as one an elementary school crossing guard might have, we could go up to people and compel them to use their cell phones. This theory goes sadly untested, as we are unable to obtain such a garment.

I am most definitely not wearing a hat during this time.

We pick up The Sojourner, who regales us with tales of his travels. One person he met at the airport referred to Colorado Springs as her "stomping grounds". Subsequently, the phrase "stomping grounds" is relentlessly overused throughout the trip. Relentless overuse of a phrase was not unique in this respect.



We spend the night at The Recycler's house, going to bed early to hit the road as soon as possible the next day. The plan for tomorrow is to first show The Sojourner Colorado Springs' Garden of the Gods, then drive to the city of Cody, Wyoming, an 8+ hour endeavor. We have made reservations for an inn in Wyoming, elegantly named A Wyoming Inn. Earlier, offscreen, I printed out the folio for the reservation. This will be unimportant later.

We wake up early, have breakfast, and go to Garden of the Gods. All the good parking spots are full, so we have no choice but to drive past them and go to a less crowded but much less exciting view. Also, sadly, Pike's Peak is covered in fog, so The Sojourner does not get a good view of it.

We hike around the park and take some good pictures. I, unbeknownst to the other three, put my hand in some bird shit and have to wipe it off on the rocks. I manage to get it pretty, but not fully, clean. Can't smell anything. We are anxious to get going, as we don't want to get to our hotel too late.

 We fill up our gas near Mecca, where I also get the opportunity to clean my hands off completely. Then, we hit the road.



If you search "road trip games" on Google, you will find some of the least exciting and inane activites humankind has ever devised. Among these suggestions are Rock, Paper, Scissors, I Spy, and just playing poker on your phone. It is both disheartening and savage. We play the alphabet game, Ghost, and one instance of counting. I won't describe any of these games in this narrative, which is one of the best decisions I will ever make, trust me.

I've always had a rather romanticized vision of road trips in my head -- probably due to the John Green novel Paper Towns -- that turned out to be highly inaccurate. Still, the drive wasn't all that bad. We drive in 2 hour shifts, and the time passes by pretty quickly. And yes, officer, I'd like to confirm that we never exceeded the speed limit at any time.



Wyoming's population is roughly equal to the population of my college dorm. Once, we pass a sign boldly declaring "Population: 44", which is the lowest town population I've ever seen. We see cattle ranches, cattle ranches, and the road ahead. Power lines stretch out on either side, far off into the distance, connecting to nothing. I'd like to say more about the landscape, to paint a vivid and visceral picture in your head, but if you picture grass and power lines, you've pretty much got it. Throw some cows in there every once in a while. Go crazy.



Slight digression: Wyoming has a single congresswoman representing them in the House of Representatives (shoutout to Cynthia Lummis!). For comparison, California has 53 representatives, which is more than the population of the aforementioned Wyoming town.



It is somewhere between 4 and 6 hours into the drive, which I know because The Recycler is driving, and he has the third shift. Someone notices we are running out of gas.

I look and notice, Wow, we are really running out of gas.

The fuel light is on. The Sojourner says on most cars, this means you have 3 gallons left. The van gets roughly 20 miles per gallon. 60 miles left, we math. We pass many small villages, but none of them have gas. I look at my phone. The nearest town likely to have a gas station, Moneta, is 80 miles away. All of us realize it, but none of us say it: We are screwed.

Quiet panic sets in as we plan contingencies. I tell The Recycler to use the gas pedal as little as possible. We turn off the radio, the air conditioning, unplug our charging cell phones. Do any of these car functions use gas? I don't know, but I figure it is better to be safe than stranded in Nowhere, Wyoming. It is suggested to turn back -- but nope, the last city (Casper) with gas is about as far away as Moneta. It is suggested to call Triple A, paying them an exorbitant fee to bail us out of this predicament. It is suggested to hitchhike to a gas station. It is suggested to set up camp right by the side of the road, in some cattle ranch, and see what we can do in the morning. I do not know who suggested these things -- I might have been responsible for some of them -- but none of them sound appealing. The car continues traveling forward at 65 miles per hour.

The best part of all this is that we are, at the moment, driving through a Wyoming oil field. Oil rigs are churning all around us, tirelessly extracting crude from the ground. There is something deliciously poetic about driving through an oil field as you are running out of gas, but damned if I know what the poem is. The Chemist says he does not know how to refine crude oil into gasoline; he does, however, know how to distill ethanol (alcohol) into gasoline. Why did he bring this up? I leave it to the reader to decide.

The Chemist admits that if we were to try to distill ethanol into gasoline, we would likely fail and destroy the van. I imagine us trying to do this chemistry, and even that imagination does not go well.

But there is nothing else we can do.

Panic escalates.

Part 2

The Sticky Note Letter

Sometime during my first week of college, I put a sticky note on the exterior of my dorm room window. (Read it about it here.) Now, after two semesters, the sticky note hasn't fallen off yet. Truly amazing.

I wrote a letter to the future residents of my room in an attempt to preserve this sticky note's life and maintain its legacy Below is the letter in its entirety.

_______________________________________________________________________________

To whom it may concern:

In August of 2014, I put up a sticky note on this window. Now, in May of 2015, it has not yet fallen. It was pink, once, resplendent in youth and eager to see the world -- perhaps to remind some cubicle worker of a 10AM meeting, perhaps to bookmark some profound book passage, perhaps to serve as an impromptu grocery list. Little did it know, it had a much higher purpose.

A sticky note's life is not long. They are made to be discarded, transient and immaterial, popup windows in real life. Yet this one lives on in spite of all this, clinging to life, spitting in the faces of gravity and time. This one perseveres. This one is not some quick aid for human memory; it looks up to the great glory of Rome, the endurance of Shackleton, the courage of Armstrong. Yet Rome, Shackleton, and Armstrong are dead, and this sticky note is not.

I implore you to pass this letter on to the future residents of this dorm room, that they may witness and attest to the legacy of this sticky note. What we have here is more than a withering, yellowed piece of paper. What we have here is a national treasure.

If you have any questions, or if you would like to tell me more, please email me at sunwn0290@gmail.com.

Sincerely,

Weiliang Sun

________________________________________________________________________________

Now all I can do is hope someone reads the letter and emails me. If they do, I will notify you all immediately.

In Celebration Of My Sticky Note

I put a sticky note on the outside of my dorm window in August. My dorm is on the 7th floor. The sticky note is still there.

It endures through bitter storms and gusting winds and plagues of insects. Once pink and joyous, it is now pale yellow, shriveled, and hangs perpendicular to the window, like it is mid-jump, a tap away from plunging down into the abyss. Even as everything around it -- weather, gravity, time itself -- tries to bring it down, it persists, ruthlessly, unflinchingly, indomitably.

It is dying, but it will not die.

You thought Ernest Shackleton was cool. You've marveled at the glory of the Roman Empire. But Shackleton and Rome are dead and gone, and my sticky note lives on.



UPDATE: I've written a letter about the sticky note! Read it here.

My NBA Experience

I went to an NBA game with my cousins this past Saturday. It was a lot of fun. Here are the most memorable parts of my experience.

Advertising

The advertising at an NBA game is like a parody of itself. Every timeout, of which there are many, is a KeyBank™ or RedBull™ timeout, ripe with the chance to win a $50 KeyBank™ sponsored gift card, or a RedBull™ coupon or something. These gift cards and coupons would literally descend on us from onhigh, floating gently down on little parachutes, giving the impression that KeyBank is located in heaven.

Before the game had even started, two large King Soopers™ blimps were aggressively flying around the stadium, casting King Soopers™ shadows over the audience. Every free throw is a Sierra Mist™* free throw. What does that even mean? The scoreboard, the banner encircling the court, any downtime whatsoever -- if you could fit an ad into some unit of spacetime, it was already there, desperate for your attention. The stadium itself was called the Pepsi Center, for God's sake. It was too much.

Refreshments

Pricing of food and drinks at these things always surprises me. I don't know why, I mean it makes sense for the NBA staff to confisicate my water bottle (which they did) so they can charge over 500% normal price for a can of soda (which they did, whistling a merry tune while doing so). I'm not being sarcastic. The NBA makes a lot of money doing this, and people are okay with it. Probably excited for the chance to recoup the massive amount of money they will inevitably spend on popcorn and soda by winning a KeyBank™ gift card!

We bought one Mountain Dew™ and one Gatorade™. The vendor took the caps off for us before we even got to touch them, then hid the caps away in some unseeable void. The reason all drinks had to be uncapped was because apparently people had been throwing the caps onto the court, and it had become a big problem.

I found this a little strange, because if you want to throw a cap, and then someone takes the cap from you, don't you still have a Sierra Mist ™ bottle you can throw? Like, if someone really wants to throw something, taking the cap from them doesn't seem like it will fix much. Listen, NBA: Either you tell your valued customer to cup their hands and then you spray the Sierra Mist™ right in there from a hose, or you don't sell drinks at all.

Oh yeah, I forgot the second option is ridiculous because it doesn't make you any money.

Employees

All the employees seemed incredibly sad, tired, and unmotivated. It was not a good atmosphere for them, mindlessly collecting tickets and standing there, or watching for security concerns, while a lot of other people have fun. It occurred to me that their situation is still much, much better than the workers who assemble iPads, and I think about those iPad workers less, yet I use my iPad more. (I don't actually have an iPad, but you didn't know that. Err, until now. Stop asking so many stupid questions.)

The Game Itself

Nuggets down by 6-24 by 10 minutes and it did not get much better from there. Nuggets were not good that night. Still, I really enjoyed watching the talent and athleticism of the away team (Clippers).

I'd never seen the NO ONE SITS UNTIL WE SCORE thing before. It took a long time for the Nuggets to score, so I got this funny image in my head (as I'm sure everyone there did) of a group of exhausted Nuggets fans standing for two hours while increasingly demoralized Nuggets players attempted worse and worse shots. I guess most people did sit down before the Nuggets scored during a timeout. (I didn't.)

Overall, I really did enjoy the experience. But KeyBank™ sucks.**






*Sorry, I don't actually know when using ™ is appropriate. I even tried to look it up on Google™. Forgive me, all you Trademark experts who read my blog.
**Yeah! Take that, KeyBank!

On Skiing

Went skiing with family for New Year’s. Below is the wonderful tale of that experience.

Waiting

If you like waiting - mostly in line, but also on chairs - then skiing is the sport for you.

The first wait was in line to rent equipment, which was a long one. There was this lady behind us who gave us instructions while we were in line. She mostly told us to “scoot up” when the people in front of us moved forward. On one of these cues, I moved forward less than 6 inches, and that was apparently satisfactory. Turns out when you’re in the middle of a long line, scooting up does very little to save time. If we had not scooted up at all, we would have arrived at our goal no more than one second later.

I exited the equipment rental to find another line at the ski lift.

Skiing

The last time I skiied was over two years ago, which means it was basically my first time. I had an instructor back then — his name was Scooter or something like that — and the one thing I remember is that this guy hated the pizza. The pizza is when you ski down a slope by making a V shape with your skis. It looks absolutely horrible, and is the hallmark of a novice skiier. What you’re actually supposed to do is slalom down, skis parallel, moving in the shape of an S, left right left right, cutting tracks in the snow, controlling speed, shredding powder.

Riding the lift up, looking down, I found that it’s pretty much impossible to look uncool while skiing (so long as you’re not doing the pizza). Every person coming down the slope looks great — but that’s probably because they are better skiiers than I am. Some of them are crouched for speed, so aerodynamic, chest touching their knees. Some of them are standing all the way up, aloof, totally chilling out. Some of them bounce up and down as they slalom. They make it look so easy, and I’m sure I’ll look just like them soon enough, despite the fact that I actually have no idea what I’m doing.

Something about the skiier/snowboarder aesthetic reminds me of ninjas. There's something innately cool (no pun intended, seriously, you gotta believe me) about it, the tinted goggles, the no-part-of-your-face-except-maybe-your-mouth-showing, the multilayered clothing like a soft armor, the ski poles like twin katanas. Even the people who are like me, who have no clue what skiing even is, look like the most agile assassins as they fall.

At the end of the lift, my skis hit the snow, I go into a left turn, and promptly fall on my side. Ouch. Falling the instant you dismount the lift is not something I would describe as a good omen. My confidence drops a little, but it’s fine, I’ll just copy the people in front of me.

I start downhill. The guy in front of me is crouched down low, back of his hands on his butt, poles sticking straight back like two long quills. He really looks like he knows what he is doing, so I copy him. The acceleration is strong, but man, what an adrenaline rush. It feels good.

I decide I need to slow down, so I attempt a slalom by shifting my weight mostly to my left ski. It doesn’t work that well. I find it really hard to keep skis parallel and end up doing a slight pizza. Somewhere many miles away, Scooter winces and doesn’t know why. I will never really figure out how to get my skis parallel by the end of the trip, although I will get better at it. 

The course is blue, which means it’s probably beyond my level. Still, I feel the incredible rush as I attempt my slalom, going way too fast, unable to control my speed. A memory of the last time I skiied enters my brain: Going down a steep hill, I lost all control and ended up faceplanting into a tree at high speed, arms and legs splayed out on either side, cartoon-style. The adrenaline coursing through my system was so intense that I felt no pain; I shrugged it off, and made it down the hill no problem. It is a good memory.

I think I have my ski boots on too tight, because they are uncomfortable, but loosening them makes the strap come undone and that can’t be right. I fall a lot more than anyone else. It’s all worth it for the rush.

Day Two

The second day is a lot better than the first. I feel more in control of my skiis, more adept at shifting my weight around, more cool. I ride the higher lifts. 

I go down a slalom course, decked out with flags and stuff. It's pretty steep. I don't fall; I adeptly swerve around every obstacle, perfect S, going fast, center of mass low. Damn, I look cool right now. I bet those people on the lift are thinking about how cool I look, and they could not be more right. I am one badass skiing hero. I feel the rush, embrace it, let it envelop me, kiss it tenderly. I am more than human in this place. I am a skiier.

I then go into the trees, which was not a good decision.

Trees

Going into the trees underscores my incompetence. There is no room for the the massive, course-wide slalom swerves I was doing before. There is no forgiveness or mercy in this place. There is, however, a lot of powdery, fluffy snow that my skis sink into. I fall constantly, getting snow all over my face and up my sleeves. I slam into trees. There is no rush here, because I am pizzaing so hard my right ski forms a 90 degree angle with my left ski. Scooter cries himself to sleep that night.

My falls put me in weird, Kafkaesque scenarios. How did my left foot end up pointing backwards, my right foot pointing forwards? Where did my skis go? How come the only way for me to get up right now is to lift both my skis over my head and attempt a backwards somersault? How do I even get up right now? How long would it take them to find me if I died here, cold and alone?

Next time down, I decide to go into the trees again. It’s even worse this time. My eventual, tortured exit is half-crawl, half-slide-on-my-ass, the least graceful thing ever. I skiied as much in the trees as I skiied on my way up, riding the lift. Worst ninja ever.