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The
moose stood, not a muscle twitching, poised for my next move.
Although I was about 40 yards away it seemed to hear my movements:
the crinkle of my winter snowmobile suit, the musical notes
of my camera coming to life.
I
checked behind me; the sturdy outdoor washroom facilities were
a
more welcome site than usual. In case I had to run there would
be a steel door between me and the moose. Once again I aimed
my camera, watching the large brown creature become a miniature
in my camera LCD screen. He turned. Another animal, moving slowly,
emerged from the pines.
To
my right, Big Springs gurgled with the spring's first run-off.
I knew the moose went down to the water's edge to drink: I'd
seen their droppings in the snow, as I wandered the snow-tramped
path around the bridge. I wondered if the animals were thirsty
now, or hungry.
Hungry.
The first moose turned deliberately into the trees, his head
bobbing as he yanked mouthfuls of green pine needles from the
lower trees. The second seemed weaker-it had been an average
winter in West Yellowstone with around a hundred and fifty of
inches of snow, which no doubt made their lives more challenging.
The animal was, I guessed, a female, ready for the melt that
came with the 50 plus degrees of the day's warm sunshine.
I
was miles away from roads. Miles away from houses, farmyards,
and the amenities of civilization. I was in the Gallatin and
Targhee
National Forests around West Yellowstone that spread through
Montana and Idaho, not far off the Continental Divide, and only
a short drive from Yellowstone National Park. I was in one of
winter's most beautiful spots-where the only way in was on a
snow machine or snowshoe.
I'd
started from West Yellowstone, one of the gateways to Yellow-stone
Park, heading out by snow-mobile to explore the winter won-ders
of the area. The Two Top Loop took me to the highest elevation
of that part of the Rocky Mountains at 8200 feet, with its panorama
of snow, mountains, and evergreens. I stood on top of the world,
an ex-plorer with a helmet in my hand. The
snow clung to the edge of the mountains with swirls and
curls, sculptured by the never-ending wind at the top. It seemed
so pure, so innocent, that it was difficult to believe avalanches
did occasionally occur.
Before
long I reached Meadow Creek Lodge on the Idaho side;
not that it seemed to make much difference to the terrain whether
I was in Montana or Idaho. The log cabin was home to the Enget
and Buster families, and a welcome spot for visitors. The Lodge,
like the mountains around it, was snowed in for the winter.
Louise
Enget made her weekly trip out for groceries with a snow
machine-knowing that made the lettuce and tomato on my hamburger
taste even more delicious.
Louise's
family has owned the property around the Lodge since her
ancestors homesteaded it in 1898. The winter's mountain explorers
offered them an ideal way to not only make a living there in
the winter, but to also provide a much-appreciated service for
visitors.
A
large stone fireplace filled the room. I imagined winter nights
in front of the crackling fire, with snow falling from the sky-how
would it feel to know there was no road out. No nice warm car
or four-wheel-drive truck to plow through to stores or hospitals.
No roads at all, just trails. For Louise, her brother Bill,
and nephew Hal and his wife, Kaye, it was the best place on
earth. For me-I wasn't at all sure I was that kind of adventurer!
A
squirrel dashed across the yard, taking refuge in one of the
trees
as I returned to the snowmobile. Overhead a raven, large and
black, swooped out of the wide expanse of blue, then pivoted
back towards the sky, its wings flapping. Other explorers, like
me, pulled up in front of the Lodge, happy to find an oasis
in the snow.
Big
Springs was only a fifteen minute ride away. Other snowmobiles
were stopped on the bridge, with half a dozen parents and kids
pointing at the flowing water below. Joining them, I watched
trout
swim by in the clear mountain water, their rippling bodies escaping
quickly from view, racing downstream.
A
few yards further I met the moose, and settled in as an observer.For
half and hour, maybe longer, I watched as the two animals wandered
in and out of the trees, until it seemed they could ignore my
presence. I ventured out through the snow, stomping down to
the water's edge, getting closer to the roar of the running
creek. Water trickled out of the rock, following a path worn
smooth by time.
I
heard them about the same time as the moose-another group of
snow machines, their engines the hum of a beehive. Instead of
watching, as the moose had done when I arrived, they trotted
off, their long bodies lumbering over the packed trail. In a
minute
they splashed down into the water, stepping out of sight into
another stand of pines.
But
there were still lots of wonders of nature to discover on the
trails. I made the complete Black Canyon Loop, feeling the thrill
of riding the narrow ledges that wound up the mountainside to
the top of the canyon. Below me the snow was hundreds of feet
deep, where it sifted over the edges and collected. It was a
world of white that mesmerized me.
Further
along, pine trees covered the terrain so thickly it was difficult
to see the white slopes beyond. A tiny building, like a child's
playhouse, perched on the edge of the trail for a warm-up shack.
Snow, at least a foot deep, created a thick winter icing on
its top. While the day was warm, I could imagine how relieved
winter travelers would be to find the sheltering space when
the winter winds howled over the mountains.
Making
my way back to West Yellowstone I marveled at the secrets hidden
in the snows of its mountains and National Forests.
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