Portland, OR
Elevation: 1,073 ft.

Driving slowly through Jackson Hole I felt a weight begin to pull at my chest. I didn’t know if it was the bad Thai food I had the night before or if it was the weight of the realization that my trip was almost over. Climbing higher and higher into the Teton range I began to feel the effects of the sudden spike in elevation. My head began to hurt, my breath became shallow and my hearing began to dull. The music and the passing trees seem to cross senses and blended into my emotions like a slow-churned, low-fat gas station custard - I was starting to become extremely sad. For nearly two weeks my only responsibilities were to keep my eyes on the road, to keep my belly reasonably full and to make sure I had somewhere to sleep at night. In every sense I was living the road tripping life of a modern day nomad. It was a lifestyle I had first found stressful and anxious but soon became a carefree, life loving feeling I couldn’t possibly let go of. Knowing that I still had a long way to Yellowstone, as well as the time there, I put the feelings away and pulled over to an overlook.

“Gotta’ learn to roll with the punches, Chris. Gotta’ learn.”

Because the Yellowstone’s south entrance was closed for the season I needed to enter from the west which required me to drive northeast into Idaho and then west through Montana and then back into Wyoming. The whole drive only took 3 hours but I couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t worth it knowing that I needed to be in southeast Idaho that night. I popped another piece of Kroger jerky into my dry mouth, wiped at my eyes and refocused on the bug guts. Here I was nearly a continent away from my problems and I was overthinking the logistics of enjoying one of America’s most spectacular national parks.

Pulling into Yellowstone I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I had long done away with my typical preparations, i.e. trolling wikipedia and Google Maps the night before, and had embraced a much more free-spirited approach. Just drive, experience and live. The first thing to greet me was the beautiful Madison River.

Driving towards the middle of the park I knew that I needed to make some decisions. Yellowstone’s roads are shaped like the outlines of a vertical rectangle with a line drawn through the middle. Knowing that a number of roads in the eastern half of the park were still closed I ambitiously decided to cover the entire western half, the middle road and the northern border. Hanging right I drove as fast as I could south towards none other than Old Faithful. Passing overlooks, hikes and bison I bit my lip telling myself that I was already running out of the day and needed to make some hard decisions. I couldn’t afford to really be out on the road much longer. Pulling into the Old Faithful parking lot I was surprised. It had a parking lot. I didn’t know what to expect honestly, I had forgotten just how built up these popular parks could me. Grabbing my camera I crossed the parking lot and into the mall of gift shops and information centers. Crowded around a smoking mound in the ground where easily a hundred people sitting on the longest, widest benches I had ever seen. I found a spot in the center on the ground and waited for what seemed like forever, surrounded by shouting kids complaining about the wait, parents promising it was only 4 more minutes and teenagers shouting “3, 2, 1!” and then giggling. Just as my eyes started to glaze over the elbow of the little boy next to me dug into my arm waking me up enough to fully hear him shouting, “It’s starting! It’s starting!”

Gunning it back to Rhyhorn I started the engine and pulled out my map. It was already 1600 hours. Cruising northwards I decided to hit as much as I could. Worse case scenario I would camp out that night and rendezvous in Boise the next day. Yellowstone is a massive national park (as well as the FIRST national park!) and, appropriately, the terrain is incredibly different depending on where you are in the park. The eastern side is predominantly hot springs and geysers. On the southern end is Old Faithful and on the northern end are the Mammoth Hot Springs. My first stop northward would be the Midway Geyser Basin. The landscape reflected prehistoric elements and made me feel like I was in the middle of Jurassic Park. Stepping out of Rhyhorn at one of the pull-offs I held my breath and took a wide shot of the geyser basin. I paused an extra second legitimately expecting an adult T-Rex to come tearing down the corner.

The Midway Geyser Basin was my first encounter with natural hot springs, geysers and fumaroles. It was truly unlike anything I had ever seen. Water collected in deep, porous rock heated by magma even deeper down was being forced to the surface of the earth just to explode out and into the cold Firehole River. It was an unreal scene that evoked the primeval forces of a time long ago and it took my breath away.

Once I reached the Madison Junction I had to decide whether or not to continue north to Mammoth Hot Springs or to head east towards Canyon Village and potential campsites. Weighing my options and remaining daylight I decided that capturing some images of the famous Lower and Upper Falls would be a perfect end to the first day. It was 26 miles of driving and it was nearly 1700 hours and the sun was starting to wane behind the ridge line, I was getting worried about what I would do if there weren’t any campsites. Like clockwork, mother nature intervened and snapped me back to a more pertinent reality, a constant theme for my two days in the park - Bison.

Pulling over to a bridge crossing I grabbed my camera and climbed down the bank towards a resting herd. People where cautiously hovering around the road, rightfully unsure of how close they should approach the huge animals. A young lady, an older man and myself ventured the closest.

Continuing eastward I began to get worried as more and more people were passing me fast in the opposite direction. I didn’t have any signal so I couldn’t call ahead to ask if the campsites were open. Chasing the potential of an amazing shot and an equally amazing campsite I pressed on. When I reached Canyon Land I was greeted by an empty parking lot, empty buildings with “closed for the season” signs and an hour of lost time. Frustrated I took a piss, looked at my map and started on the road back west. I would check the Norris campgrounds and if they were closed would head north for Mammoth Hot Springs.

Norris was closed too. Heading up towards Mammoth Hot Springs I began kicking myself for being so damn free-spirited. Why didn’t I think to ask the Park Rangers which sites were open? This early in the season I was running into seasonal problems. It made sense. The road quickly turned into a dirt road - there was a lot of construction happening. I started seeing more and more people turn around joining an ever increasing stream of people driving back southward with disappointed, worried looks in their faces. Spurred on by my there’s-no-turning-back attitude as well as the fact that all the Jeeps and trucks were keeping on keeping I manned up and kept on too. The road was getting dusty, muddy and narrow at the same time and I pulled over a couple of times to ask sedans pulled over with their hazard lights if they needed help. They were either waiting on someone or were consulting their maps. I finally ran into a young man pulled off into the brush that seemed to know what he was doing. I pulled up to him as he was happily thumbing through his case of CDs (I dug it). Looking into his old school BMW I could see scattered clothes and some pillows, he was down with the #vanlife. I asked him if he knew which campsites were open and he told me that Madison was (too far and I ain’t turning around) and that Mammoth might be but that it filled up quickly. I thanked him and asked what he was planning to do and he replied, “I’m just gonna find somewhere here and kick it for the night, it’s getting dark and ain’t no one gonna come find you just as long as you get going early in the morning”. I thanked him and wished him the best. Pulling into Mammoth Hot Springs I breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly I was surrounded my tourists and buildings. Who would have known that there was a huge built up town around the Springs? Turning the corner I had another sigh of relief as I gratefully pulled into a full and lively camp. Throwing some duffels on the roof I began my campsite procedures. Within minutes I had water boiling, tunes playing and a cold beer in my hand. Watching the sun set as The Head and The Heart played in the background I finished up my Backpacker’s Pantry Pad Thai and Snake River Lager and crawled into Rhyhorn.

The next morning I explored the Mammoth Hot Springs itself. A far bigger set of hot springs than Midway Geyser Basin, I was happy with all of the different colors I found. The forest and landscape around the hot springs were just as amazing.

Heading south back towards the west entrance I had made the decision to fully explore the rest of the western arm of the park. I decided that I would come back one day to fully do the central and eastern tours of the park justice. I am glad that I did because the drive turned out to be a totally different experience in the daylight, unsullied by the wicked stress of my insatiable control freak tendencies (I am working on it, it is one of my greatest vices and I have paid far too much a soul should for it). Rock formations.

In the daylight I was able to see vistas that captured perfectly the range of ecosystems Yellowstone was made up of. I mentally refer back to Pokémon for a lot of my inspiration but also for a lot of basic ecological dynamics. Every ecosystem has a variety of different flora and fauna and every ecoregion has their own set of these subsets and shit, every ecoregion of different continents have their own species and don’t even get me started on biomes. From day 1 of the trip I was encountering new trees, new birds, new mammals and came into contact with my first mega fauna - Bison. It really has opened my eyes even more to why I love the field I am in. And it has helped stoke stoke stoke a fire burnin deep within me to keep going.

My last geyser stop of the trip was at the Norris Geyser Basin. By far the largest basin I had visited I was blown away at the size of the Porcelain Basin (the smaller of the two basins).

The light blue of the hot springs contrasted with the stark whiteness of the dry sand and both worked to make the dark greens and blues of the trees and ridges pop. It was both a complex of nature as well as artistry. And was a bitch to photograph.

Pulling out of Norris (hehe) I gunned it for the west entrance. It was already 1400 hours and I had a 10 hour drive ahead of me. The mission was Boise, ID where my cousins awaited me, and where my solo trip would end. Driving as fast as I could I hurtled past overlooks and Bison like I just got the Warden’s teeth and didn’t have no time for Tauros. But a herd grazing along the Madison River I hadn’t seen during my trip in caused me to stop. Sitting along the riverside smoking a cigar as he gazed into the valley was an elderly man wearing a leather hat and jacket (cowboy not biker). I approached him quietly and shouted, “Howdy, how are you sir?” “Doing good, just trying to stay downwind”. I made small talk with him as I framed and shot a few pictures of the Bison. He was from Idaho Falls, ID but his family was originally from Roanoke, VA. I told him that I was from Virginia and had a good friend that lived in Franklin County just south of Roanoke and that I really like Roanoke. I told him that I was headed towards Boise, ID to which he grinned, took a deep hit of the cigar and gave me a thumbs up. “Boise is a great city, lots of bars. Lots of bars. It’s like a college town. You’ll like it there”. I told him I was excited and that I had a long drive ahead of me. Then he gave me some damn good advice, “It gets worse before it gets better to Boise. The state troopers in Idaho are all back and don’t give you any warning”. I thanked him saying that the innocuous, pastel blue police of Michigan caught me off guard. Taking one last breath of Yellowstone I walked over to him and asked him what he thought.

“That’s a beautiful camera and a damn beautiful photo. Well done.”

Pulling into Boise, ID I felt a feeling of relief and accomplishment. I would soon join Khemm and Amanda and would be the closer to Oregon and my new life than I had ever been. The Gladics family really opened their doors to me and treated me far better than I could have ever asked for. The last time I had seen them was at Khemm and Amanda’s wedding back in 2011. At the time I knew them as a shy, polite and reserved family. With the exception of her eccentric brother who had the perfect curly mustache and tophat I believed them to be quiet homebodies. But I was wrong. Both of her parents had careers in forestry. Her father had hitchhiked across the United States, was a wildfire firefighter and spoke on environmental issues at the congressional level. To put it simply, her parents are O.G.’s. Her and her brother, Pat, didn’t fall far from the tree at all. Think the incredibles. Amanda went off to study wildlife as well and works badass jobs off the pacific coast riding the seasonal waves of fishing boats up as far as Alaska and her brother is a former Hotshot turned Smokejumper turned Helitack that spends the off-season sewing custom firefighting gear and basejumping. The Gladics name is a name anchored in badassery and badassery. Not to mention they have a beautiful home and Pat has an awesome camper (set up on a RAM 2500 running a cummins).

Heading out on the road the next day I was, for the first time in a long time, part of a caravan and the mission was none other than Portland, OR. The drive through Idaho was tiring and surreal at the same time. I really wasn’t sure how to handle the fact that I was driving behind my cousins towards their home. It has been 4 years since I started talking to them about moving out there. Since I started asking them for help and advice on getting my feet wet in conservation. It was at my lowest point after a big breakup, jumping ship from pharmacy and full on taking the hit of unemployed, existential crisis that I started this blog. I wanted something that I could look back on and reflect on. Much like the ink and paper journals that I have been keeping since the 3rd grade, I believe that there is so much intrinsic value to words. The words we speak and write. They are us, they are real and they are proof that for a time we breathed and lived in this world. Aside from courage and action I don’t think there is anything in this world more powerful or as beautiful as words. It was a lot to handle as I drove into the afternoon sun.

We stopped in Pendleton, OR for lunch and yes, Pendleton as in the American heritage brand Pendleton. The gear junkie and gear history buff in me was freaking out to be in the town that the old woolen mill was founded and still operated. We stopped by the store after lunch with hopes of me finding a nice pillow case for my favorite pillow. Once we got in there the reality of how much a heritage brand can charge for their products. I’m talking an average of $200 a blanket and about $40 a set of pillow cases. Albiet the products were wool and still made in the USA (most of which literally in the next room) I just couldn’t afford them right now. But I enjoyed being in the first store and watching the information videos and gazing quickly into the museum. I am a sentimental person and, as natural and simple as I am trying to live, I am admittedly materialistic. Not in the shop till you drop sense but in the sense that I place a lot of sentiment into the things I own. My truck, my tin cup, my first Patagonia t-shirt I got 5 years ago. I don’t own many things but the things that I do purchase are usually aligned with a special moment in my life and I figured that when the moment came that I would get said blanket it would have been for a good reason. I’m sure I will find a great one one day by chance in a Goodwill or from a friend and I think that’s the best way to come across the things we carry. Besides, for that kind of money I should just invest in a good sheep. I know some people.

After Pendleton my cousin Khemm took over giving me the chance to focus on taking pictures. We were heading westward and would soon join the mighty Columbia River and descend into the Colombia River Gorge of legend. If you are a close friend of mine then you know that Foster Huntington has, for a long time, been a big inspiration of mine. Not just because of the nomadic lifestyle that he chose when he left his design job in New York to drive across the U.S. and surf up and down the west coast, but because of the earnest way he looks at life and how unabashedly sentimental and grateful he is for the simple things. Finding his blog in 2011 incepted me with an idea that my life was meant for something far greater than the pharmacy counter of a CVS and that there was no such thing as “too late” until you gave up. It set into motion a domino effect of changes that culminated in me starting Rhyhorn’s engine on April 19th 2015. My eyes watering as I held back tears and my muscles cramping as I waved goodbye to my family and my home and my state. I think that life is too short and too precious not give our dreams the weight that they deserve. I think that life is to long to carry with us sadness and hurt. And I think that our souls are reflected in the people that we keep around us. And finally, I believe with all my heart that there isn’t anything in this world as important as how you treat another life…My apologies for the deep tangent. The Colombia River Gorge was a home base for Foster during his formative years and is now his current home base when he isn’t adventuring. Check out his amazing Cinder Cone project that him and his friends created. As we descended further into the Columbia River Gorge the landscape changed dramatically from the open farmlands and barren hillsides of Eastern Oregon to the lush greenery of the west. Shooting out of my window into the setting sun gave me the perfect lighting for what I like to call the “classic road trip photo”.

Pulling into Portland the feels were at an all time high. My trip had come to completion but in a much more significant way it had come to fruition. I had done it. I had driven across the United States by myself. I had completed my mission and had taken an idea and made it into a reality. This was the beginning of a story I couldn’t possibly begin to predict. All I knew, as I unpacked the truck that I had come to call home, was that everything that happened from this moment on was going to be new and was going to be significant. I was starting anew with a clean slate and nothing but potential and I knew it was all dependent on how much i put into it. You make of life what you make of life. You can’t control what happens to you completely but you can control what you choose to do next. This marks Day 1 of the next chapter in my life and I am so happy and so grateful for all of the people that have made this possible. I am grateful for my loving family that has cared for me all my life and whom became my closest friends. I am grateful for my amazing friends who have believed in me every step of the way and who have inspired me with their own courage and their own battles. You have taken care of me beyond what I could have ever ask for and you have treated me with the kindness and love of a family. This trip wasn’t just for me, and I’m not accepting an Oscar, this trip was for all of you. In my darkest times of fear and loneliness I thought of everyone and how much they were all going through and how much they were counting on me. I know I’m not the center of the universe but from the sheer amount of you that told me that you were proud of me and that you were inspired by me - I did this for you. I am so privileged that I could make a trip like this and, though it was just a road trip it meant so much more than that to me. Here’s to life and taking the leap. Here’s to courage and the beauty and strength that it represents. Here’s to who the hell can possibly know! Cheers from the west coast my friends, let’s cross paths again soon.

Chris

On Gratitude and Living for Yourself

Jackson Hole to Portland: Closing Words.