Yogi Wants His Money

My Grandpa opened his mail to find the Yellowstone National Park demanding he pay a $250.00 fine for destruction of property. He had never been to Wyoming but we had and my dad vehemently refused to pay it. This was the summer after I turned eight. In two weeks we drove from Illinois through Iowa, saw the sites in South Dakota, camped in Wyoming, toured Colorado and visited friends in Arizona where an air conditioned car was a necessitate. My parents borrowed my grandparent’s air conditioned Mercedes for the trip.

In Wyoming we found a nice little portion of Yellowstone that rented camp sites next to a fresh little stream. While my parents set up camp we played by the stream. Mom wanted to make sure my littlest brother didn’t drown, so she tethered him to a tree giving him enough rope to get his ankles wet. My middle brother and I took delight in wading in to our knees and taunting him, of course. The game didn’t last long because despite the 85* weather the water was cold, it was melting snow coming down from the mountains. We played at the camp site all afternoon and after dinner, toasted marshmallows, listened to stories Dad made up for us and then went to sleep in the tent. The next morning was going to be a big day.

We were visiting Old Faithful and it was a site to behold, if you’re interested in geology and hydrothermal occurrences - which I wasn’t. I was just interested in horseback riding and rolling my eyes at my parents, my brothers however loved it. We spent all day looking at stuff, I’m sure it was all amazing and marvelous geological stuff and I’m sure I rolled my eyes at all of it while wishing we would visit just one horse ranch. It was a long day and we three kids must’ve fallen asleep on the way back to the campground because when I awoke I was still in the car.

I was in the car, it was daylight and my parents were running the heat full blast and I’m pretty sure my dad was cussing. I looked out the window to find the babbling brook turned to raging river while we were gone and our tent with all our possessions in it was under 12 inches of ice water. My dad, with bare feet and pants rolled up, waded in to retrieve our gear while Mom entertained our questions with reassurance. After every expedition into the ice water Dad would get back in the car shivering and cussing long enough to regain feeling in his toes. I vaguely remember other campers craning necks to see the calamity that was our camp site, but no one offered help. I think I even remember someone refusing my father the use of their canoe, but Mom couldn't verify, so I might just be summoning extra drama

After all our stuff was saved including my extra special stuffed white unicorn with the sparkly rainbow horn, Dad sat in the car warming up his feet and his temper. Why hadn’t the park ranger mentioned the spring thaw would gorge the river? Why do they allow anyone to camp in a flood plane? What would’ve happened if we were sleeping when the water came seeping into the tent? Why didn’t anyone offer help? Who was going to tell the next people not to camp there? Well the answer to that last one was - my Dad. He promptly took out his hatchet and chopped the word “FLOOD!” with huge letters into the picnic table before we drove away.





















Brace yourself Mom...
The Environmental Assessment "Enclosed is a copy of the Slough Creek Campground Rehabilitation Environmental Assessment for Yellowstone National Park. The National Park Service is proposing to relocate some campsites within the 29-site Slough Creek Campground. Major flooding in the springs of 1996 and 1997 inundated several streamside campsites and has resulted in erosion at these sites. These events have prompted the National Park Service to evaluate the location of some existing campsites and propose their relocation to prevent further degradation of campsites due to water erosion and to alleviate safety and sanitation concerns." ... Click on Part 4 it has a picture of what I think is OUR campsite half way down the page.