Seasons are everything to us here in Yellowstone
Country. In Yellowstone, the changing of
seasons is marked by symbolic events that are sometimes natural, but just as often,
man-made.
Though the persistence of winter-like storms often tell us
otherwise, for those of us who live in the gateway communities to Yellowstone,
the opening of the park’s interior roads, accompanied by the budding of
cottonwoods along the banks of the Lamar River, signals the highly anticipated
arrival of spring. From my perch overlooking
the rugged and sleepy community of Gardiner, the human induced arrival of
Yellowstone’s most glorious season—summer—is marked by the first mid-week line
of vehicles at the North Entrance Gate snaking back to the Roosevelt arch. And while fall’s arrival is most notably
aligned with the bugling of elk, its end is marked by the closing of the same
interior roads that, seven months earlier, when opened, signaled the end of
Yellowstone’s longest season.
This is always a day I dread. On the first Sunday in November—regardless of
weather and road conditions—the National Park Service abruptly barricades the
paved arteries that allow us to venture into Yellowstone’s cavernous
depths. And, as if this were not
depressing enough, on this day, just when the brown trout fishing on the
Gardner River begins to reach its climax, the park also closes the fishing
season. On the same day that they close the park roads each November—just
in case this symbolic act of winter’s arrival doesn’t send you into a
depressive funk—the end of our opportunity to pursue encounters with our
favorite finned community members surely serves as the final metaphorical
dagger to the heart.
I have been prodding myself for two weeks now to write a
short essay about the significance of this mournful day, but have been stopped
by my inability to dredge up the courage to face the reality of it all. Winter has arrived.
Three weeks after the god’s of Nature (the National Park
Service) locked the long swinging gates, signifying winter’s arrival, on a cold
Saturday morning, while the residents of Montana awaited the beginning of the
Griz-Cat clash, a wave of ominous clouds shrouded the mountains encircling the
Gardiner basin. Though short-lived, the
belly of one massive cloud released a fierce fury, sending sea-salt sized
snowflakes toward the cold and hardened desert floor of the northern
range.
Moments later, my baby girl ran to the glass door, and with
the purity of a little person just discovering the mysterious wonders of
Yellowstone, giggled. “Wow.
Daddy,” she said, “look at dis, it’s snooing.” After the laughter and shock at my little
one’s vocabulary subsided, I began to think about the meaning of her
words. This pronouncement—from a two
year olds’ angelic mouth—forced me to re-evaluate the faith I’ve put into the
man-made symbols of a changing season.
The day the barricade went up I subconsciously accepted the
fact that winter had arrived, and even put my trusted green stick in a closet
with the rest of my fly fishing paraphernalia—without questioning the
assumption that the end of the fishing season in YNP marked the end of any opportunity to pursue encounters
with wild trout on the famed waters of the Yellowstone outside of the park.
But my little girl’s enthusiastic declaration now had me
questioning my own acquiescence. Can I
honestly put this degree of credence into the acts of an agency that fails to
recognize the seasonal needs of what is perhaps its greatest symbol—the bison? The National Park Service has adopted a
line-in-the-sand approach to managing the elephant of North America. Instead of
managing this celebrated beast in accordance with the principles of biology,
the Park Service adheres to a management policy built upon the shoulders of
politics.
What if—I now asked myself—the decision of when to close the
park’s roads is more political than phenological? Have I been entering the depressive state of
winter prematurely, perhaps because of budgetary decisions made by a government
agency? Maybe I still take too much
pride in my time wearing the green and gray as a ranger naturalist in
Yellowstone National Park.
As naïve as it may sound, a part of me wishes I could keep
that faith and pride in my heart, because there is comfort in knowing when winter will come. But the greater part of me, the
(dreamer/child/free spirit/Abbey) in me, hopes I can recapture the independence
and purity of a little person entering her 25th month, and in the years to
come, let Yellowstone herself tell me when winter has arrived…
~Michael Leach, Director
