After Bozeman, Montana (read HERE), we headed south. I was working on my laptop, trying to distract myself from leaving my son behind with no idea of when I might see him again, when Philip said, “Yellowstone is to our left.”
Wait, what? I grabbed a camera, snapped some photos of whatever was “to our left,” far, far away, and started to whinge about wanting to go there, at least to drive through it. Then we came to this sign:
I am supposed to be the navigator; therefore, it truly was my fault that I hadn’t noticed when we were going by one of the most famous and breathtaking parks in the world. I know it is here on our right, but I assure you when I next looked up it was on the left. Also, the Grand Tetons were on our left. This may or may not be a photo of Yellowstone or the Grand Tetons, taken from our pickup truck:
Philip just showed me a close up of the Grand Tetons, and I’m going to guess the above photo is NOT them! 🙁
EDIT: Philip found my real photos of the Grand Tetons:
I had to resign myself to viewing all that majesty up close on another trip. But we did go through West Yellowstone, stopping to let the dog tinkle, and I saw this truck:
Now, I think that blurry, distant photo above is, indeed, Yellowstone and not the Grand Tetons. Anyway, we zipped down through the southeastern corner of Idaho. The nights were already turning a bit chilly, and by lunchtime, I busied myself finding a place for us to stay. As was often the case when we were on the way to Montana and then on the way south to warmer places, we didn’t book until the day of. If going to a state park, sometimes, we didn’t book at all, simply arriving with hopes of getting one of the non-reservable spots, called “walk ons.” (As opposed to a “walk in” campsite that is for backpackers with tents.)
We ended up at a marvelous spot, Massacre Rocks State Park in American Falls, Idaho. It was a small campground, on a hillside, overlooking the Snake River. And it was perfect . . . once we got the Rocky parked. Basically, the park host had to stop traffic (of which there was none!) so we could go the wrong way on the one-way road to our campsite because you couldn’t back into it when going the correct way. Philip then had to back uphill into the spot. It was one of the more precarious sites, but worth it.
“We’ve had some rattlesnakes,” the park host said before offering a cheerful wave and driving away in his golf cart, the vehicle of choice for all RV parks as far as I can tell. That sent me on an immediate hunt for cowgirl boots, which I found after trying on only about a gazillion pairs. (I’ll show you next time.)
As to the less-than-welcoming name, there is this explanation: “Massacre Rocks State Park received its name from a grouping of boulders that created a narrow break through which the Oregon and California Trails passed. Emigrants, fearing that American Indians might be waiting in ambush, named the boulders ‘Massacre Rocks.’ Skirmishes between emigrants and Shoshone Indians did occur in August 1862, but these took place east of the park. The state park still contains visible remnants of the Oregon and California Trails, including deep ruts that can be visited by following a paved path at the end of Park Lane, northeast of the visitor center.” (Source: https://www.nps.gov/places/000/massacre-rocks-state-park.htm)
And there is an interesting story about the little hut across the Snake River. Years earlier, River Joe built it as an upgrade from the tent he was living in while trapping and gold mining. He and I are not cut from the same cloth. A shower without scalding hot water has me feeling like I’m roughing it in the arctic.
Next time, llamas and bison and cows . . . oh my!