In many ways Yellowstone Park in July is similar to the mall at Christmas. Crowds of people mill about everywhere, every minor attraction causes a back-up (auto or pedestrian) and parking is a nightmare. After sitting in my car for an hour to get into the park, I deal with a traffic jam for every wildlife sighting or possible sighting. Several times I pass large crowds of people with cameras at the ready staring at…..nothing. Each turnoff for a geyser, falls, or scenic overlook (there are plenty of all three) causes a stop in traffic as parking lots overflow and cars circle futilely. My destination is 40 miles into the park and it takes over two hours to get there. I’m peopled out as I pull into the small trail head parking area and delighted to see only one car. Bah humbug.

The Mary Mountain Trail lies on the edge of the Hayden Valley in the center of Yellowstone. The area is prime grizzly bear country and unlike most areas of Yellowstone, no overnight camping is allowed. There are two options with this trail; you can hike four miles in to the Violet Creek area and turn around or continue on sixteen miles past Violet to the west trail head of Mary Mountain. Besides the idea that twenty miles is a hell of a day hike, the trail past Violet is rarely used and disappears for long stretches. A problem I will encounter in small stretches of the four miles to the creek. My intention is to hike the four miles and take a dip in the natural hot springs at Violet Creek. While keeping an eye out for grizzlies.

With graying skies overhead and Yellowstone’s penchant for quick weather changes I have a extra shirt and pair of socks but no rain gear. No turning back now, even after reading the warning signs about bear activity and the recommendation to not hike in groups smaller than three. Bear spray in hand (Ok, I kept it in my backpack which is a big no-no) and a sense of “Let’s do this!” after sitting in a car for three hours, I head up the trail.

The Mary Mountain Trail is unlike any hike I’ve done during my time in Montana. Unlike the dense forestry or steady climbs of previous hikes, the Mary Mountain Trail is a flat straight track through a wide valley. On the right the terrain rises to a tree line which parallels the trail, getting as close as twenty-five yards. The tree line on the left side of the valley is a quarter of a mile away. A small river tightly oxbows through the middle of the valley. The knee-high grass grows a golden brown and taken with the dark green of the tree-line and the blue-ish gray of the sky overhead, the hike contains all the popular colors of this year’s Pottery Barn candle line.

The first half mile inclines slightly and at the crest I encounter my first bison. He’s feeding fifty yards from the trail and after a quick swing of his head in my direction he pays me no mind. Bison have gored a few Yellowstone tourists this year, all venturing in too close to take pictures. Their charge is quick and violent. The National Park web site recommends keeping 25 yards away and this bison is well outside that zone. I give the large herbivore an admiring glance and continue on the trail.

On the other side of the incline luck deserts me. A bison lays in the middle of the trail. I take the first of many wide berths off the trail and around bison who show no intention of moving. The first three miles follow the same pattern. I keep a weary eye on the tree line to my right for bears, while dodging bison along the trail and trying to keep my feet dry while slogging through the marsh off trail. I’m successful at the latter until I encounter a group of ten bison grouped next to the trail. It is the largest group I’ve seen so far and there’s another difference- there’s a calf among the group. I give the group a wide berth to the left side of the trail when the largest of the bison walks towards me. Instead of heading back to the trail after passing the group he continues to walk in my direction which pushes me farther from the trail. I’m well past the group now, fifty yards off the trail, and walking in muck. Instead of letting the bison continue to push me off the trail, I stop and wait for his next move. He continues his path diagonally away from me for a few seconds then breaks into a sprint. The sound of the gallop echoes through the valley and all I can think is “Whoa”.

Closer to Violet Creek the trail turns from small dirt trail to flattened grass path to….nothing. I stop, stand in the tall grass of the valley floor and while knowing the general direction I cannot find the path. Up ahead I see short pole sticking four feet out of the ground with the end painted orange. I march towards the trail marker and the trail appears. The last mile repeats this process several times. No trail, find marker, sort of find trail. Towards the river steam rises from the ground at river’s edge and I know I’m close.

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“Ever used this stuff before?”

The older gentleman behind the counter holds the bear spray as if he’s presenting a bottle of wine and I nod in the negative. The eight-inch high thin canister may look small but the spray packs a punch. Some studies say it’s more effective than a firearm. I’m not packing heat so I’m buying spray. It’s mandatory for today’s hike. He begins a thorough five minute class and my knee-jerk initial thought is “no thanks, I’ll figure it out” but at the end I’m grateful for his help. I don’t want my last thought on this earth to be “How does this work?”

I don’t buy the holster so I keep the spray in my pack. Under most circumstances I wouldn’t do this but with the trail slicing through the middle of the valley I’d have plenty of time to retrieve it before a bear could get to me. Or that’s what I tell myself. There are a few small inclines where the trail disappears for a brief moment but for a majority of the hike on three sides of me my sight line is as far as the eye can see. Then there’s the tree line to my right….

As I hike I keep a constant eye on the treeline. It’s far enough where nothing can suddenly appear but close enough to be unnerving. The trees are dense and provide cover but a bear could be seen walking among them. This may be hyperbole but I feel like a WW II infantryman walking a treeline in Belgium waiting for the Germans to open fire. I KNOW something is in there, and when nothing emerges from the woods instead of building confidence, it increases my anxiety. My head turns to every movement in the trees only to wonder if there was any movement at all. This mind game goes on for the first three miles until the tree line backs away from the trail. I don’t see a bear. I don’t see bear tracks. I don’t see bear scat. Between the tree line and the meadow surrounding the river (which looks exactly like every meadow near a river in every grizzly TV show) I think I should see something. But there are only 1500 grizzlies in the lower 48. Seeing one on a trail is extremely rare, even in grizzly country.

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I reach a large creek running parallel to the river with steam rising from different points in the creek. This must be Violet Creek. It is shallow, less than two feet deep in most places and it’s rocky bottom makes it difficult to navigate. In a bend in the creek I find a small pool with deeper water. Bending down I run my hand through the creek and the water is perfect temperature. I think about getting in but further up the creek I can hear a waterfall and go to check it out. I see a…… (Sorry, you’ll have to read more about the Violet Creek Hot Springs in next month’s Hot Springs Week!)

The first of what I think are rain drops pelt my head until I see the ice pellets on the ground. The slow pelting soon becomes a steady downpour and in minutes everything I have is wet. I exit the springs, get dressed in soaked clothes, and put on my already wet shoes. Running my fingers through my hair I feel the hail run down my back and hit the ground. Finally clothed it takes me minutes to find the trail and begin the four mile hike back.

A few minutes later the hail stops and the rain takes over. For the next hour the weather rotates between downpour, slight rain, and no rain but brisk breeze. My hands begin to numb and being uncomfortable triumphs fear. Instead of walking 25 yards off trail around the bison, I pass by them at 20 feet. I’m walking so fast they barely have time to notice me. The once cinnamon colored dirt trail is now a sticky black track. The moist marsh parts of the trail are now ankle deep mud traps and in a few spots my hiking shoe sinks into the mud vortex. I curse and keep moving. I could care less about the tree line and what lies within.  At 3.5 miles there could be a grizzly on a uni-cycle juggling flaming bowling pins on the trail and I wouldn’t stop. My feet are numb. This is miserable.

The road comes into view and though I’m closer, I’m not close enough. I reach a small drainage area that I should walk around but I cut through. Bad idea. Two steps in, the sucking of my boots into the black mud is the Mary Mountain Trail’s final gift for completing the eight miles. I curse, laugh, then curse again. The last part of the trail declines slightly and I’m borderline jogging to get to the road.  More like Olympic walking. I want to cross the road but the rain has slowed traffic to a crawl. As I stand watching the cars pass by, the pressed faces of the dry warm passengers against foggy windows gaze at my sad sight.  A large truck pulling a fifth wheel slows to let me cross and reaching my car an inner voice of doubt asks whether it was worth it. The question lingers as my numb hands unsuccessfully attempt to open the locked door. I take off my shirt, wrap it around the keychain to get a better grip and open the door. I’m cold, half-naked, hungry, and drenched as the answer comes to me. Of course it was worth it, spending time in nature always is.