My body is warm, but my nose is frosty.  I want to sleep longer and try my best, but it ain’t happening.  I slowly open my eyes and there’s a yellow glow outside the foggy car windows.

Dawn in Ketchum, Idaho. 

I toss off my blanket and awkwardly climb into the front seat.  I’m groggy, but the arctic temperature amps my brain up enough so I can stumble to the men’s room at this rest stop.  The truck I parked next to last night is gone, surprisingly it didn’t wake me.  I use the toilet, brush my teeth, and comb my hair.  But that does nothing to change my unshaven, bleary-eyed, rumpled clothes visage I view in the mirror.   

Sleeping in the back seat of my car wasn’t horrible.  I don’t think I ever dipped into REM sleep, but I got some rest.  Other than my nose and ears I was never cold, and I’m so thankful I brought a sleeping bag.

I start the car and I’m back on the road.  It’s approaching six am and I spy some cows on my right.  Looking at the odometer and doing the math, I’ve already gone over 2,000 miles on this trip.

My God, it’s fucking cold. 

Without that sleeping bag . . . I don’t even want to think what could have happened.  Lot of sprinklers watering the grass on either side of the road in Hailey.  Can still see snow on the mountains up ahead.  Think I just saw a woodpecker, and there’s a deer galloping on the side of the road.  Going past St. Luke’s Hospital where I almost parked for the night, and there’s an old-timey railroad bridge.

Once again, I’m back in Ketchum.  Ski View Lodge, log cabins, Ketchum Corral, Ketchum Industrial Center, a golf course, and the Sun Peak Picnic Site (where I should have slept last night).  There’s a little river running next to the road that I could have woken up next to.

The cemetery where Hemingway is buried is easy to find, and I have a map to show me where the gravesite is located.  I park and bring my notebook with me.  I stand there over the marble slab and scribble down my thoughts, though it’s hard to grip the pen because it’s so cold.  The grass is frosty.  The air is crisp. 

Staring down at Hemingway’s grave is a weird feeling.

There’s nothing but bones down there now, but I’m here because of his larger-than-life spirit.  The Sun Also Rises is my favorite, and I would call that book life changing.  I first read it as a seventeen-year-old, and it inspired me to seek a life of adventure.  I’d probably give myself a C-minus for succeeding in that quest, but I will continue to try to improve.

It’s end-of-the-world quiet here, only the wind and some chirping birds in the distance.  No cars.  No people.  I’m so lucky to be here alone with Hemingway.  The 42nd anniversary of his death is coming up in a few weeks . . . that doesn’t seem so long ago.  I don’t want to leave, but it’s freezing and I need some coffee.      

Back in the Passat, and I can see Whiskey Jack’s and the Oar House on the right side of the road.  I opt for Whiskey Jack’s and it’s warm and cozy inside.  One waitress works a small dining area and counter, probably 8-10 patrons here, mostly old men, having breakfast. 

It is quiet except for the TV above the counter talking about tornadoes in Minnesota.  I stir the cream in my Styrofoam cup, and for a brief second I consider asking directions to the Hemingway Memorial.  But there is no way I’d bother any of these salty dogs.

Back in the car I meander up and down side-streets in Ketchum, and with the sun in my eyes climbing the hills, it’s tough to read any signs.  I didn’t even know there was a Hemingway Memorial until I read about it online at John’s place yesterday.  I’m not going to waste any more time looking. I was at his grave, paid my respects and had a moment, that’s more than enough.

After getting gas I’m heading east again and leaving Sun Valley.  What else can I say about Ketchum?  It’s a tiny area with a historic downtown, ski shops, a few hotels, and the body of one of America’s greatest writers.  The skiing and fishing are supposed to be great, and maybe some time I can come back. 

It’s still frigid, with lots of clouds and some sun sneaking through.  There’s nobody else on this road except the cows.  There’s rolling hills, flat pastures, and the car goes up and down.  Mountains rise on my left as I enter Carey, population 513. 

I go left toward Idaho Falls and pass a guy in a cowboy hat and trench coat hitchhiking.  He shrugs when I don’t stop to pick him up, and I feel bad for a few seconds.  He was a damn stylish hitchhiker. But the aforementioned ax wielding fears still prevent me from stopping. 

There’s a little house in with a satellite dish on the roof.  Whether you’re in a town of five hundred or five million, in 2003 you’re not so much out of touch anymore.  The speed limit is only 35, and I welcome the slower pace of this Blue Highway that William Least Heat Moon might have traveled twenty plus years ago.

Craters of The Moon, some sort attraction, is 24 miles from here.  There are no other cars on this road.  Thin, horizontal clouds, lots of them, hang out amongst the blue sky.  I just passed a dead deer, a truly awful sight.

I’ve reached Craters of The Moon National Park.  Wow . . . the jagged terrain truly looks like the moon!  Bizarre sight after seeing all that ranch land.  Needing to find out more, I stop at Goodall’s Cutoff and read a sign: 

“When immigrants began to take their westbound wagons along old Indian and trappers trail past this lava, they had to develop a wild and winding road.  At this spot, like many others, they barely had enough space to get by.  At times they could not avoid lava stretches.  But they slowly crept along leaving their roads strewn with parts of broken wagon.” 

The lava looks charcoalesqe with a jagged look about it.  That must have really freaked out those Manifest Destiny seekers.  Where did the lava come from, how long ago?  How long does the lava go on for?  There are questions I must find out.

Entering Butte County, and there are brown hills with a green tint to them, that look smooth in the distance, and also some snow-capped mountains lying directly ahead of me.  Only two cars have passed, and it’s almost like my own, private road.  I have no idea how many miles it is to Yellowstone. 

I know practically nothing.  I just glanced at the map this morning and decided to head this way.  Okay, here’s another lookout point with a marker.  I stop again and read:

“The landscape before was explosively created by volcanic eruptions.  Cracks in the earth’s crust allowed lava to blast, plop and flow to the surface to form such unusual features such as cylinder cones, monoliths, and caves.  The entrance to this imposing place is known as Craters of The Moon National Monument is just down the road.  Stop at the visitors center to see the exhibits and take the 7-mile loop to drive through the monument.  Craters of The Moon offers a variety of experiences for those who want to explore.”

I want to explore, and I drive to the entrance, pay the five dollars, and enter the park.  After meandering down the road I pull over to take some pictures.  This lava is 2,000 years old!  They know this from the rings in the tree in front of me. 

I am walking along the path and the sign says “please stay on paved trail”, denying me the pleasure of experiencing up close lava that’s as old as Jesus.  Not many visitors here, despite the negligible entrance fee.  I read another sign:

“On a summer day temperature on ground level can reach over 150 degrees.  Yearly weather cycle can not only sizzle with summer heat, but also blister with snow and winter cold.”

I climb up to Inferno Cove and enjoy the silence. 

Gazing out at the mountains in the distance, it looks like somebody put some white, kidney shaped stickers in the sky.  It’s got a surreal quality, almost like looking into an old-timey View-Master.  Or maybe it’s just my lack of sleep. 

Next it the sinuous road that leads to the Spatter Cones, where the lava originally came up through the surface.  I get back into the car and take the trail to leave the park.  Pressure has built on my bladder (from the Ketchum coffee) and I decide to make one more stop.  The Cave Area has facilities, and I don’t see how I cannot check out a cave.  

After visiting the rest room I get on the cave trail.  There are these creatures bouncing around out here that seem to be a cross between a lizard and a chipmunk.  Or maybe I’m imagining them.  Anything is possible at this point.

The lava here is smooth, and pretty flowers jut up between these craters.  I take the path to Boy Scout Cave and enter the hole which is very dark and narrow. I imagine Dracula living in here.

Time to leave.     

It’s seven past eleven, and I’m heading north towards some giant, serrated snow-topped mountains.  Tough to gauge their distance, but I’ll guess about a hundred miles away.  It’s great driving out here.  I was yawning while walking around those caves, but now in the car and I feel more awake.

No idea how long it is to Yellowstone. 

Could be two, three, possibly five hours away.  I don’t know and I don’t care.  Another note, my borrowed cell phone still says no service.  Not a surprise, since I haven’t had any signal since I left John and Beth’s. 

Lots of clouds over the mountain range in front of me, with blue skies to my right and stormy looking clouds on my left. I reach Lost River and the speed limit goes down to 45.  Lost River Motel, Arco motel, Lazy-A-Motel, Riverside Motel . . . where the hell were all these places last night?

This looks like a wonderful hole-in-the-wall kind of town, with the Village Club, the Lost River Drive-In, Grandpa’s Southern BBQ, and The Club Sawtooth.  I should stop and get something to eat (mmm . . . BBQ), but I have the Pressing-Onward-Disease.

Taking a right onto the 26/20 to Idaho Falls, and I hope this is the right way.  Route 93 splits off at Arco, with 20 and 26 staying together.  Butte City, population 76 . . . that can’t be right.  Like Raoul Duke once pondered, how much longer can I maintain?

Idaho Falls is 60 miles away, but what the hell does that mean? 

I’ve gone past the snowy mountains and now into the heart of prairie territory.  There are lots of big, fluffy clouds and I begin to sing in an awful falsetto voice the 70s love song “All by Myself” with no radio accompaniment.

I eat the last of the Cape Cod Firecracker BBQ chips, which were bought in South Pasadena, CA, crumbs and all.  Do I stay on the 20 or go to the 26?  I choose to stay on the 20, and it appears to be the correct one because I see my first sign for Yellowstone, and it’s 152 miles away. 

The puffy clouds seem so low I could grab them. I want to grab them.  Reminds me of looking at wilderness slides through a View-Finder. So damn vivid. 

A truck just passed me, and it had been at least 30 miles without seeing a vehicle anywhere.  It’s almost noon with lots of birds flying low to the road.  137 miles to West Yellowstone and I need sleep.

The road goes dead straight, and I imagine myself driving into those clouds in the distance.  They look so soft, and I want to float away with them.  Just head into the thin and vaporous initial cloud layers, and maybe onto a sturdy one that will take me floating away to somewhere nice. 

Snap out of it, Ostrowski!  My mind is bending in weird directions without much sleep and all this driving.  But those clouds looks so comfy. 

It’s just me and the birds, who I guess are looking for food on the highway.  But they could be seeking something more sinister.  There’s a historical site ahead, and did it say something about elephant hunters?  I was going by too fast to read the whole sign, but I swear it said something about elephant hunters.

I feel my eyes closing but then a booming sound jolts me out of my trance.  A plane appears on the horizon, flying very low to my left, and my mind conjures up some crazy “North By Northwest” scenario . . . maybe I’ve learned too much about the Idaho Elephants and need to be “taken care of”.

Going at a nice clip here, doing 75, with very few cars on the road. Idaho Falls is 5 miles ahead, and if there’s anything cool to see in Idaho Falls, it won’t be seen by me.  Must…get…to…Yellowstone and pic-i-nic baskets.  But wait . . . that’s Jellystone.  I’m not Yogi Bear and this isn’t a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.   

Or is it?

The road to West Yellowstone is the next left and I take it.  There’s a Blasting Zone ahead, whatever that means.  I don’t want to get blasted. Got a logging truck ahead of me and a bunch of RVs.  My secluded peaceful driving is gone, and I’m back in the truck passing game with 101 miles to a much needed hotel. 

No music, no coffee, it’s tough to keep this shit show going.

I just hope there’s a collection of cheap-o motels outside of the park.  I find myself singing, crazily, “95 miles to Yellowstone, 95 more miles to drive.  You take one down, you drive all around, 94 miles before I fall asleep.”

There’s a “Wild Time Bear World” attraction up ahead, and I imagine a bunch of grizzlies drinking moonshine and playing the banjo.  Getting weird, sharp pains in my left thumb. About every 5 seconds it buzzes me.  A police cruiser just pulled over a car, and I now sing: “We got a long way to go, and a short time to get there, something-something watch old bandit run”. 

I have approximately one more hour of driving, and I see a sign for “Experiment Station”, which is probably something involving monkeys or aliens. 

I’m fading, so I slap my face a couple times.  I don’t think there’s a danger of falling asleep, but isn’t that what every person thinks right before they drive into a ravine.  I keep feeling that sleep wave welling up inside, but I must keep it from crashing. 

Seventy-two miles to go with some snow-covered mountains on my right.  Does Yellowstone officially begin in Wyoming, or is part of it in Idaho?  Not sure, but Fall River is the next stop, and I yell out “Fall Rivah”, which is how they pronounce the city of the same name in Massachusetts.

I am losing any semblance of concentration.  Through the windshield it looks like a puffy cotton towel draped over the sky.  In Ashton I begin to sing “Strangers in The Night”.

Fifty-seven more miles, and they are going to be brutal.  Looks like I’m heading right into a rainstorm.  I’m guessing a 95% chance of some sort of precipitation, and I’m qualified to make that forecast because I’ve had zero percent meteorologist training. 

I passed an RV a little while back, but no other sentient beings.  Me and the RV . . . the new sitcom on NBC in your fall lineup. 

I’m in a forest now because I can’t see much beyond the trees, except for the aforementioned storm clouds.  And here comes the rain!  Only sprinkling, but hopefully it doesn’t get worse.  I can see the storm on the horizon, with the tendrils that look like an octopus.  Maybe it’s moving away from me. 

A lot of baby trees on my right and left, and a sign says they were planted in 1981.  That’s when Raiders of the Lost Ark was released . . . it’s freaking me out.

The rain keeps waxing and waning in intensity, but at least the visibility is decent.  Reducing speed to 45 now, passing Buffalo River and the Nez Perce Trail.  I’m heading down, and there are 22 tough miles to go.  The numbers on my digital clock look crooked . . . what does that mean?  I’m climbing a little bit more, and there’s lots of trucks and cars passing me.  My right eye is now on fire!

Just crossed into Montana, my first time in the land of Norman McLean.  What happened to Wyoming?  I am now heading down, down, down into a ring of fire.  Saddles for rent if you need them, and up ahead lies the Diamond Ranch.  I’d rather visit The Rubber Rose Ranch, a.k.a. Tim Robbins’ Jellybean Bonanza Ranch.  Don’t see how I got into Montana without sneaking into Wyoming?  Did I miss the sign? 

I’ve finally entered West Yellowstone!  Don’t know what to expect here, but there are vacancy signs.  I plan to be asleep in thirty minutes or less.