When the snowy mountains turn to mud, we worldly Parkites head elsewhere. Some vacation in Europe (like Teri, who usually writes this column) and others turn to the beautiful red rocks of the South, a short drive to warmth. This year, the hubby and I decided to stick around for mud season, well, almost all of it. After a few home improvement projects are out of the way and we’re more than ready to fly the coop, we, too, will hit the open road.

We’ve made the somewhat unusual decision to head north for Memorial Day weekend. The land of Yogi Bear and Old Faithful awaits us. Just as mud season starts to die down around here, we’ll be hitting the start of spring beyond Jackson Hole. Sure, it’s a little kooky to revert back to the undisciplined weather of the mountains for our first anniversary, but we love Yellowstone and hell, if it starts to snow, we can always mosey into to town to the most touristy bar in the West, sit sidesaddle and swig down a cold one until the weather clears.

Regardless of the weather, Yellowstone is one of the most amazing spots on earth. A year and a half ago, on Labor Day weekend (an equally unpredictable time of year), we ventured to the park with my mom and step dad in tow. We packed up sleeping bags, cooking stove, food, tents, lanterns and, at the last minute, a box of hats my grandmother had knitted over the years (a colorful bundle of at least 15 wool caps). As we drove through Jackson a heavy fog had settled around the mountains. In fact, we couldn’t even see the Grand Tetons. Greg (my husband) and I tried to explain the inexplicable. “Really, mom, if the fog would just lift, they are just the most incredible mountains all around us.” It was like trying to light a bonfire in a torrential downpour. Completely hopeless.

We had planned to spend the night in the Tetons, but hope for better weather kept us on the road. After passing through the gates and finding a pleasant spot, lighter rain made setting up camp in Yellowstone a bit more bearable. We huddled in our warmest clothes over the cooking stove and immediately thanked Nana for her knitting industry. Those caps saved our lives. After a dinner of spaghetti, we ventured toward the lake and lo and behold, our first buffalo sighting. The old fellow seemed not the least bit perturbed by our presence, but we kept a safe distance, just in case he decided we were in need of a lesson in disturbing wildlife. That night, we snuggled up in our tents. My poor step dad hadn’t spent time camping since his service with the 101st and exclaimed with a chuckle, “I don’t sleep in a tent without my helmet and rifle.” An interesting aside here is that Harry is afraid of heights and was a paratrooper in Vietnam.

Back to my story. As the cool air descended, I distinctly heard the howls and barks of coyotes calling back and forth as if they were encircling our camp. As the hubby snored away, I waited for the attack, but none came. The next couple of days, we explored Yellowstone – it’s bubbling geysers and stinky sulfur hot pools, its fields and wooded areas. We saw it all - Hayden Valley filled with buffalo as far as the eye could see, a pack of wolves at a kill, majestic birds, elk, deer, a lone coyote – we didn’t see a bear, but I was OK with that.  We made the obligatory trip to Old Faithful and observed the bright appearance of Venus in the night’s sky while we awaited the next blow. Special lodging deals were even being offered at the magnificent Old Faithful Inn and I saw a glimmer in Harry’s eye at the thought, but our camp was awaiting us a few miles away. That night, Harry and Greg (my husband) heard the coyotes and I was woken up by a sharply whispered “What was that?!” I replied nonchalantly, “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

None of us will forget the simple beauty and untamed wilderness of Yellowstone. We have my mom’s 5,002 photographs to remind us, after all. All joking aside, there is something awesome about Yellowstone. Harry, the most reluctant camper, but best trooper of the bunch, can’t stop talking about our journey. He’s one of those Americans that’s truly proud to be American. He’s been a bit less-than-pleased lately by our current administration’s decisions, but he is first and foremost a patriot. He grew up playing baseball. He was Tom Sawyer. He loves the U.S.A. I think a place like Yellowstone reminds him that we live in a splendid country regardless of who happens to be at the helm.

This week, Harry will face a bit more serious fear, once again without the benefit of his helmet or rifle. Diagnosed with prostate cancer almost six months ago, he and my mom have been consulting doctors, friends and other cancer survivors trying to figure out the best approach to the cure. At last, they set a date, jumped through the various hoops of medical insurance and Harry will be in Mass General undergoing surgery just as this column hits the presses.

As far as cancers go, Harry’s got the odds on his side, but that’s easy to say when you’re not the one going under the knife. I’ve been unable to come up with just the right care package for his days of recovery. In addition to perhaps a DVD of the Mets season highlights and a big bag of Hershey’s hugs, I think I’ll send him a photo of Yellowstone with a message, “Harry, when you’re feeling better, Yogi Bear expects a return visit.”    

In the meantime, Greg and I will be scoping out just the right campsite and maybe even a night at the Inn as we wish Harry a speedy recovery on a Sunday in the Park.