days 109-117—bearly roaming

We’re no strangers to the majesty of mountains, having them as our backyard playground in Colorado, but the Tetons in Wyoming might belong to a category all their own.

If you can avoid the crowds, summer in Teton County is one of the few places that stills the ache of my wanderlust.

Wildflowers sweep across the landscape, concealing the season’s youngest and most delicate. By afternoon, storms drift in, the sky unfolding like open hands: startled at first, then soft and expectant.

Thunder rolled and the valley’s resident quartet sang as we sat in the van, soaking in the splendor of our campsite. Across the valley, framed by tall evergreens, standing proudly among its peers, was the crown of the Teton Range—unyielding, sharp-edged, and at nearly 14,000 feet, casting both a shadow and a spell.

No wonder the early trappers named it with irreverent awe: Grand Teton. Within its presence, you can’t help but feel small, transfixed, and entirely awake.

What makes this range feel so different from the Colorado Rocky Mountains is how they rise sharply from the valley floor without foothills, their jagged peaks slicing the sky in dramatic, almost surreal contrast to the flatness below.

With Charlie along, our options inside the National Park were limited as dogs aren’t allowed on trails and can only be in paved areas. We made peace with it, opting instead to explore the quiet near our campsite.

The dirt road on Shadow Mountain meandered with a series of switchbacks, and alongside the rising elevation, the views of the range intensified, making it a perfect hiking or running path. We ran the two miles down, then hiked back up. For the duration of our stay, we retraced our steps each morning, getting just a taste of the routine we were achingly craving.

By Thursday, the air dawned warm and clear, the type of summer day begging to be taken advantage of. With the newfound intimacy of Shadow Mountain behind us, we ventured into the park for a scenic drive.

Starting at the north end and working our way south, we drove along Jackson Lake with the windows down, the breeze playing music to our ears. Atop Signal Mountain blanketed in large, sunflower-like blooms, we stopped to make tacos and take in the sweeping views below.

The Snake River, true to its name, wound lazily through the meadows—a quiet reminder that time shapes more than just the landscape; it shapes our perspective, too. Was the park actually busy, or were we all just drawn to the same beauty at once?

Philosophical musings aside, the park was objectively packed. Every stop felt like the entrance to an amusement park—lines curling back on themselves, families clutching hands while half-heartedly urging each other not to get separated. We tried to curb our complaints—after all, we were part of the crowd—but it was hard not to feel how much it chipped away at the tranquility.

So, after a few failed attempts to see moose along Moose-Wilson Road, and encountering multiple people breaking the no-dogs rule at Jenny Lake, we looked at each other with the same disgruntled expression.

It stung a little, sticking to the margins while others wandered freely.

“If this is what it’s like on a Thursday, can you imagine what Yellowstone will be like this weekend?” I said, motioning toward the sea of cars trying to make the same left-hand turn.

As if Trent heard what I wasn’t explicitly saying, he responded, “What if we skipped Yellowstone this time around and came back during the off-season? We’ll be back through here again, and it’s not like we both haven’t been, nor can we do much because of Charlie.”

And that was that.

Plans only become concrete when you resist adapting them. But if you stay flexible, a new plan—maybe even a better one—will always emerge.

We set off early next morning towards eastern Wyoming, as from our research, it promised similar landscapes without the crowd tax.

Still hopeful for animal sightings, we kept our eyes peeled, while I—like I did as a kid—made up songs, to charm whatever creatures might be lurking in the brush.

One went a little like this:

Bear, bear, oh please be there,

Moose, moose, silly goose,

Bears, bears, everywhere!

One moose, two moose, on the loose!

It worked.

About an hour in, Trent yelled, “Babe!” And there they were alongside US-26: a mama grizzly and her two cubs, with me, beaming with unbridled joy sweeping across my face.

We pulled off safely as they approached the van, waiting to cross the road, flashing our lights to inform oncoming traffic. I grabbed my camera and telephoto lens and began snapping as they approached the pavement with caution.

More cars arrived behind us. And, of course, at least one clueless tourist stepping out of her car to take a picture with her cellphone.

Meanwhile, I leaned over Trent in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, camera balanced on the door frame. The cubs looked about a year old and had wildly different personalities. One stayed glued to mom—timid, watchful, clearly seeking her cues. The other barreled ahead with bold curiosity, a little firecracker with a fierce sense of independence and surprising self-assurance. I bet they were the youngest.

Keen to not overstay our welcome, we pressed on until we pulled into the quaint town of Dubois.

For what the downtown, if you can call it that, lacked in proper signage and pedestrian safety, it made up for in authentic western charm. While enjoying lunch at the aptly named Cowboy Cafe, we took in scenes from the locals. A man who appeared to be the sheriff patrolled the streets on the back of an ATV, slowing down when he approached two teenagers walking aimlessly; men and women had their hands full of supplies as they left the hardware store; and there were more cowboy hats and boots than there were people.

After a week of boondocking, and still no fix for our battery issue, we booked two nights at the Longhorn RV Park so we could get a full charge, do laundry, and launder ourselves.

Before long, we found ourselves back chasing a dirt road to somewhere unknown. Deep in the Shoshone National Forest, we pressed on until the road came to an end perfectly placed alongside a river. A few other cars were scattered about near the bank, while a whole fleet of EarthRoamers (expedition-style RVs starting at $500K) took over the camping area. It was no coincidence they were all here, but in fact, a caravan we had learned of from a man we met earlier in the week.

“What are the odds we would have caught up with them?” Trent chuckled. The man didn’t tell us where they were going, yet here they were and I hadn’t even made up a song.

Trent found a nearby hike on AllTrails. “It’s a 20-miler, but we don’t have to do the whole thing.”

We geared up, only to be greeted by a wide, fast-moving river as the first challenge of the trail.

“Are you sure the trail says to cross the river?” I asked, as the three of us studied the water, which was cut into four distinct flows in front of us.

“That’s what it says,” Trent assured me, sharing his phone for a better look.

“Well, maybe there’s a log bridge or something.”

We walked up the bank a ways, but didn’t see anything that resembled an intentional crossing.

So, we winged it.

The first crossing was the hardest, water up to our knees and moving swiftly, nearly sweeping Charlie downstream, but she recovered and bounded to the other side with ease. The next stretch, a little easier due to the speed of the stream, with the last two feeling like tiptoeing through a puddle.

Once on the other side, we used Trent’s watch to align us with the direction of the trail. It wasn’t long before we saw the dirt pull away from the brush, widening in some spots, begging us to follow.

The trail opened to a vast meadow overlooking the Absaroka Range, jagged and asymmetrical just like their western counterparts, and trees that looked like they endured a burn in recent years. Charlie burst ahead per usual, confident she knew the way, and we followed close behind, ready to course correct.

Unsurprisingly, she led us to a pond, though it was technically still on trail, albeit different than the one we were following. She ran toward the water’s edge with such gusto, tongue folding out the side of her mouth and eyes wide, no pupils in sight. Seeing her euphoria brought us so much joy, that we couldn’t even pretend to be upset when she waded through the water and came out resembling a Reese’s peanut butter cup. We were suddenly thankful for the river crossing on the way back.

The next day, we set our sights on an overlooked stretch of our country, as it was kind of a midway point to Missouri, which is where we needed to be in a week’s time.

There’s beauty in places like Nebraska, too. Where there might not be sprawling mountains, but sprawling fields, many of which we owe gratitude for our daily food.

We found a welcomed break from the monotony in McConaughy Lake, deciding to camp right along the beach. We quickly slipped into our swimsuits and wasted no time breaking the glass that posed as water, the sun’s rays reflecting across the surface like twinkles of time, fading as fast as you noticed. Charlie was relentless in her pursuit of the ball among the ripples, and drank half the lake in the process.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a few more RVs joined the scene, but we soon met the real guests of honor: black flies. Droves of them. They came for our ankles. Our dignity. Our social security. Any patch of skin we dared leave bare.

So, instead of enjoying the sunset, we retreated to the van and watched them engulf that, too.

Hours after we’d fallen asleep, the wind that had stayed at bay earlier arrived with a vengeance. It crept in over the water, enveloping the coastline and sending smoky tendrils inland, howling like it held secrets, desperate, but not yet ready to share. The water, calm and glassy just hours before, had become a white-capped menace, hurling itself against the shore.

Nothing a closed window couldn’t fix.

By morning, the same gloom hung in the air, still dark around 8:00 AM, with our camp chair and other gear scattered in the sand. We tidied up and decided to get on our way, searching for breakfast en route, while I comforted Charlie and her upset tummy.

We stopped at Penny’s Diner in North Platte, only to realize we’d eaten there over a year ago. It was there that we overheard, “That tornado touching down last night was pretty wild. I lost power for a bit.”

In this case, ignorance was definitely bliss.

That moment reminded me of the privilege of being unaware or far-removed. Lately, the weight of so much suffering, so much senselessness in the world, has grown unbearably heavy. It’s a nonstop stream of grief, outrage, and helplessness—our nervous systems are being asked to absorb more than they were ever built to bear. I find myself swinging between wanting to stay informed and needing to look away just to breathe.

It’s hard to hold hope right now. It’s hard to not feel guilty basking in the sun when some are shielding from missiles; to watch a family of bears when countless families are being torn apart; to camp on public land that could soon be up for sale.

But I’m trying to remember: feeling deeply means I’m still human. And maybe that’s a reminder all could benefit from.

Up next: the Warring family reunion in Missouri.