A Fit of Quirkiness

Tolon closed his eyes and was gradually swept back in time, hundreds of years ago, in Awadh, at the court of the Nawab. It was dusk and a cool breeze filled the great halls. A sense of refined and yet langurous style reflected off the ornate pillars, the bejewelled statues, the immaculately attired gentlemen and elegantly dressed ladies who graced the gathering.

Tolon opened his eyes slowly and could only see the silhouette of a great maestro framed against the gentle rays of the setting sun. He heard him sing, the reverant air throbbing with the pathos, melody and melancholy of his voice.

Abhi na Jao Chorkar

Youth is prized, revered and spoken with admiration. Maybe because it bestows upon us a zest for life and a clarity of vision. Or maybe because it is flitting. We grow old, wise and possibly cynical and our youthful exuberances give way to more worldly matters.

That is why when one thinks of people such as Dev Sahab, who maintained their youthful persona till the end of their days, one can not but admire.

It was the early nineties when I first started watching old hindi films. Movies shown in good old Doordarshan, serials featuring old songs, radio shows such as Binaca Geet Mala. And you could not experience them and not take a note of Dev Sahab. He was an icon, dominating the movie industry for decades.

I once heard an interview where he said that "No one has helped me in my successes and I am only one responsible for my failures" The words have stayed with me over the years.

This is not a biographical sketch of Dev Sahab. Others more knowledgable about his life, would do it better. I am simply trying to recollect the many years during which I have been fascinated by his movies and songs.

Who can forget his style? He was peerless as the romantic hero, wooing his lady love. But what I liked about his movies was that they weren't merely run of the mill movies where the protagonists meet and fall in love and then the parents or the villain tries to kee them apart from approx midway of the movie till its end (not that I mind such movies). Dev Sahab's movies touched upon a wide range of socio-cultural and economic issues. Such as "Hare Rama Hare Krishna" where he explored hippies and drug abuse, "Prem Pujari" where the dilemnas of a sensitive man thrust into the military by his ex army dad are portrayed, from "Des Pardes" where he delves into the issue of illegal immigration to "Guide" where he is a good but flawed man desperate to hold on to his love till he loses it all. From breezy and suspense thrillers such as "CID" and "Jewel Thief" to the travails of a common man struggling to make his living in the world in "Asli Naqli" to an anguished son trying to clear his father's besmirched name in "Kala Pani". From light hearted comedies such as "Tere Ghar ke samne" to the complicacies of life, death and friendship in the backdrop of war in "Hum Dono".

And his songs. Ah - now where do I begin from? Some of the most mesmerizing songs of the black and white era have been filmed on him. Who can forget "Abhi na jao", "Main Zindagi ka Saath" or "Hai aapna dil to awaara"? Under his production house Navketan, he had forged an alliance with the geniuses of S D Burman and Rafi sahab. And the golden trio beguiled us with peerless melodies such as "Tere mere sapne", "Khoya khoya chaand", "Dil ka bhanwaar", "Jiya O Jiya", "Hum Bekhudi Mein". In his later years Kishore Kumar immortalized songs such as "Phoolon ke rang se", "Phoolon ka taaron ka", "Yeah Dil na Hota". The list is endless...

It is true that the movies he had been making lately were not exactly up to the high standards of his earlier ones. He did not have to. He could have retired long back and rested on his laurels. But that is missing the point. The point is that he was still active and continuously seeking newer outlets for his creative genius. Not because of money, not because of hope of recognition but because he dearly loved his work. He breathed his last while working. That indeed was a fortunate life.

RIP Dev Sahab...

The Forgotten Childhood

Today I am in the United States. The land of the free, the home of the brave. The land of glitz and glamor. The sun never set in the Roman empire, so the sages have opined. Similarly,the glaring lights never dimmed in this country where one could realize his or her dreams.

Yet a simple act of nature could stall this relentless march towards the ultimate industrialized society...

Am I rambling? Am I digressing from what I had wanted to convey? Maybe I am. But if I am digressing from the content, I am dwelling on those undefined and yet powerful images that are swept ashore from the ocean of my subconscious. Are they less relevant to the storyteller?

Today at 11:30 PM, the lights of my apartment suddenly went off. This is not a common phenomenon in urban USA. I stared at the darkness for a couple of seconds and then stood up and cautiously tip toed to the balcony. Yes, the lights of the city had extinguished. It had been raining steadily for the past few hours and maybe the inclement weather had something to do with this.

The raindrops pattered incessantly against the window sills and the gravel. The sky was dark and the each of the stars had found their own corner to hide. And yet the whole landscape shimmered in the surreal radiance of faint moonlight. As I gazed at it, a wondrous feeling swept over me. I realized that I had never seen a sight like this before. And how could I? Whenever I had set my eyes outside, they had been accosted with bright lights from the apartment complexes. The natural night of the moon had been consigned to a forgotten background. Now it had come into the forefront in all its pallid glory. In the distance I could see tree tops outlined against the horizon and suddenly was filled with doubt - was this indeed Silicon Valley ?

I leaned against the wall and in an intoxicated state of mind, reflected on the song that I had been listening in youtube before the powercut.

Yeah raat, yeah jawaani
Yeah botal sharab ki
Ho jaaye is taraf bhi
Inayaat huzoor ki
kahiye gilaas bhaar doon...

Ah, the joys of meeting a long lost friend...

At that time, I was fifteen or maybe sixteen. Life was far more simple and innocent. The whole exposure to electronic media was through good old doordarshan and its solitary channel, a far cry from the modern days of hundreds of specialized channels courtesy the cable network. Movies would be showed sporadically and was in high demand. There was a propensity to broadcast old classics and I was slowly beginning to develop an avid liking for them.

Some of the most memorable movies I had seen back then had not been planned viewings. On a lazy summer noon when I had free time, I would have turned the television on and chanced upon a movie and proceeded to see it. Since cable was still a thing of the future, there was no wasting of time from indecisive channel surfing.

One such movie was a supernatural thriller by the name of Ek Paheli. More than the suspense and great acting, I had been mesmerized by the haunting tunes of its songs. I sat in awe, eyes glued to the television as my mind had been swept aside by the powerful melody. The movie ended and yet the music had lingered on and replayed itself endlessly in my mind.

Some time earlier, it had been another movie - Do Phool, a loose adaption of the classic Heidi by the Swiss author Johanna Spyri. The protagonists were two innocent children - a boy and a girl. The music too exuded innocence and a fresh breath of the spring air that charmed and invigorated the soul. The incomparable melody made me inexplicably happy and sentimental at the same time.

Since then, I had searched in every cassette store for these two movies. In each music shop that I chanced upon. In Calcutta, in Delhi, in any other city that I had traveled. But one shop after another didn't have the songs. But I was confident. I would find them in the next shop surely, I thought. I just had to visit a larger music store, I convinced myself. After all, wouldn't a large store have much more cassettes?

But as I visited large and larger music stores, I slowly realized, much to my dismay, that they weren't large as they had more old hindi film songs. They were large as they had songs of other, newer genre - pop, rock, western. It took a while to sink in and finally one day, when I wasn't a child any more, I realized that no matter what shop I visited, I would see the same set of old hindi film song cassettes and CDs that I had been seeing again and again.

The realization brought in bitter disappointment and incredulity. I had been so confident of procuring the gems that I had never paused to ponder what would happen if I didn't get them. How could you, upon getting a glimpse of musical bliss and believing that it is within your reach, fail in trying to grasp it as you reached out your hand?

And yet, with passage of time, this bitterness too passed away. It coincided with the time when I was growing up from a child to a teenager to an adult. Other dreams that had been shaped by my innocence were getting replaced by new realities brought forth by experience. My futile search for the songs of Do Phool and Ek Paheli was another part of my transformation from adolescence to adulthood. The quest that I had held dear to my heart gradually ceased to be important. I still visited music stores and inquired about the two movies, but it was more out of past habit than any real desire. Finally one day, I stopped doing even that. And funnily enough, I didn't even feel sad. I had other things to worry about.

And life proceeded on...

In my adult incarnation, I have stopped buying cassettes. I don't even own a cassette player anymore. I buy CDs once in a while for my car stereo. I have instead become a major fan of online forums for music. The songs I listen are more varied; from not so old hindi film songs to ghazals, to classical music, to soft pop. I don't listen to music with sole attention anymore - usually it plays while I am seated on my work desk doing coding or I am at home and the music forms the background of some other primary activity such as cooking.

But life does throw up surprises. Of late I have increasingly noticed that youtube has a collection of rare songs that are hard to find anywhere else. And yet it hadn't occurred to me to check for the songs of Do Phool and Ek Paheli.

But I did so one day. And indeed they were there...

At first I was overwhelmed by the mere presence of all the songs. I listened to them in a haze, one after another like a famished man in a royal banquet trying to devour all the food at once. My acquaintance with them had been rusted by long years of separation. At first I failed to recall what exactly had attracted me to some of them. After all these years I couldn't grasp their pristine charm.

But I listened again - slowly, one after another and re-discovered the magic. Maybe in a slightly different way than before. My long quest had finally ended.

And then the lights of the apartment went out. I closed my eyes as the mesmerizing tunes played in the background.

Nanlouguxiang

The sun had set about an hour back and the lights of the city had come to life. These weren't the bright neon flashes of busy club districts or the forlon glare from lamp posts in quiet residential areas. Rather they exuded a soft and hushed radiance which fell upon a long and narrow cobblestone street. The light originated from a collection of antique looking restaurants, bars and gift shops on either side of that street, the end of which was lost in the shadows. Each building was different in style, decor and architecture but each was small and enmeshed in an old world charm. Oval lamp covers of reddish hue, with intricate dragon paintings and oriental symbols adorned the porch of the shops. An occasional twang of the strings emanated as we walked past, making a relaxed and contemplative melody. I had stumbled upon this place quite by accident.

This was the Nanlouguxiang hutong, an 800 year old alley, close to the ancient Forbidden City, located at the heart of Beijing.

As I wandered leisurely about the place, I crossed many a unique shop. At last I stumbled upon a place that proclaimed itself as the smallest bar in Beijing.

Looks interesting, I thought. So did my colleague and we decided to enter the place.

In front of the entrance there were two tables and couple of chairs in front of each. The bar was located to its right. The space in front of the bar and to the right of the entrance formed a nice looking window, with a couple of seats that basically overlooked the street.

The place looked very small and yet when we sat on the bar, there was a cozy and warm feeling. The two girls who were bartending were an interesting lot. One was Chinese and presumably the owner while the other was German. Since we were the only two people on the bar seats (and incidentally occupying all but two of them) we had an engaging conversation. The German girl had evidently traveled a lot, was interested and knowledgeable in different cultures. She could also speak fluent Chinese. Or so it seemed to my ears.

Time had somehow ceased to flow inside that place. After five grueling days, our business in China had ended and we were in no hurry to keep up with the clock.

After a while, an odd couple entered the bar. One was a petite and reticent Chinese girl. She had a silent expression in her face and didn't appear to be interested in other people around her. The bar certainly threw people very close to each other and you couldn't easily ignore the person next to you. But she didn't acknowledge any of the others present and focused solely on her companion.

There was certainly a stark contrast when it came to that man. A middle aged, podgy European, full of hustle and bustle with a geniality that was endearing to the casual acquaintance. He was extremely loquacious and soon struck a vigorous conversation with each and every person around him. He could also speak Chinese. I was slowly getting the feeling of being left out.

Since he was seated right in front of me, I was the major recipient of his ideas.

And he did seem to have lots of them. He was apparently a professor of social sciences in UK. He had various theories about globalization and he was writing a book on the same topic.

He spoke in an animated fashion about global citizens and how national borders were becoming diluted by various economic activities of people. As I listened to him, without contributing much to the conversation, I migrated to a state of stupor. His words fell into my ears without registering into my thought process. Maybe the alcohol also had an effect.

But then it changed all of a sudden.

He was explaining the impact of the rise of India and China in the global economy. As I listened to him, he paused all of a sudden, as if some point had just struck him. He then pointed at me and stated in an exhilarating voice, "Look at yourself -"

I was shaken out of my inertia. What had I done? His next words were revealing

"You were born and raised in India. You came to the United States for further studies. You got a job in a Japanese company and now you are in China to attend a business meeting."

All that he had said was true. I had done what he had said, but no one had managed to put all of it as succinctly and eloquently as he had just done. As I listened to him stunned, he went on to add,

"You symbolize all that I have been speaking about."

We stayed for some more time there and then it was time to leave. Not only the place, but also to Nanlouguxiang and Beijing as we would be leaving China the next day. The past week had exposed me to so many new experiences but all along had made me feel completely at home. I was a bit sad to be leaving the country.

In case you are curious, the name of the bar is 12SQM. I highly recommend a visit if you ever end up in Beijing and have a couple of hours to spare.

Bhaskar-da

One of the unique features of my undergraduate alma mater was the melange of strange and intriguing characters who inhabited its myriad bylanes and buildings. I could pen down individual stories about each one of them. But today, as I sit in my balcony, in a bright but soothing summer afternoon, gazing at the swaying leaves in the mellow breeze, none comes back to my memory as vividly as Bhaskar-da.

A couple of hundred steps from our hostel, used to be Scholars Avenue; and turning right, another couple of hundred steps lead to a group of small shanties posing as makeshift shops. One of them was a tea and snacks stall owned by a man whom our seniors had taught us to call by the epithet of 'Bhaskar-da'. He was of an age where youth had departed but middle age hadn't firmly set in. He was well built, spoke with a slight slur which nevertheless reflected self belief sans arrogance. Many a time, in a lazy post-lunch Saturday afternoon or in a tired Wednesday evening after class, we used to park our bicycles at his stall for a cup of tea and a cigarette. And occasionally a plate of bread-omlette or maggi noodles.

Bhaskar-da was our friend. He wasn't very talkative but was always curious to know about the latest happenings in the campus, Hostel politics and the like. In return, in his halting voice, he would sometimes regale us with fantastic stories about the past.

"Ah, Patel Hall 10 years back - the fierce group of final year folks - they used to meet here - on these very seats -"

Outside his stall, there were a whole bunch of scattered stone slabs on which you could seat comfortably and have a hearty conversation from the intellectual to the intoxicated. Somehow time ceased to flow when you were at Bhaskar-da's stall. It was not only us students, but his stall was always inhabited by a bunch of middle aged men, some junior professors, some administrative officials. Some of them were ever present, like pieces of furniture adorning a room. We often wondered if they had a regular job, apart from drinking tea, smoking and propounding far flung theories.

"Arre moshai - have you heard? The difference between Einstein's brain and yours is less than that of yours and a monkey's?"

"Ore Bhaskar - two more teas and three more Wills Filter- "

Bhaskar-da complied. He remained in the background in such idle conversations but he was similar to the music conductor, whose presence ensures the continuance of the overall show.

Bhaskar-da's pretty wife, used to help him in his shop. We used to address her as 'Boudi' or 'siser-in-law'. She had a vacuous face but in reality she was a simple person. Sometimes Bhaskar-da used to rest in his house and Boudi had to run the shop on her own. "He's down with alcohol", Boudi confided to me one day with a resigned sigh.

Time flew by. From a fledging in second year, when I had first entered the hallowed corridors of my hostel, Patel Hall, I had come a long way to become a final year student with the unofficial responsibility to lead the Hall by example. Gradually, even that became past. People moved on but I decided to stay; spend an extra year in my beloved campus, employed in a research project which was being sponsored by a major US technological company.

With passage of time, Bhaskar-da started being absent more and more. When we saw him, he had grown a dense beard and looked overall unkempt. When he spoke, his words were much more slurred than before; he used to stare around with a dazed expression as long as he was in the shop. I was not as comfortable in talking to him as before. Boudi continued to run the stall.

However one day, an event occurred that changed my impression about Bhaskar-da for ever.

It was a summer afternoon, bright but soothing, when the leaves swayed in the mellow breeze. I and couple of my friends were at Bhaskar-da's stall in a relaxed mood and meditative conversation. As I gazed slowly around the place, my eyes rested on a street dog - a poor creature who was limping on three legs. Such canines were commonplace to our campus and I looked at it, without any particular thought crossing my mind.

Suddenly my reverie was broken by a sharp yelp from the dog. I sat up with a start and at once noticed a young boy who had walked near the dog. He picked up a stone and threw at the dog and grinned with apparent pleasure at the latter's pain. I turned my face away in disgust.

But it jerked back towards the boy again as my ears were suddenly accosted by a stream of furious invectives. To my astonishment, I saw Bhaskar-da confront the boy in the most omnious fashion. He was besides himself in rage and was shouting hoarsely- how dare he hurt the helpless dog? How dare he? Did he have no humanity - was he such a sadist that he had to hurt helpless creatues who were the most loyal of pets? He might have physically assaulted the boy had he not slunk away. The young rascal looked shell shocked and so was I. Disappeared in the thin air, was the alcohol induced stupor - Bhaskar-da was as animated and alive as I had ever known him. I stared at him in awe and admiration as he picked up the dog and muttered soothing words in his ears. He then took him inside his stall, presumably to attend to his wounds.

My respect for Bhaskar-da went up by several notches.

When it was finally time to leave the campus, I visited him for one last time. I told him that I was going to the US.

"Where in US?" he asked.

"New Jersey," I replied, "Rutgers University - near to New York."

"Ah, I know some students who had gone to that area," he said with a knit brow as he tried to recall their names.

"I'll say hello from you if I meet them," I said, "Bhaskar-da please accept this from me," and saying thus I thrust him a hundred rupee note.

This was not the end however. For two years after passing out from the campus, I made it a point to visit it during my annual India trips from US. During my visits, I stopped by Bhaskar-da's shop. My social, academic and economic situations were changing rapidly but Bhaskar-da was still the same. So was Boudi. It was nice to meet them. A fallback on the times when life was young, innocent and full of anticipation of good things ahead.

Gradually the frequency of my visits to Kharagpur declined. In two consecutive trips to India, I couldn't find time to go there. Finally in the winter of 2008, I did visit the place after a gap of almost four years. I was with my friend Shiraz and his newly wed wife Neha. We were there only for the day and were showing her the place. As we scuttled from one landmark to another, we passed by Bhaskar-da's shop. I was suddenly seized by a flood of old memories.

His shop was shut however. It was in the middle of the afternoon, during winter vacation time and so, perhaps, this wasn't so unexpected. I gazed at it for some time and fleetingly thought of stopping by. But there was no point really and we continued our tour.

I wondered how much life had changed for me as the years had rolled by. I hadn't even remembered him once in all this time. But at that moment, I hoped and prayed that Bhaskar- da and Boudi were happy and doing well - interacting with the present batch of students and enchanting them with stories of the past. Maybe by now, me and my batch had also become a part of his folklore.

Exploring a National Park - IVb. The Second Day (Post Lunch)

Previous
4.3 Mt. Washburn Trail

We had lunch in a big cafeteria bustling with people. There were long tables and you had to find a seat. The menu was one of burgers and fries and I was getting a bit tired with that kind of food. I ordered a tuna sandwich and soup while Soura opted for a chicken burger and milkshake.

Our server was very jovial, “Where are you guys from?” he asked while taking down our order.

“I am from Boston,” Soura replied, “and he is from Jersey.”

“You’re kidding me,” the man was all smiles; “This place is full of people from Jersey. Look at them,” he pointed to a big group sitting at the other end of our table.

The lunch and the post meal icecream, sitting on the outside bench and observing people all around, had a languorous effect. That was not what we needed at the moment. I wasn’t tired physically though, beyond an expected stretch in the muscles.

“Let’s get going,” I rose up, “Mt. Washburn – here we come.”

“There are two ways,” I added looking at my guide, “You could start the hike from Dunraven Pass picnic area and climb to the top of Mt. Washburn and it is around 3.2 miles one way. Or you could drive to the Chittenden Parking area and climb the mountain and that is around 2.4 miles one way, from that side.”

“So the second one is shorter?”

“Yes, but steeper too – that’s what the trail guides say.”

We decided to drive towards Mt. Washburn and start climbing from the point that came first, which would be Dunraven Pass. As we drove northwards from Canyon village, the traffic was much less and within fifteen minutes we came across a small parking lot at the roadside, just in front of the foothills. There was a sign board at the point where the lot ended and the mountains started but it was covered with snow and we couldn’t see what was written. There was a group of around ten people in that area, who had come in a RV and the children of that group were throwing snowballs at each other, with great intensity. They took no heed of us and we made our way carefully, through the barrage and reached the sign-post, which confirmed that this, indeed, was Dunraven Pass.

Behind the sign-post there were lumps of snow on the rocky slopes of the mountain, from where the trail originated. The mountain was to the left and the trail went slowly winding up. It was weird to see and feel snow in July. The rays of the sun were mellow and as we proceeded, a blast of cold air hit us and chilled our bones. I put on a shirt over my tees wishing that I had brought a pair of gloves along.

In about hundred steps, we had left the parking lot behind. The trail reached an open area where we could see it meandering ahead of us in a huge arc. Initially, at ground level, our vision was constricted to the immediate surroundings but now, even at the small elevation, we could see a lot more of the landscape. Medium sized hills loomed to the left and were covered with grass. Our trail circled around one hill till it joined the next and we didn't know where it would lead us to. On our right, we could see the smooth, green downhill patches, almost resembling a golf course, that lead to the road that we had been driving on. Subalpine vegetation such as fir and pine trees and occasional thick bushes added variety to the mountain slopes. From afar, in the distant mountains, we could catch glimpses of the Canyon.

The trail itself was made of loose rocks and soft earth. The upward slope was gentle and our walk was pleasant. We walked at a constant but relaxed pace.

“So much better than the morning trail,” Soura remarked.

I agreed, “Good that we did that first, before this one.”

We occasionally saw groups of hikers, but all of them were returning from the top. I had a feeling that we were the last ones to start the hike.

As we walked, we came across a valley of flowers in full bloom. Violet was the predominant color, with patches of yellow scattered about. The flowers kept appearing along our trail at several spots. Soura was furiously taking photos,

“I don’t like taking too many personal photos,” he said once, “Many people look at the photos I have taken and say – ‘did you actually go to these places? Where are you in them?’ – never understood that logic.” I smiled in broad agreement.

He was a man of his words. When I stopped to get myself photographed at the next scenic spot, he refused to follow suit by saying, “Let’s keep walking. You can take my photo at the next scenic location and we’ll alternate.”

The place that I had stopped was a portion of the road, over which, two trees on either sides had bent over and intertwined above, to form a most lovely and natural arch.

As we walked on, the number of trees that flanked the trail on either side kept increasing and they gradually replaced the grassy valleys at the beginning of the trail. We had been climbing up for quite some time now and were in the middle of the mountains. Looking down we could see more trees that grew upright from the mountain slopes. Sometimes, at a distance, we could spot patches of the trail that we had already traversed. The entire extent of the downward slopes was not visible as before.

“How much have we covered – do you think?” I asked, as we stopped to exchange the backpack.

“Should be close to halfway.”

“Really? I don’t think we are there yet.”

We got into a discussion involving our average walking speed and the time that we had covered. It wasn’t leading towards any consensus, when we spotted an elderly Chinese couple, descending. We asked them about the distance covered.

“Half,” the man said, “close to half.”

As they passed us, we saw that they were pushing a perambulator with a small baby inside, fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the beautiful surroundings.

We would have walked for another twenty minutes when we met another group of hikers coming down and asked them the same question. These guys seemed to be more definitive.

“Still some distance from the half-way mark,” one of them said, “Walk for ten minutes more and you’ll hit a patch of ice- that is roughly half way. The ice continues for a long while.”

“There are many big-horned sheep up there,” his companion added, “We got lots of photos.”

Those creatures were supposed to be a rare site and the news filled us with excitement. As we went ahead, the trees grew denser and the seclusion of the trail increased. Once, I looked ahead at the distance and saw a small structure on top of a faraway mountain. It seemed to be some sort of an observatory. There were several round objects, similar to drums, protruding out.

“What is that,” I asked pointing out.

“Antennae?” Soura guessed.

“But why that shape? Doesn’t look like one.”

As I looked at it, I had a sudden thought, “Hope that’s not our destination - looks too far away,” I remarked as we had stopped to drink some water.

Finally we saw the snowy patch that the hikers had talked about.

Patch was an understatement as the snow was thick and vast, often knee deep and occasionally going even below. Initially we could bypass the snow by scrambling along narrow rocky passages at the very edge of the trail, but gradually those passages shrunk, till it was no longer safe to walk on them and we were forced to climb upon the snow. There were deep impressions on the snow made by previous hikers and I put my feet in them, one after another, and moved forward. Occasionally, I landed in a soft spot and my legs sank abruptly in the snow. Sometimes, I couldn’t get a firm foothold and slipped. The body of snow was at an incline as it was on top of the mountain slope, which made walking on it more hazardous. A couple of false steps would hurl us right off the trail.

We were making slow ascent and the trail was rather monotonous. Once it was broken by the site of a white goat-like creature. I wasn’t sure if that was a big-horn sheep, which the hikers had talked about, but we did pause for multiple photographs.

Once, within thirty feet from the trail and atop a pine tree, we saw a solitary bird of a bright blue color. It was perched absolutely still and unwavering, and seemed to symbolize the silent wilderness all around. We moved on, careful not to disturb the peace and quiet of the place.

By now, we had lost the sense of time and distance. We walked mechanically, without much thought, conscious only of the beauty of nature all around. Around two hours back, we had started amidst medium hills and valleys, gloriously verdant and full of flowers; then we had traversed through dense alpine forests on either side of the road and now we had advanced slowly but surely through snow-county and just emerged out of it.

The place we had reached was more open, more elevated than ever before. The mountain slopes with dense vegetation, that had constricted our vision for so long, gave way to a more expansive and barren surrounding. Reddish brown rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes filled up the scenery. A couple of peaks from the tall mountain ranges could be seen nearby, looming above us. We could see far, far away into the distance and spot the Canyons, at an altitude much below us. Separating us from them, far below where we stood, were miles and miles of dense forests, that formed part of the Yellowstone backcountry.

“Look at that,” Soura spoke slowly.

I recalled a piece of information from the travel guides, “Seems that 98% of Yellowstone is backcountry. All the places that we drove in car and are hiking now – constitute just 2% of the entire park.”

“Amazing!”

“Can’t imagine the early, park rangers- they would have explored much more of the whole park- to find the 2% that tourists can visit.”

“Why only early? The landscape keeps changing – and for general maintenance of the park too- they get to see a lot more then we do.”

As we turned a bend, we again saw the building on the top of the mountain that we had spotted before. It had grown bigger in size and was surely nearer than when we had seen it first, and yet new measures of distance, previously unseen, seemed to have been added between us. It still looked a good distance afar. I still couldn’t make out what the drums that were attached to it were.

“Boss, that has to be where we are headed,” Soura said with conviction.

We checked our watches. It was going to be seven soon. The sun had not set but was hidden in the clouds.

“Should we return?” Soura said suddenly, “No point in climbing back in the dark.”

“The climb down will be faster,” I was in no mood to go back, “Let’s go on.”

It was probably an impulsive utterance and we kept on climbing. There were some more snowy patches that we had to cover. The trail was inexorably heading towards that building. It was different than before, when we were simply trudging along, regardless of the destination. Now since that was within sight, we were more inclined to keep checking if we were getting nearer. However the closer we went, the building kept moving farther away. Probably because, the trail wasn’t in a straight line; often we had to go around a mountain. The trail was also steeper.

And yet, slowly but surely we reached a huge, rocky plateau, which had a small sign-board saying ‘Mt. Washburn’ and we knew that the long journey was, at last, over.

It was an awesome sight. A mountain wall was to our left and the plateau extended on the other three sides, till it reached the cliff, from where it dropped sharply below. From that abyss, on our immediate right, there rose a mountain peak like an angry serpent, rising from the deep sea. At other places there were huge gaps of emptiness in front of the cliff. The mountain walls blocked all direct illumination to that plateau and the resulting shadow was pleasant, but as we paused there for a moment, to catch our breaths, we could see the surrounding mountain slopes gloriously basked in the golden rays of the setting sun.

It was however not the end of the trail. We discovered that another steep path lead to the building that we had seen. For a moment I hesitated about continuing there, but this time Soura urged us on.

And it was a mighty good decision. I had no idea what that building was, which in retrospect means that I could have improved upon my research about Yellowstone. As we climbed, severe blasts of wind hit us and chilled our bones. Had I been at the edge of a cliff, the wind would probably have blown me over. After about ten minutes we reached another smaller plateau with the building in front of us. There was a sign-board, proclaiming the end of our trail.

The building in front of was some sort of observatory and as we came near, the mystery of the drums was also clear. They were dish antennae, as expected, only that they were covered with perforated clothing, to prevent it from being directly hit by the wind.

There was a short flight of revolving stairs that lead up to the observatory and following them, we stepped into a small chamber with various frames hanging from the walls and a big telescope installed in the center. The frames had location and other information about various mountain peaks of Yellowstone that could be seen through the telescope.

There was another flight of stairs inside that chamber leading up somewhere and as Soura was peering at the telescope, I went up. At the end of the stairs there was a closed door and I pushed it open and stepped out into a small balcony with railings on all sides. The wind was absolutely ferocious with a screech and howl and it messed up with my cloths and hair, pulling and flapping them in all directions. I wondered if whatever hair was left on my head would get uprooted. The wind hurled at my face and eyes, like angry waves crashing at the shore and I found myself involuntarily squinting my eyes and assuming a grimace.

The balcony offered a wide and unobstructed view of the entire Park and was surely worth the long hike. I gazed in front, slowly turning around. At one corner, I spotted a sign-board and moved closer to read what was written. At this point, the door pushed open again and Soura came out.

“Look at this-,” I beckoned him closer in excitement, “Guess what this place is about – this is a fire tower. There is a ranger here at all times- he checks all around to see if there is a fire anywhere in the Park.”

The board said that the practice of elevated fire towers, where a single person was stationed, to watch the entire Park, through his binoculars, and report any incidence of rising columns of smoke, is an ancient one, abandoned by most Parks, in favor of more modern methods. Yellowstone is a notable exception with its four fire towers that still adhere to the ancient customs. As we looked up, we could see that a couple of steps from that balcony lead up to a medium sized room and, through its glass paneled windows, we could see a solitary man. He smiled as our eyes met.

The sign-board also informed us that the lone ranger moved there in late June, as the snow melted and stayed there till October. His food and other supplies were replenished every two weeks, via helicopters.

“This is crazy,” I said, “I can’t believe someone staying up in this place, all on his own for 4 to 5 months. He would turn mad – not talking to anyone for all this time.”

Soura just shook his head and laughed.

“Could make a nice horror story,” I mused, “Think of this – lone ranger stays in fire tower for too long – goes bonkers in the process – then after many months a solitary hiker come here – let’s say a young woman – and so we have a young woman and a psychopath on top of a mountain – think of the endless possibilities of such a plot.”

Soura laughed aloud, “Send this to Hollywood.”

“Yup,” I grinned, “also the natural beauty of Yellowstone will add on to the story.”

“Yellowstone Park and their rangers will sue you for defamation. Poor blokes, looking out for fire for a living – and you have turned them into psychopaths.”

We spent about half an hour in the fire tower, taking photos and soaking up the feeling of vast wilderness that was all around and savored every moment of it. Then we decided to head back, as it would get too dark otherwise.

My legs were fatigued and the feet had developed a mild ache, which I knew would worsen with more walking. Soura had blisters in his feet. However, we were in good spirits and did not take heed of such minor inconveniences. If anything, we were charged up for more adventures.

As we climbed down to the first big plateau, we saw that another trail was leading up the place.

“This must be the trail that started from the other place. What was it called? – the shorter but steeper one?” Soura asked.

“Chittagong Parking area or something like that.”

“Yeah that – you know what,” he added after a pause, speaking with the air of having made a brilliant discovery, “Let’s go down that way. And then-”

“Yes, and then-?”

“And then- we will walk along the road till Dunraven Pass. Or maybe someone will give us a lift.”

That was an absolutely crazy idea and both of us knew that. I thought about it for a split second and then smiled, “Let’s go for it.”

However good sense prevailed soon when we checked the map and discovered that Chittenden Parking area and Dunraven Pass were almost 3 miles apart. Even in all our excitement and recklessness, the prospect of walking 3 miles in the dark, along a paved motor road, seemed like a big waste of time. Reluctantly, we jettisoned the idea.

“Let’s ditch it,” Soura said, “If we have some time after going down- we can still visit the Tower Falls.”

“Yeah, and you never know- we might be chased by a bear while walking on the road.” I remarked with a smile.

“Then, we wouldn’t even be able to run away,” Soura grinned, “and no-one will be giving us a ride in that situation.”

It still seemed like a pity that we had a chance to do something out of the ordinary and didn’t pursue it. However Soura soon made up for that.

As we were retracing our path, he had fallen silent, seemingly mulling over something. Then he spoke, “Look, I have an idea that will save us some time in going down.”

“What is that?” I asked

“Instead of following the trail, we’ll climb down the mountain slopes directly.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

I looked down incredulously at the steep mountain wall by the road-side that dropped sharply below and then at the vast empty space in front of us where the sky seemed to merge with the void between the mountains. This was a far more crazy idea that the first one.

“How can we?” I asked, “You mean down these rocky mountain walls?”

“Not here,” he said, “I have been observing this place for a while. Soon we’ll reach – over there,” he pointed out ahead, “Over there, the mountain slope has less rocks and is more mud and grass. We could go down from there.”

I wasn’t sure if he was entirely serious. “Have you done it before?” I asked.

He replied in affirmative and added that the basic action was very similar to skiing, an art in which he was proficient. I already knew that from numerous stories that he had told in the past.

We reached the place he was talking about. It was certainly less rocky, but I was far from convinced. The slope was vast and extended as far my eyes could go. It was quite steep and thus impossible for anyone to walk straight down.

“We go down here?” I asked. He nodded. “But I don’t even see the trail at the end of it.” I replied back, “Are you sure this is the correct direction? The trail had gone around several mountains – you know.”

“If we get down in the wrong direction – it would be very difficult to climb up, back to this road,” I added, trying to imagine the consequences to getting lost in the mountains, with the cold night approaching.

“Yeah, I am sure of the direction,” he replied and proceeded to give me some elementary lessons in topography, something in which I am absolutely miserable. Consequently, despite his explanations, I didn’t quite understand how that was the true direction.

“Well, let it be so,” I conceded, “But I still don’t see the trail at the end of the slope - what if there is a steep fall where the slope ends to get to the trail?”

“It wouldn’t be much, even if there is one,” he replied with self assurance, “three, four feet at the max.”

“Also, is it safe to go down? What if we break a bone over here? We’re all alone.”

“We wouldn’t,” Soura was more cheerful and pleasant than ever, “I know how to walk down the slopes. You see- you walk sideways, with your body leaning back-”

“Well-,” I hesitated, my heart pounding heavily, “Does sound exciting – but this really doesn’t look like – it is getting dark also - but let me think – give me a moment.”

“Of course, I don’t want to force you,” he replied in an easy tone, “No point in going unless you really want to go. It’s perfectly understandable.”

Of course, I really wanted to go or else I wouldn’t have even asked him so many questions. I just wasn’t sure if we were well prepared for it. As I fell silent, he proceeded to give me more knowledge.

“Look here,” he said gesticulating with his hands, “Assume this is the slope where we are on – and this is the trail where we have to eventually get to – and now assume that-“

“Wait,” I stopped him as none of his explanations were getting through me, “Just answer one question – are you absolutely certain that this can be done?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Well, in that case,” I said, “Let’s do it.”

“Awesome,” he said, grinning broadly, “I’ll lead and you follow. Let me first explain to you the trick in getting down a mountain slope.”

With the first few steps into the slope I had a strange feeling - it was almost as if I had been hitherto watching a vast dangerous ocean from the safe confines of a ship but now had jumped into that vast body of water. There was no going back to safety.

However after a few steps, things were much brighter. Soura’s trick of first firmly establishing the left foot into the soft earth, then bringing the right foot close and then repeating the process, all the while leaning the body back to align with the incline of the slope, worked smoothly. In some places, I didn’t get a firm foothold and slipped momentarily but on the whole, I was no longer apprehensive about breaking a bone. After a while, we were confident enough, to stop, pose and even go up the incline a little while for taking all sorts of photos.

For most parts, we went straight down, but in a couple of places, there were rocky patches and we had to go around them; same for other places, where trees or shrubs impeded our path.

Eventually, I saw the trail in front of us and felt elated. Soura was the man. I proclaimed as much. He smiled. The final jump from the slope, to the trail wasn’t a whole lot but since we were landing in the snow, we had to be careful. Once there, we looked up at the mountain, feeling thrilled and fully enjoying the moment.

We were back into the land of snow. Now that we were going down the slope, our progress was faster. The sun had set but the mountains were still illuminated in a mild golden hue. Both of us were really glad to have gone for this hike.

“You would have taken thousands of pictures by now,” I commented once.

“Yes, and I know what to do with them – I’ll make a collage once I’m back home – then I’ll take a huge printout and frame it in my wall.”

“Sounds exciting,” I replied. I thought for a while and an idea struck me, “I’ll write the story about our trip and then post it in my blog.”

And thus we descended the mountain, walking briskly past places that we had seen on the way up. Eventually, at about half past nine, we arrived at the Dunraven Pass parking lot, exhausted but very happy.

4.4 The Way Back

Once we were inside the car, we leaned back on our seats. The plan was to drive back to Canyon Village and hope that some place was still open for dinner.

“If not, we have to drive back all the way to our motel and hope that the McDonalds is still open,” said Soura which did not sound quite alluring.

We drove in the semi-darkness, in a languorous state, conscious only of our epic hike of the day. We reached Canyon Village close to ten and were dismayed to find that the cafeteria, where we had our lunch, had just closed down. However luck hadn’t deserted us completely as the adjacent dining hall was still open.

We flopped wearily on our seats that the waiter escorted us to. While in the hike, we were energetic and ready to take on anything, but now, the desire to lie down on a bed was overwhelming. I gazed wearily at the well decorated dining hall with all modern comfort and appliances and then at the people all around and everything seemed so incongruous.

The food was very good, or maybe we were really hungry and would have devoured anything. I especially liked a dish of mashed cauliflowers.

When we were done and had limped out of the dining hall, we were in no mood for Tower Falls. The time was close to eleven in the night and there was a forty mile drive till our motel. Going to Tower and back was another extra thirty eight miles of driving. We still had many more places to visit tomorrow and also had to drive back to Salt Lake City. We decided to leave Tower Falls for tomorrow.

“We postponed it yesterday also,” I smiled, “I have a feeling we are not gonna make it tomorrow too.”

“Well, three days is hardly enough to explore Yellowstone,” Soura replied.

We drove back in the darkness, fast and eager to reach the hotel. After some time, I was surprised to see cars in the other direction, going inside the Park. First I thought that they were isolated instances but they kept on coming, one after another, at a regular interval.

“What on earth are people entering the Park at this time of the night?” I exclaimed.

“Must be some serious folk – hardcore nature lovers.”

I wondered if I googled Yellowstone plus night activities, I might come up with some surprising stuff. Three days was surely inadequate for Yellowstone.

By the time, we reached our hotel, threw our shoes and shirts to the side and dropped on our beds, it was almost midnight. I copied the pictures from Soura’s camera, readjusted the alarm and fell into a deep slumber.

Exploring a National Park - IVa. The Second Day (Pre Lunch)

Previous
We had set our alarms for 8 AM and it didn’t take us long to wake up and get ready. The feeling of excitement was palpable; today was our hiking day. In my enthusiasm, I had brought an assortment of necessary things and other curios for hiking, some remnants from previous hiking trips and others bought the day before coming to SLC, and was showing them to Soura,

“Here is a rope, candles and a torch – disposable plastic - a swiss army knife and here is a dagger.”

“For protection against bears when they attack us?”

“Yeah,” I grinned as we both knew the futility of the idea, “and here is an insect repellant, a first aid kit and a heat retaining sheet-”

“What for?”

“If one of us falls in cold water.”

We had a good laugh. I knew that most of the things would never get used but what the heck? They were all cute stuff. My personal favorite was a whistle that I had bought, to warn bears of our presence when we would hike in bear county. But it was no ordinary whistle; it had a compass on one side and a thermometer on the other. All these stuff, I put in my backpack,

“Boss, you’re only making that backpack heavy – we gotta carry it too,” complained Soura,” The backpack looks nice by the way,” he added.

“Yup, I bought it also along with the other things.”

So we proceeded to the Hotel’s breakfast in cheerful spirits. There was no complementary breakfast and we had to order. Soura was not the one to shy away from food and I too ordered a heavy meal, in anticipation of the long walks ahead.

At the breakfast table, we were busy discussing the plans for hiking. I had done a fair amount of research about the various trails and was updating Soura,

“According to most websites, the best hikes are near the Canyon area of which the Mt. Washburn trail is the best one. Here is the description – ‘No other single trail provides as much scenery- wildflowers- wildlife as the Mount Washburn Trail- one of the best evening or sunset hikes-‘,”

“Sounds perfect,” said Soura, “What are the other ones?”

“One guy – only one recommended the artist point – south rim trail – Lily pad lake trail. This is what he says – ‘start from Uncle Tom’s Trailhead - wide trail with swarms of people’ – now listen to this – it’s hilarious, ‘don't despair, true solitude is not far away! - proceed to Artist's Point - look west back at the lower falls of Yellowstone Canyon. – spectacular view- continue on-‘ – he then takes us to places of real solitude - here is what he says – ‘dangerous terrain – thermal area - bear county – this trail is not recommend by OutdoorPlaces.Com’- and so on- ”

“Both of these trails are designated as strenuous and could take 4-5 hours,” I said, “We could do only one if we also want to see Tower Falls,” I added reluctantly.

“Strenuous?” said Soura, “Then let’s do both.”

We both grinned. I felt glad that I had come to Yellowstone with only him and not in a large group.

After breakfast we started our journey. Today was my turn to drive and I was looking forward to it. It’s always a pleasure to drive in places of natural beauty. We again drove to the West Entrance and from there 14 miles to Madison and another 14 to Norris. We went past the valleys with bisons and elks, the Gibbon River and the fall and discovered newer aspects to their beauty though we had seen them just the day before.

Just before reaching the Norris intersection, we got stuck in a long line of traffic. I recalled the warnings of my friends. Maybe they were true after all. There was nothing to do but wait patiently. The cars were moving forward at a snail’s pace and I fervently hoped that the situation would improve at the intersection. Finally, I discovered the reason – a large herd of bisons were crossing the road and some of them were loitering around the cars. It was fantastic and a bit scary to see them so close.

From Norris, we headed east towards the Canyon and the novelty was back. It was a 12 mile drive and we saw more valleys and pine forests. The roads were more crooked, the cars were less and we were again cruising along.

We parked at the Canyon visitor center. It was a hub of activity with restaurants, motels and curio shops. We went inside the visitor center and picked up detailed trail maps and also spoke to a ranger to finalize our plans. Mt. Washburn trail was in the north of the visitor center and the South Rim- Lily Lake one in the South.

“The Mt. Washburn description said one of the best evening or sunset hikes,” said Soura, “Let’s do it later and do the Lily Lake one first.”

Sounded reasonable, “We could go south -do that first and come back here for lunch and then go to Mt. Washburn,” I said.

I picked up couple of water and Gatorade bottles and also a pack of trail mix. Soura, who was feeling a bit drowsy, had an ice-cream and seemed refreshed. I had a couple of scoops and it tasted great.

We drove to the start of the Canyon area and parked in the lot. There was a maze of long and short trails, often interweaved, and there was no dearth of options.

“We don’t have to stick to what the ‘solitude’ guy wrote,” said Soura, studying the trail guide that we had picked up at the Visitor Center, “There are other trails that give a good view of the Canyon. We could pick and choose.”

We decided to start from Uncle Tom’s trailhead, follow the South Rim Trail to Artist Point and then continue to Lily Pad Lake and back. That would be a 4 mile hike at the least. Then we would hike over some other trails around the Uncle Tom’s trailhead, depending on how much time we had.

4.1 South Rim Trail – Artist point – Lily Pad Lake

The Canyon area of Yellowstone is second only to Grand Canyon of Arizona in terms of its breathtaking scenery. At the starting point, the lot near Uncle Tom’s trailhead, there was a motley crowd of all ages, shapes and nationalities. There were extended families, busy taking photos of each other and trying to control their unruly children who, in their excitement, were running around. Others were serious hikers with loaded backpacks and walking sticks, trying to push their way through the crowd, as if they were in a hurry to hit the trails.

Walking briskly, we soon reached the South Rim trail. As per a notice post, we were now entering bear county. There number of people had reduced. The meandering trail was along the edge of a mountain, and soon, as we turned around a bend, we came in full view of the Canyon to our left.

It was a magnificent sight. The top of the mountains had dense vegetation but the slopes that dropped thousands of feet below were bare, as sheep shorn of wool, and they revealed an amazing array of colorful rocks. Not possibly as vivid as Mammoth, but the height of the mountains and the immense size of the Canyon slopes, lead to a unique grandeur. As we walked along there were several scenic overlooks along the way and peering downwards, we could see the Yellowstone River flowing far below at the bottom.

“Beautiful,” I spoke looking at the Canyon through the binoculars.

“Ah, you should go to Grand Canyon then,” Soura said while focusing his camera, “This place is great but multiply its effect thrice and you can start imagining Grand Canyon.”

The Yellowstone River, which we saw, gives rise to two waterfalls in the Canyon region – the Upper and Lower Falls. The Lower Falls was close to our starting point and was visible from our trail. It was supposed to be the most famous of all Yellowstone waterfalls.

We walked briskly when not stopping for photos and reached Artist’s Point, whose fancy name was due to superb views of the Canyon all around, which would probably inspire an artist. From there we took the direction towards Lily Pad Lake.

The trail now veered away from the edge of the Canyon taking us inside the mountains and into a dense pine forest. The earth was soft with fewer rocks. The trail was a narrow path in between the trees and bushes but occasionally a dead tree or two lay over the road. There was absolute silence all around save the constant rustling of the leaves as the wind flowed past them. We kept following the trail till we reached a point where the jungle had totally enmeshed us and there was no other human being in sight.

“The guy who gave all that funda about solitude would have been happy,” I smiled.

“Yeah, seems his real aim was to get away from people – hiking was secondary,” Soura replied.

We walked briskly as the trail was mostly flat. After a mile, we reached a small lake mostly covered with dead leaves. We paused for some photos and resumed our journey.

We went deeper inside the forest and the pattern of dense trees, rustling leaves and solitude only intensified. I was surprised not to have met a single hiker for so long. I thought about the bears, with a slight feeling of unease, and out of a whim, took out the dagger from my backpack to keep it handy.

For the last few minutes, I was becoming increasingly aware of the buzzing of mosquitoes and then, we came across a wet patch when all of a sudden, a swarm of those pests descended upon us. I have had plenty of experiences with mosquitoes back home, but the ferocity of these ones was completely unexpected. I was momentarily dazed, but then recalled that I had brought an insect repellant along. I took the backpack from my shoulders and frantically rummaged inside, to find it.

“Here,” I said, throwing the can to Soura and trying to zip my backpack.

“It says mosquito repellant, all right,” Soura said while waving his arms around, “It supposedly contains SPF-14-”

“Never mind,” I said spraying the contents of the can on my arms and legs. Soura followed suit. The spray was surprisingly effective and the mosquitoes stopped harassing us almost immediately.

As we continued, at one point, we crossed a small stream and saw that an intricate array of logs had been deposited across it in such a manner that suggested that they had been placed there, rather than falling naturally.

“Is that the work of beavers?” Soura wondered.

“Certainly, possible,” I said, “Are there beavers in Yellowstone?”

We didn’t know the answer but later I checked and found that beavers indeed lived in the Park.

After half an hour, the road started sloping downwards. From the gaps in between the trees we could see the horizon ahead.

“We are probably getting close to our destination,” I said.

And so it was. A couple hundreds of yard more, we saw the Lily Pad Lake on our left. It was similar to the Lake that we had seen earlier, only bigger. To get to it, we had to take a detour from the main trail. We however continued straight to the place where we had seen the horizon. The trail lead to the edge of a cliff and ended. We could again see the magnificent views of the Canyon ahead of us. We rested for a while and after taking photos were ready for the return journey.

“Are we taking the detour to the Lake?” Soura asked.

“It doesn’t look anything special – Let’s ditch it and head back straight to our starting point so that we had more time for other trails.”

“Well, yeah, we could do that.”

“Why, you wanna go?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Let’s get back.”

Just as we were about to start, we saw a group of three hikers coming towards us. It was nice to see some human beings at last. After exchanging pleasantries, we started. The return journey was quick and smooth, save for some portions of uphill climb. As we reached Artists Point, we saw more people and when we returned to the starting point, near Uncle Tom’s trailhead, it was rather disturbing to see the hordes of tourists all around, doing nothing but posing for photos in the parking lot. It seemed so incongruous to the solitude and quiet of the forests from where we had just emerged.

“Now I understand why that guy was after solitude,” I said.

The total time we had spent in the hike was almost two and a half hours and it had been an invigorating exercise, though we weren’t sure if it was the most scenic of hikes. To be fair to the guy who had written about it, we hadn’t taken the later trails that he had mentioned.

“Not a great deal to see,” said Soura, “Beyond Artists Point i.e.”

“Well, sort of,” I tried to defend as that trail had been my idea, “We did get to see the dense forests though. And to hike alone in bear county – anyways – so what’s next?”

“Let’s see,” Soura looked at his watch and then the map, “It’s past noon. We should get to Mt. Washburn latest by 4 PM. If we have to eat also before that, we don’t have much time now.”

We debated for a while and finally decided to take the Uncle Tom’s trail to the base of the Lower Falls.

4.2 Uncle Tom’s Trail

This trail, according to the map, was short and spectacular. Sounded too good to miss. Fresh from walking over the rough and uneven grounds, the paved parking lot seemed very comfortable on the legs as we walked towards the start of the trail.

“Here is what it says,” I read out from a sign-post, “Uncle Tom's Cabin – no, Trail was first constructed in 1898 by "Uncle" Tom Richardson - next five years- Uncle Tom led visitors on tours which included - following his rough trail to the base of the Lower Falls. – very strenuous walk into the canyon – take care – make enough stops – etc etc – strenuous, is it?”

We weren’t concerned, in the least. However we saw groups of people, coming back from the trail, who were all flustered and panting. I soon sensed that there might be some merit in the warnings. The trail started behind the sign-post and there were paved roads that curved downward in a sharp decline. It was easy letting the body sprint down those roads but it would be a lot harder pushing it up. After a while, the paved roads gave away to a flight of metallic stairs. We were going down the mountain and could hear the roar of the Falls and see flashes of it in front of us, between the rocky edges. We saw more groups of overworked men and women, who were alternating between walking a few steps and stopping to catch their breath.

There was a Chinese couple returning from the opposite direction and as we had crossed them and gone about ten steps ahead, our ears were accosted with the shrill cry of help from the girl. We turned instantly and saw them both; he sitting on a boulder and she, with her arms on his shoulders, appearing to steady him.

She cried out again. For a moment it wasn’t clear to me what the problem was and I wondered if it was not some farce. But then, we saw that the guy, though in a sitting position, was slowly sliding downwards and the girl was trying to hold him up. We rushed to their side.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

His eyes were open and blinking and his face had an expression of embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he murmured, “I’m OK - she got nervous for no reason.”

The girl’s face was full of panic and concern. She didn’t seem to notice our presence and continued to gaze at him anxiously.

“Let us walk you to your car,” Soura offered.

“No, I’m fine,” he said with mild stubbornness and stood up. He could walk and we left the two of them and resumed walking down the steps.

After every thirty steps, the flights of stairs lead to platforms with benches for resting and taking photos. The stairs cut right through the mountains and passed between steep rocky walls with colorful boulders jutting out. We skipped past them to reach the end of our trail; a broad platform that was built about a hundred feet above the tumultuous river that was flowing beneath. A deep rumbling and splashing sound filled the entire place.

The Lower Falls of Yellowstone River, a straight drop of little over 300 feet, was an awe-inspiring sight. From the high mountain cliffs above, it plunged down in front of us, within a hundred feet of where we stood. The previous day, we had seen the Gibbon Falls, which was grand, but had the feel of being a roadside attraction. The Lower Falls, in contrast, dominated the entire surrounding landscape and we stood gaping at it, dwarfed by its enormous presence. Through the binoculars, I looked up at the ridges, high above, from whence it originated; then lowered my eyes to trace its course as it plunged forth and finally hit the boulders deep down with great gusto, forming a tumultuous mass of water and foam from where the river resumed its course.

After about ten to fifteen minutes, we began the ascent that had been warned about. It was certainly not an easy climb but we made it without dropping dead. There was a group of teenage girls before us, but they were more tired and we soon left them behind. Finally we were in the parking lot, trudging towards our car.

“We can’t be doing too bad in cardio fitness if we have more stamina than young people,” I gasped while trying to readjust the straps of the backpack that were cutting into my shoulders.

“Yes,” Soura replied, wiping of sweat from his forehead, “At least we didn’t have a seizure like that Chinese guy.”

“Also we had hiked a long trail just before coming here.”

Thus pandering to our egos, we drove towards the Canyon visitor center for lunch.
Continued