Steve Moseley

A coyote stares at the photographer from the snow on a prior late year Yellowstone trip.

Photo courtesy Steve Moseley

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It’s October so the Yellowstone season is kaput. Correct?

Not so fast there Powell Nation. I have it on good, first-person authority (me) that some of the best is yet to come this month.

During all the years Good Wife Norma and I huddled among you on Cary Street, fall was far and away our favorite time to wander the park.

The leaves going golden in great patches over yonder in the Bighorns and up Crandall way. Elk bugling and battling in the rut. Grizzly bears down on berries right beside the highway along the North Fork. Bighorn sheep working their way down to winter on the open Shoshone River. Bugs dying off. Weather more stable than spring.

And here’s a big one, way fewer Tourons.

It became our habit to load up the faithful Burb with the wiener dog posse, all nestled comfortably in the way-back with blankets and even a raised platform, carpeted for grip of course, for them to hop up on and peer out.

I recall one stop at Mud Volcano for the wieners to stretch their legs and obtain relief. We had three at the time, all rescues. It was a hoot when we unloaded them on leashes, of course. We were stunned when people came a running.

Here we were in a magic land of geothermal goo complete with bison everywhere and even the occasional elk, truly a global destination site, with folks all giggly over three funny looking domestic critters; “half a dog tall and a dog and a half long” as my dad used to say.

Our habit was to leave Powell early in the morning and stop without fail for breakfast at Our Place Café on the west edge of Cody. Then through the tunnels, cruise past the lake and on up the hill to Sylvan Pass and down to Fishing Bridge.

From there it was either a right turn to explore all or parts of the north loop, or take a left to Lake Hotel, West Thumb, Old Faithful, on around to Fishing Bridge Village for an ice cream cone then home.

Please recognize gasoline was nowhere close to the stratosphere of $4.35-ish for a single gallon in those glorious days. Driving an old Burb as we were then (and sadly still are, though not the same one), this happy reality was key.

Much younger and possessed of energy what eludes me at age 77, it was not uncommon for me to take off by myself in the silly wee hours and be waiting for the first rays of the day in a picnic grounds on the opposite side of the park. Such were safaris in those days and the best of them were usually in fall.

Do not be oblivious to the season, however, my friends. Old Man Winter can and will toss you a curve in October and even September. But not to panic. Keep an ear peeled to weather trends and take a high clearance 4WD vehicle, which I know you already own since you are blessed to live in northwest Wyoming.

How about a much more manageable day trip?

Let’s just wander slow-like up the North Fork to the East Gate (decent chance we’ll see grizz, black bear, moose, elk, bison, bighorn sheep or deer) maybe pop in for a first-class meal at Pahaska, then sashay back down the mountain with eyes wide open for more of God’s creatures and home to Powell.

This same excursion is even more wonderful in deep winter after the park has closed when a menagerie of the best wild beasts winter out of the deep snow above along the river. Go early. It can be incredible.

That’s one misplaced Cornhusker’s advice for you. If I wasn’t stuck in New-Brass-Key where the Big Red ‘N’ stands for ‘nowledge’, I’d load you up in the 27-year-old Burb sporting RSTBUKT license plates and haul your keister up there myself.