dream

I dreamt last night that it was summer and we were back in Yellowstone Park. Everything was the same as the day we were there; it was like re-living it.

It was late summer, and we spent the afternoon exploring, marvelling at turquoise and mustard yellow pools, breathing in sulphurous air, cursing the idiots who feel compelled to block the road with their big-ass RV’s so they can go up and try to pet a buffalo.

We made an effort to see Old Faithful, but were put off by the huge parking lot, as full as any Walmart before Christmas. We opted instead to see smaller geysers, and were often the only ones there to witness the water sparkling in the sunlight as it shot skyward.

I dreamt of our dinner, a “ploughman’s lunch” picnic under a tree. In this dream, I heard again the wind setting the long grass around us to whispering and rustling the oak leaves above us, tasted again the smoked summer sausage, old cheddar and sweet apple.

I remember how the leisurely aspect of the day changed when we realized that all campgrounds were full, and we had barely enough time to get to the East Gate before it was locked for the night at 9.

The ride was incredible; the road curled sinuously through the mountains and around a large lake. I felt again the regret of not being able to stop and watch the sun setting, making do with dangerously long glances over my shoulder to catch the changing golds and purples. Everything in the dream was as I remembered but with one glaring omission; we were not following a big-ass RV who blocked all of our efforts to pass it.

The road was ours. And we flew.