Chuck's Almost Trip to Yellowstone's Hell

 

    Sometimes it makes no sense whatsoever to bring a cat with you when you are on tour, especially when you go to a place like Yellowstone National Park.

      Let me explain. 

      Yellowstone intersects three states--mostly Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. It covers 3500 square miles and is fondly called a wilderness recreation area, home to wild animals like grizzly bears, wolves, bison, elk, and antelope. It has one of the largest petrified forests and over 250 waterfalls. Plus canyons, mountain ranges, and lakes. 

      All of that makes Yellowstone a dangerous place to visit. Especially with a cat. But when Chucky announced he wanted to see the very thing that makes this park so unique, well, we should have turned around and went home. 

      Yellowstone contains at least 10,000 thermal features including geysers, hot springs, mud spots and fumaroles. In short, these are like cracks into the inner earth allowing gasses and boiling liquids to reach the surface. 

      Touring this part of Yellowstone is no joke. If you wander off the boardwalk by accident, fall into a thermal feature, stick your finger into what appears to be an innocent puddle of water (which tourists have done) . . . well, let's just say you may not live to tell a happy story or any story at all.

    

   "Should we even take him (the rascal cat) with us?" I was having second thoughts even from the beginning. I know that most people think of Yellowstone and imagine subalpine forests, lodgepole pines,  and grassy meadows. It can be a beautiful place. But that's not where we were going.

    "All I can say is--you'll have to tell him," Dan declared.

    Needless to say, I chickened out. Chuck had his heart set on seeing the part of Yellowstone that some visitors described as going into the depths of hell or to put it more mildly into another world. So we packed him up, read him the riot act, and warned him to stay on the boardwalk at all times. 

      The first image we saw when we arrived at this dangerous part of Yellowstone sent the message loud and clear.

    At first I thought it was the bones of some animal, who had tried to escape some horrible fate, and had not made it.

    "Get a hold of yourself," Dan said. "It's 

just some branches."

     He was right, of course. 

   But the landscape only became bleaker with each step along the boardwalk that we took.

      We began to feel like, indeed, we'd landed on another planet. I was reminded of those early photos of the moon landings. Those stark ground photos which showed no signs of life. This landscape before us was different but equally eerie. No plants. A few dead trees. But no sign of life. 

      Of course, the only difference was this landscape had a kind of weird beauty caused by the variety of colors on the dead earth. Aquamarine to dark blue. Yellow. Orange. Red brown to burgundy. Even I got caught up in taking photos. A kind of beauty existed in the dead surroundings. 

     That is when it happened. And it was all my fault. I was supposed to be keeping my eye on Chuck. I took on the responsibility because Dan loves to take photos. I figured I'd be the logical one to make sure Chuck stayed on the boardwalk, the safe space. As we ambled along, I reasoned, there would be no birds, no animals to distract him. 

     What could he possibly find interesting out here in this barren landscape?

     I constantly underestimate this cat.

     As I looked around now and did not see him, my heart skipped a beat.

     Please God, no.

     I peered out over the landscape to see if somehow he'd wandered out there. Was is possible?

         

     I couldn't see him anywhere. No Chucky. 

     Of course, I imagined the worst. Somehow, without our noticing, he'd spotted something or smelled something and jumped off the boardwalk. He was down there somewhere. 

    Dan had another idea. "Maybe he crawled underneath the boardwalk." 

       

      Some cats like to be high and some cats prefer to be low. Chuck is one of those cats who prefer to be on ground level. We knelt down and looked underneath the boardwalk. No Chucky.

     

       I had to remain positive. "He usually listens to me . . ."

     

     "Except when he doesn't," Dan whispered.

     "I told him a thousand times not to get off this boardwalk."

    "We'll split up. You go this way. I'll retrace our steps and see if he's behind us."

     I raced ahead. The boardwalk curved to the left. The landscape remained much of the same, but with the fear of losing Chucky, I hardly noticed.

       I made promises to myself. If I find this darned rascal cat -- alive -- I promise I'll be the best mom in the world. I'll take such good care of him. I'll never let him out of my sight. From now on . . .

       An orange and white mass sat serenely on the boardwalk about 100 feet ahead of me.

      "Chucky," I screamed out his name. 

      There he was. As calm as can be. Staring out at the bleak landscape, as if under some kind of spell. He'd run up ahead and now saw something, who knows what out there, and was just sitting back, enthralled.

     Dan came up behind me. He pointed to something in the distance. 

"I think it's a hawk. Can you see it?"

     But I was too worked up to even want to see it. "That darned cat.

He'll be the death of me," I said to no one in particular because the 

    

     boys were distracted and were not listening. 

     "It's a red tailed hawk," Dan said to Chucky, who nodded. "They're common in the park. But not in this area. Good job of spotting."

      And, darn it, if that cat didn't start purring, imagining himself, no doubt, as some kind of hero. It didn't matter to him that he'd almost given me, his human mom, a heart attack. 

     Show off.

Fearless Chuck-Bird Spotter Extraordinaire

 

    Before Chuck fell head over heels in love with a raven, our rascal cat had a quite different experience with a bird, one we didn't anticipate, not in a million years.

    It all started the June we flew out to Montana to spend a week in Yellowstone National Park. We were staying in a small boutique hotel in Gardiner, the town closest to the park, when one afternoon we decided to go for a walk. We had our cell phone cameras, of course, and binoculars just in case we spotted any wildlife. We were due to start our tour in Yellowstone the next day with Gene, a true mountain man, and we'd heard through the grapevine that animals from Yellowstone park often wandered into Gardiner so we were prepared. After all, there are no fences separating the park from the town.

    Chucky came along, of course. He loves being outside. It wasn't long before we had our first wildlife sighting--a female elk, an extraordinary sight indeed. We're used to seeing squirrels and foxes in New Jersey. Maybe a bobcat once in awhile. And once in a great while, a bear. You never see an elk.

    We learned later that it's quite common for elk to leave the park, especially the mamas who are pregnant and about to deliver baby elk. They know the town is safer than the park from most predators. Chuck was literally in seventh heaven. Initially, we kept our distance, but Chuck had no problem moving closer. We've always considered him to be a kind of ambassador. Make friends, not enemies. That's his motto. 

    "Do you think it's safe?" I asked Dan. After all, a female elk can weigh up to 650 pounds. It is the second largest species of deer after the moose.

    "Let's wait and see what happens."

    "Okay," I said, even though not knowing very much about elk I began to wonder how would she react if she felt threatened. Would she charge without notice, crushing my poor, fearless cat? 

    But sure enough, as fearless Chuck moved closer, the elk, on notice, tilted her head this way and that as if considering how to handle this short bundle of orange and white fur. Seconds passed.  Then she leaped into the distance. She wanted nothing to do with Chuck. I heaved a sigh of relief. 

    I wondered how Chucky would take to being abandoned so abruptly, but I didn't have to worry. He was already gazing upwards, distracted. Something had flown onto a tree limb. Dan pulled out his binoculars.

    "I don't see anything . . ." Dan reported.

    "Something must be there. Chuck's been staring at that spot--"

    "Wow. Look at that. You should see this bird. It looks tropical."

    "Tropical?"

    Remember, we were in Montana. There is nothing tropical about Montana. Men wear cowboy hats and boots. Almost everyone walks with some kind of swagger. I felt overly dressed up because I wore mascara. 

    I grabbed the binoculars and peered through the lens. Sure enough, this was not your usual blue jay or robin. This bird was bright yellow,  and had black wings and an orange-red head.

    Chucky moved closer. The bird flitted to a nearby branch, and we lost sight of it. 

    "There it is," I said, following Chucky, whose glance tracked it like a laser beam.

    Dan pulled out his camera. I knew nothing about which birds lived in Montana, but if I had to guess, this had to be an unusual bird. 

    For the next half hour, no kidding, Chuck, Dan and I followed that 

darned bird. It flitted from branch to branch, and then much to my surprise landed on top of a rooftop before hopping down on a branch near a house. Dan was able to get some distant photos. 

    It seemed every time we honed in closer, the bird took off and flew further away. We still had no idea what kind of bird it was. 

    Later that evening, we went across the street to Pizza, Pasta, and Salad, the one restaurant that was still open, only to discover the only thing they were serving was pizza. As we waited in line for a table, we met a couple from down south who'd come to Yellowstone to bird watch. (Sometimes I think the universe deliberately sets things up so that you get some of the things you want.)

    You can guess what happened next. Dan whipped out his cell phone and showed the woman the photo of the bird Chucky had spotted. She nearly died. "I've been here in Yellowstone National Park for two weeks," she said, "looking for that very bird. That's a Western Tanager. How did you ever find it? They love to remain hidden."

    We could have told her the truth, but sometimes it's too hard to explain about Chucky. So we told her a version of what happened and left Chuck out of the story entirely. Excited that we'd actually spotted the bird nearby, she decided on the spot to postpone her trip back home so she could see the bird in person and get some photos. 

    Later, back at the hotel, Dan googled the Western Tanager, feeling like we'd spotted some kind of celebrity bird.

    "You're not going to believe this. The Western Tanager is a songbird, part of the Cardinal family."

    Chuck sat up when he heard that. 

    "If you actually spot one of these birds, and it's not easy, that lady was right, it means that change is coming your way. It's the universe's way of telling you to let go of things that aren't going well in your life. It's a time for a new beginning."

    We both looked over at our hero cat. Was seeing this bird a mere coincidence, or was someone through Chuck trying to tell us something?

    "Chuck, I want to ask you something . . ."

    Dan touched my arm. "Let it go, Kate."

    Chuck, oblivious to our existential angst, let out a big yawn and then stretched out his paw and fell instantly asleep.

Yeah, for Chuck a bird is a bird, unless, of course, it's a raven.

    

Chuck Tramples the Tulips

 

          To celebrate my birthday this past year, Dan, I, and, of course, Chuck decided to stay local, which means we wanted to travel somewhere by car and not plane so we went to Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, for the day. 

        Longwood Gardens began as a Quaker farmstead. Then Pierre S. du Pont (yes, the name sounds familiar because of all the du Pont products his company was responsible for--Lucite, Teflon, Lycra, Orlon, Mylar, Kevlar, Tyvek, and Dacron polyester) bought the property in 1906 and over the years transformed it into one of America's premier gardens. It boasts 200 acres filled with gardens and water fountains, a four acre conservatory, an historic house and the usual Visitor Center with Gift Shop. 

       

 

Of course, no pets are allowed. But Dan and I don't consider Chuck a pet. And, maybe, that's why we get into so much trouble.

        

        Longwood Gardens is open year round, and the garden displays rotate with the seasons. We were there in April. Tulips of all colors and shapes were in abundance. The displays were magnificent. For awhile Chuck seemed content to scamper around with us, sniffing the ground, enjoying the beautiful weather. 

        We know that cats see colors differently than we do. We also know, however, that their sense of smell is way more acute. So what happened next, well, we can only put it down to the fact that Chucky must have smelled something, something that he just couldn't resist. 

     

   

        Let me set the scene. These beautiful tulip displays attract many visitors. But it was late in the afternoon. Most of the visitors were gone and Dan, I and Chuck were basically by ourselves at the end of the tulip section. Everything was calm.

   

        That should have been a clue. A warning. That something was about to go amiss. 

        But, again, we were caught up in the moment. If you've ever been to Longwood Gardens, walked through the conservatory, seen the orchid display or been privy to the hundreds of tulips that were in full bloom, you could understand how we could become mesmerized and lose track. 

    

    Suddenly, the tulips began to dance on their own. They were moving. What the . . . At first, it seemed almost magical. Like in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy passes an apple tree, that comes alive and the branch has an arm and a hand that throws an apple at her. 

        These tulips were moving. I saw it first.

        "Look, Dan, those tulips over there."

        Our wonderful magical thinking lasted only a second. In unison we shouted out, "Chuck."

        Of course, it had to be Chuck. His orange and white fur was suddenly visible among the vibrant yellow tulips.

        Oh my God. This was serious. Chuck was ransacking through the tulips. 

        "You have to go in there and get him. Before he causes any major damage."

        But Dan had already assessed the situation. Carefully picking his way through these magnificent flowers, he stepped on solid ground, reached in and picked up the devil cat child. 

        "What was he thinking?"

        "He's just a cat," Dan said calmly.

        He was right, of course. Like curious George, I had curious Chuck who never for a moment thought that visitors to Longwood Gardens wanted to see healthy vibrant tulips, not ones trampled to death by cat paws.  

        Dan put Chucky on the ground near my feet. Then he went back into the tulip display and fluffed up the tulips Chuck had played havoc with.  See, no damage done.

            "Well, we almost had a perfect day." I sighed.

        "And what fun would that have been," Dan said. 

        Later, in the car on the way back home, I tried to get Chuck to explain why he'd bolted into the tulip patch. He only yawned, put his head on his paw, and fell asleep.

        "At least he didn't say anything about ravens," I said. 

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

        

        

        

Raven Love Leads To Poe

 

     In Virginia, in the oldest house still standing in Richmond, built around 1737, is the Edgar Allen Poe museum. It's an odd choice until you find out that Poe in 1824, as part of a junior honor color guard, escorted the Revolutionary War General Marquis de Lafayette (yes, the famous French guy who fought on our side in the war) around Richmond when he returned to the USA to visit. Poe took Lafayette to that very house and stood guard outside while he stayed there. 

        In 1922 the house was turned into the Poe museum. We discovered that fact when we were in Virginia. Chuck, who hears everything he's not supposed to hear, heard mention of Edgar Allen Poe, was still obsessed with seeing more ravens, and wanted to go to the museum.

        "Really, Chucky? A museum?"

         Dan was against it. He never read a lot of Poe. He's not a horror fan, and all he could think of were the Poe short stories kids read in high school--full of mystery and macabre--The Pit and the Pendulum, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, and The Murders in the Rue Morgue. My favorite was The Tell-Tale Heart where the narrator tries to convince the reader he's committed the perfect crime against an old man he's dismembered in the bathtub and hidden under the floor boards. He swears he's not going insane even as he describes a thumping sound he's convinced is the dead man's beating heart. That was not one of Dan's favorite stories.

        The museum is located in a number of ancient buildings, well-preserved, around a beautiful courtyard called an Enchanted Garden that contains a shrine to the writer. 

        As we walked outside in the Enchanted Garden, we turned and noticed that Poe was watching us from one of the windows.

Nice touch!

        Inside, we wandered around from room to room. We saw the desk he worked at when he was a literary critic.

           We saw the chair he sat on when he did much of his famous writing.

           We were astonished to learn that Poe is so much more than a horror writer.

        "It says here," Dan shares, "that Poe's detective stories, namely The Murders in the Rue Morgue laid the groundwork for all the future detective stories in literature. He created the concept of the eccentric genius who solves crimes."

        "That's cool. You mean Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes is based on Poe's work?"

        But Dan was already on to the next exciting fact. "And Poe also did groundbreaking work in science fiction. Jules Verne wrote a sequel to a novel that Poe wrote."

        I had to admit I was impressed. "So he's known for more than just horror."

        "Not just horror, Kate. Psychological horror and suspense. Alfred Hitchcock credits him with influencing the kind of movies he made."

        Of course, I instantly think of one of my favorites, The Birds.

        "And Poe added 1,178 words to the English language."

        I'm afraid that Dan may begin to list ALL of the words.

        "Get this: Booked. Epilepsy. Finicky. Hysteria. Multicolor. Normality. Pants."

        "Pants? So that words was never used before Poe?"

        "People used to say pantaloons, I guess. Or trousers." He paused briefly. "Awe-sticken. Cul-de-sac. Deathbed."

        "Wow. I believe you. But I don't think you have to list--"

        "Poe also loved cats."

        A bell went off in my head. "Cats?" We were lucky at this museum. Because Poe was a fan of cats, the people who run the museum kept two cats on the premises so adding Chuck to the mix didn't raise any eyebrows. Everyone assumed he was part of the museum staff. 

        Unfortunately, he was nowhere in sight. 

        "We are terrible parents."

        "He's got to be here somewhere."

        Why did this always happen to us? "We have to come up with a better system. Either you have to watch him or I have to watch him."

        "Right."

        "I'll go this way. You go that way."

        My thoughts grew darker. Had Chuck been whisked away by Poe's spirit who was lurking in the museum?

        Two minutes later, I stumbled into one of the many rooms with Poe memorabilia. Chuck was there, by himself, staring at a painting. But not just any painting. A giant raven, obviously done in honor of Poe's most famous poem, hung on the wall. 

        

        "Chuck."

        He let out a slight murmur of response.

        "That raven is not real, Chuck. It's only a painting."

         He didn't seem to care.

         Dan came into the room behind me. "How long has he been sitting here?"

        "Too long." I didn't have the heart to pull the poor love sick boy away. "This is so sad," I whispered. 

         "Not really. Now we know what to get Chucky for Christmas."

         I looked at Dan. At Chuck. At the painting of the raven. "Of course. Dan, you're a genius."

          We had a plan. And so what if this decision meant we were doomed to have a giant Raven painting hanging on a wall in our house? If it made Chuck happy, it was worth it.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

         

          

        

        

        

         

 

         

Chuck Falls For A Raven

            Chuck's obsession with a raven started quite innocently. They are highly intelligent, magnificent coal black birds, made famous by Edgar Allen Poe in his poem, "The Raven." When we were traveling in California, in Yosemite National Park, eating lunch outside one afternoon, minding our own business, a raven flew down out of the sky out of nowhere. That's all Chuck needed to see. 

        I can't call it love at first sight. But there is something that happens when a cat sees a bird. Contrary to the usual carnivorous reaction, Chuck was instantly mesmerized. He, of course, knew the poem, "The Raven," but he'd never seen a real raven before and neither had I.

        The raven landed and Chuck hopped up, abandoning his turkey snack, which was a miracle in itself. 

         "Be nice," I called. I wanted to also call out, "Be careful." Ravens can use their beaks to rip objects open. They are one of the few bird species that can use tools to obtain food and defend themselves. 

          Luckily, the next few moments were magical. Chuck followed the raven, always a few respectful feet behind. When the raven finally flew off, Chuck's obsession began.

     

   Raven this and raven that. He started reciting lines from Poe's famous poem.

        "In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore."

        "Quoth the raven--nevermore."

         What cat talks like that? (I suspect Dan was somehow involved in Chuck's sudden spurt of literary genius.)

        Insanely curious, back at the hotel, Chuck asked Dan to google "raven" and begin to do research. He wanted to know everything there was to know about ravens.

        "Did you know ravens can fly upside down and do somersaults in the air?" Dan asked.

        "No, I did not."

         Chuck sat in rapt attention, listening.

        "Did you know they can sing?"

        "Nope."

        "Did you know they eat almost anything?"

        "Really?"

        "Insects, eggs, seeds, berries--"

         Chuck was nodding. I was imagining a raven gorging himself on my favorite--pumpkin pie. 

        "Ok. I get the picture."

        Dan found a YouTube video that featured raven calls. Caw, caw, caw, caw. He played it once. Twice. 

        The cawing was music to Chucky's ears.

        "Enough about ravens," I said.

        But Chuck wouldn't have it. He wanted to go outside and spot more ravens. 

        "Some people believe they are a sign of bad luck," I said, hoping to discourage Chuck from his increasing mania. "Maybe it's not such a good idea to hang out with--"

         But Dan, seeing Chuck look so forlorn, admitted, "They can also be a sign of good fortune."

           Finally I had to put my foot down. "Chuck, we are NOT adopting a raven. It's a wild bird. That's the end of it."

           But I was so wrong. What I thought was the end turned out to be only the beginning. 

           I'll see you next week with the rest of the story.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.