Adventures
December, 1977
The first time I saw Yellowstone National Park was during the summer before my tenth birthday. Shoehorned into the family car, my mother, my sister, my grandparents and I peered at the scenery while my father fought traffic that was thicker and slower than the five-o'clock rush on the freeway. Feckless bears, their moral fiber completely unraveled by generations on welfare, stood along the roadside and begged for handouts. We waited in line to see the Fountain Paint Pots and when Old Faithful er...
