The air crisp. The sun rising. A tinge of rotten eggs carried on the breeze. Buffalo wandered the woods, valleys, hills and plains of Yellowstone. Lone black bears grazed the grassy knolls. Herds of Elk walked through the wooded banks of the Yellowstone River. We crossed the continental divide through snow capped trees.
Through the south side of the park a sign for Grand Tetons and Jackson, Wyoming.
New adventure. A crystalline blue sky spotted with wispy clouds crowned the Tetons.
After the Tetons we headed into Jackson. The sun riding off into the west for the evening.
Exhaustion or Fate or Magic. We wanted food and shelter.
A small resort on the outskirts of Jackson Hole. The Rustic Inn. Dozens of trailers disguised as cabins. The lawn manicured. The stone paths glistened. A stream meandered through the property. Images of thick terry cloth robes and slippers filled our heads.
We stopped for the night.
When we rose in the morning we discovered four antler arches in the town square wrapped in white Christmas lights. Below the arch a park bench made from wagon wheels and rustic cuts of wood.
Whether Fate or magic, we found the perfect symbol for our trip.