Cool, crisp air greets me as I step out of the small two story complex which will be my home for the next 17 weeks. The look of soft snowflakes billow silently around me, the lodge pole pine trees stand daintily brushed with snow, and the Absaroka mountains immutable in the near distance, all give me the sensation of being inside a snow globe. Tomorrow will be the first of June. Lake Yellowstone remains an ice skating rink, surrounded by about 3 feet of snow, so the 4 inches we got in the last few days amounts to almost nothing. True, this much snow this late in the season is a bit odd, but not unheard of. The good news for this East Coast girl is that the grizzlys will remain in this area for a bit longer this summer. Usually around late June they head up to higher elevation. Which is a little crazy since here at Lake the elevation reaches very near 8,000 feet! So far I've only seen two adult grizzlys, but I did get a nice view of a little fluffy cub! Cute as can be and since he was a two year old, probably just as strong as I am!

I much prefer unpacking to packing. When moving in to a new place, you get to explore all the nooks and crannies that will one day be a burden to clear out. It's like deciding a new home for each of the belongings I carefully chose to pack. Naturally, I've already discovered a few crucial items I forgot. Most importantly is my comforter and a winter coat! Alas, I purchased a bedspread, but will not be shelling out the moola for a good winter coat. Layers and the underarmor leggings I have have become my new best friends.

I shall never tire of the serene beauty of the Absaroka mountains. They played a major role in my decision to return to YNP. Immutable and timeless, they are the kings of a world long ancient. If you listen closely, they speak of such wisdom as only ages can know. My breath catches in my throat, my stomach constricts as I make that first turn that brings the majesty of the Absarokas into view. If you've ever been on a long journey and upon returning home unexpectedly find a very dear friend waiting at the gate, then you know the feeling I'm talking about at re-seeing the Absarokas. They are my mountains, ones I would gladly share with you, or any other wanderer.

In closing, let me leave you with this quote. I discovered this recently; it's by a true wanderer, a sailor named Sterling Hayden. This quote quite captivates me as I attempt to commit it to memory. I have not yet done any research as to the success of Hayden's journey, but I like to think he would fully endorse the Timmel ideology of what matters most is a good story. Take in the journey, don't just live for the destination.

"To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen, who play with their boats at sea - "cruising," it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about.

"I've always wanted to sail to the South Seas, but I can't afford it." What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of "security." And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone.

What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense. And we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.

The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it the tomb is sealed.

Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?"

Wandering among the Absarokas,

jeny.

With 9 days, 216 hours, 7 1/2 days of work, 75 hours of work, hopefully only half a dozen more boxes to pack, I find myself quickly propelling towards my departure date. Through the process of uprooting my life here, packing everything I own in industrial grey plastic tubs and every paper box I can nick from work, I have discovered a few things about myself. 

I hate packing. For all the moving I do, one might think I would have packing down to an art; this is simply not true. Let's also consider who my mother is! The Queen of Organization. Somehow none of that rubbed off on me. Instead I flounder in a sea of individual memories, caught up in the rising swell of trinkets from people I love, and thus feel guilty for discarding. Thankfully, at just the right moment, my mother's voice echos in my ears, "When in doubt, throw it away!"

Packing in many ways resembles putting away Christmas decorations. Each ornament encapsulates a memory of a place, time or person, often making the process of putting them away much longer than necessary. Without fail, every year we forget whole swaths of decorations, only to find time sometime around Valentine's Day, "What on Earth are these Christmas tree towels doing in the bathroom?" or "How did we fail to notice the papier mache angel sitting on the windowsill?" Last night I proudly went up to my room, thinking that the entire downstairs was divested of my belongings.  This morning, however, proved me wrong. Somehow I'd missed nearly everything in the kitchen. I have no doubt that I'll be receiving a call from a roommate in July asking if I knew I'd left this or that behind.

So far, one of the most difficult decisions I've had to make surrounds all the books I own, and which pile to put them in. If I bring Dostoyevsky's Notes From Underground, do I need to bring Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols? I want to reread Anne Rice, so maybe I can put Arabian Nights in storage.  I'm bringing the Egyptian Book of the Dead, but leaving Herodotus' Histories. Ovid's Metamorphoses and a collection of Oscar Wilde's works made the cut, but the Federalist Papers went into the storage box. I anticipate spending a good number of my evenings sitting on the front porch of Lake Lodge reading through the 600 pounds of books I'm bringing. 

I hope to do some serious soul searching while trekking through the last of the truly wild west. (Isn't the alliteration in that sentence beautiful?!) I've been having interesting conversations recently regarding the purpose of life, the reason for humanity.  There are certainly moments when I could believe that the hedonists had a point, but after too many forays into a world strictly designed for pleasure, I find myself drawing back, searching for something higher, less temporal. From there I often find myself wondering if the need to do good in the world, to make a difference is the driving force.  But the truth is that most days, I know that the hedonist in me needs some curbing, that the do-gooder in me needs some prodding, and the spirit in me is wholly confused.  

Now that all my books are securely packed into various boxes, taped down with unforgiving destinations stamped on the lids, I find I must turn elsewhere for inspiration.  And so I turn to art, more specifically the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.  Today I've chosen Dante Rossetti. His women exude a far off beauty, never quite meeting your eye.  This portrait exeplifies what I'm looking for, that serenity and beauty, most importantly, the pensive, questioning air. 


Wandering through stacks of boxes,


Jeny.

I think the number one spot on the list of things I will miss while living in Wyoming will not be the lack of reliable internet, nor having to climb a small mountain to get cell phone service, no, I think I shall miss Barnes and Noble the most.  I just received the 2011 Rand McNally Road Atlas (at a 40% discount for B&N members) and have been fastidiously mapping out my drive west. 

From Baltimore I plan on heading to Niles, Ohio.  Although this town boasts the birthplace of William McKinley, I am not going for the purpose of paying my respects to our 25^th president.  I will be visiting and hopefully joined for the remainder of my journey by a very good friend from college, Alaina.  From the once booming industrial belt, I head to Carmel, Indiana to visit the lovely Jordan, my muse.  

However at this point the possibilities open up into a vast array of scenic routes, highways, byways, motorways, interstates, flat states, square states, and I am a deer in the headlights.   At first I thought to head up 74 to 80 and drive through Iowa City, over to Omaha, up to South Dakota where we will pass through the Badlands and rush on to Mt Rushmore, where I hear my two favorite presidents, TJ and Teddy are carved with 20 foot noses each!   

Then I considered heading north from Carmel up towards Chicago, cutting through Wisconsin and Minnesota to SD. But I lived once in Minnesota and would like to see something new. My most current plan, which is as mercurial as high school relationships, is to head west, through Missouri and Kansas, up the western edge of Nebraska and to Rapid City. The plus side of this route is the possibility of a short trip to Oz. 

Having never driven west of a creepy campground in West Virginia, I am rather at a loss for where to go or anything worth passing through.  As my last name suggests, the most important thing is that it make a good story! Thoughts, ideas, philosophies, questions, comments, interesting anecdotes and prayers are highly appreciated!  

Ever wandering in search of a good story,

Jeny Timmel

With almost exactly two months before I step foot in the western world of Wyoming that I have come to love, I decided to begin a blog, albeit with a wee bit of trepidation. As a favorite demotivational poster states about the so called art or craft or hobby of 'blogging', "Never have so many said so little to so few". While the last third may ring true, I hope there will be more to this than a Dear Diary a la National Park.


So, here goes. Whenever I begin something, and I mean something bigger in scale than emptying the dishwasher, I find the words I choose are often borrowed from one of my great loves, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and G.K. Chesterton. These men are so beloved to me, I can't help by wish I had a name as clever as Clive Staples, and could shorten it to initials, slipping ever so softly into an enigmatic persona.

Today I am borrowing from Chesterton, a quote which I used in my Lit thesis on the recovery of the senses, "The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land." I know I am an East Coast girl. I love the coast, I love the hustle of little Baltimore; the impatience and constant motion serves as a reminder of the thrilling hum of humanity around me. However I am excited for this new adventure, a chance to see new places and meet people from such foreign walks of life. I only hope to discover so much about this different world that I can see myself through eyes reborn, and thus return one day to view my own home of Baltimore as a new, perhaps even foreign land. When I say foreign, I mean only that one day I might see all this with new eyes so that I can appreciate all the wonderful things that I have grown to gloss over, to look at without seeing.

As ever, just the musings of a wanderer,

J.C. Timmel.