Never Again In July!
I live 80 miles from Yellowstone National Park. And yet, until yesterday, I hadn’t been there since 2003. Why? Partly because I lived away from Bozeman for 16 of the past 22 years and partly because I was traumatized by a Yellowstone day hike in 2003. The out-of-state folks I went with scheduled our hike for the middle of July. Despite my trepidations, I agreed to go.
More than four million people go to YPN each year. Four million visitors wouldn’t be so bad if those visits were spread out over 12 months. But according to the National Park Service, one million tourists crowd into Yellowstone during the month of July, by far the busiest month. (In case you’re wondering, November is the least busy.)
In July of 2003, we arrived at Chittenden Road parking area at 10 a.m. The lot was full. On a Tuesday. Our driver circled the asphalt like a hungry lappet-faced vulture waiting for lions to abandon a wildebeest carcass.
After edging out a lumbering RV in our race to claim a newly-vacated parking spot, we piled out of the van. It was 85 degrees. The trailhead is nearly 9,000 feet above sea level. In such heat at that altitude, sunburn and dehydration can occur quickly. But we were prepared. We slathered on sunscreen and grabbed our water bottles, hats, and daypacks. Then we (literally) elbowed our way through throngs of tourists to push our way onto the trail.
As we walked up the wide treeless path, we passed herds of adults accompanied by sweaty, red-faced children. I saw very few water bottles and hats. I had to look away.
Nearly three miles from the parking lot we encountered two young women. Both wore outfits that contained slightly more fabric than swimsuits. Their exposed skin was bright pink. They held out empty bottles and asked if we had any extra water. We took turns pouring a few ounces from each of our bottles into theirs.
During nearly every minute of our Yellowstone adventure, I fought the urge to scream at “stupid” people, especially the ones endangering the well-being of young children. But I managed to restrain myself. They didn’t know any better. I imagined myself in Tokyo, a place many tourists I saw that day might have come from. I would have absolutely no idea how to navigate that environment.
The view from the top of Mount Washburn was spectacular. I’m glad I went. Sort of. But I swore, “Never again in July!”
NPS / Addy Falgoust
And then, suddenly, it was May of 2025. How did that happen? I had a free day with favorable weather in the forecast and a powerful urge to see bison.
I left Bozeman at 7 a.m., drove to downtown West Yellowstone, and turned toward the park’s west entrance. Ahead of me were long lines of vehicles queuing in front of the three open entrance stations. Oh no!
Scenes from July 2003 flashed through my mind. But as it turned out, I only had to idle forward for about 10 minutes before handing the attendant my ID and National Parks Lifetime Senior Pass, which I purchased in 2016 for $10 (today’s price tag is $80). In a short time, traffic spread out as vehicles stopped at pullouts or turned off at the first junction.
And the next few hours were glorious! Baby bison. Big bison. Bunches of bison.
Each time I stopped to marvel at the scenery and take pictures, I heard new sounds. My favorites were the squawky sandhill cranes and chirpy boreal chorus frogs.
And there was water, water everywhere!
Yesterday renewed my enthusiasm for the wonders of Yellowstone National Park. And soothed my anxiety about overcrowding. I discovered that it’s still possible to enjoy YPN in a leisurely, nonconfrontational manner. I won’t go in July (or June or August or September), but I certainly won’t wait 22 years to take another trip through the world’s first national park.
