Terrace Point and Bridge Bay

One day, I learned I hate boats.

If you've been following my writing, you may remember a few brief allusions to riding in a boat on Yellowstone Lake when I was there studying bears. I said then that I have a particular aversion to all modes of transportation in which there is not more or less constant contact with solid ground; boats and planes, sadly, do not meet this criteria. I assure you, however, that this aversion to unnatural vehicles (completely unnatural: if man were meant to fly, or skip across bodies of water, he'd have been given either wings or fins) developed logically as a result of real experiences.

The Yellowstone bear project, back in 2007, had two boats at its disposal: One was called the Silvertip (or The Tip, for short; "Silvertip" is another name for grizzly bear), and the other was called the Ursus. I know nothing about boats, so I won't even pretend to know what kinds of boats these were. They were small. They each had one propeller. The Silvertip had a green canvas removable top and limited seating - riding in the back was similar to riding in the bed of a truck - but the Ursus had a permanent cover and a comfy row of seats lining each side of the cabin. The Ursus was brand spanking new, and the Tip definitely had some miles under its keel. But despite the higher level of comfort and luxury provided by the weatherproof cover of the Ursus, not to mention the draw of its shiny newness, most of us actually preferred the Tip. It had proven itself worthy over years of abuse on the unforgiving waters of Yellowstone Lake, while the Ursus had still to earn our trust. 

Yellowstone Lake is a large natural lake in the southeastern quadrant of Yellowstone National Park. Major park roads run alongside the western and northern shores, but the southern and eastern shores are inaccessible except by trails (one of which is called the Thoroughfare Trail, and runs along most of the eastern shore). Backcountry campgrounds and cabins exist here and there along the trail systems, and we utilized quite a few of them during multi-day bear sampling excursions. When the bears hung out in the backcountry south and east of the Lake, the easiest way to get there was to take the boat to the opposite shore. 

The employee/volunteer trailer park was located west of the road between Lake Village and Fishing Bridge (located at the junction of the two main roads). The Tip and the Ursus were housed in Bridge Bay Marina, a small inlet protected from the wind  that nearly constantly blew across the Lake. When departing in the boat from Bridge Bay, boats had to pass underneath the main road, after which the inlet widened and soon ejected its hapless victims into the unprotected expanse of the Lake's main body. 

Sign located on the bridge when leaving Bridge Bay

It was very common for strong winds to blow northeast through the West Thumb channel, creating surprisingly large breakers and conditions too dangerous for boating. Other days, however, the Lake was smooth and clear as glass, and speeding southeast from Bridge Bay to the South or Southeast Arms, in a pristine Lake in one of the country's most pristine national parks, the canvas top of the Tip removed and the autumn wind whipping over the windshield, was absolutely glorious. 

We had three people on our team who were licensed to drive the boat: George, a dedicated boat driver volunteer who worked for us and for the fisheries folks, as well as both the graduate students on the project, Jenn and Justin. In addition, the trapping crew, who caught the bears for us and with whom we only worked occasionally, also needed the boats at times, and the leader, Craig, was licensed to drive them. 

Landing the boat could be quite tricky. Docks are few and far between on the Lake, especially in the undeveloped South and Southeast Arms. In many places, broad, sandy beaches line the shoreline, and we could simply rev the engine, lift the prop as the depth decreased, and glide up as far as possible onto the beach. Then a group of us would leap off the bow and the driver would push off the beach with a long pole, coming back later to repeat the process and pick everybody up. George's season ended before ours did, so when Jenn or Justin was driving, it was more common for us to tug the boat further up onto the sand with long ropes and secure the anchor to some trees or logs, and come back for it later in the day. I fondly remember many occasions as we approached the beach, me sitting at the stern with a pair of polarized glasses, shouting depth estimations to the driver so he could pull up the prop before it hit the gravelly lake bottom. 

However, there was one spot along the eastern shore that was quite different. It was called Terrace Point. There were no beaches here; the surrounding hills sloped abruptly into the Lake, the Thoroughfare Trail carving a path alongside or sometimes further away where the terrain was flatter. At Terrace Point, a large rocky outcrop jutted a few meters into the Lake. Landing here entailed ramming this rock and leaping one by one onto it from the bow. It had to be done quickly, before the pounding waves could turn the boat sideways where it would be easier to roll, and where the prop could be damaged by the rocks on shore.  

I recall many occasions when Terrace Point landings went smoothly. However, it only took one bad day to erase all those memories from my mind. 

I think I actually took this picture on the day in question.

We were on the Tip. All 6 of us departed at Bridge Bay and headed out into the Lake, Justin driving, the plan being to land at Terrace Point and send off a group of 4 for a multi-day stint in the backcountry. I was to stay behind with Justin so the two of us could tackle some other data points closer to Madison Junction after we returned the boat to Bridge Bay. The day was windy; crossing the West Thumb Channel was slow going, as we plowed through troughs and over breakers pushed high by the wind blowing along the length of the Channel. When we cleared the Channel, the going was slightly better, but the waves still pushed us strongly eastward. 

As we approached Terrace Point, I situated myself along the starboard bow with the pole, ready to push off once our 4 adventurers had departed. With a crunch, the bow struck the granite, and one after another, everyone leaped off onto the stone. I tried to push away from the rock, but the waves battered us from behind, and overpowered me. The depth here was great enough that we didn't need to raise the prop, and Justin tried desperately to reverse the boat, but the waves were just too much for our little craft. After only a minute or two, the boat had turned sideways and was being battered into the rocky shore as I tried desperately to shove against it with all my strength. Justin was forced to raise the prop and threw his hands off the wheel in defeat.Visions of our little boat disintegrating into a thousand pieces flooded my mind.

We weren't really in any danger - we had radios, we were at the shore, and help could easily arrive before the autumn chill would creep into our wet clothing. But I didn't want to see the Tip dashed to pieces, and I was partly afraid that it would be my fault, since I had been unable to push away from the shore in time. And it's a frightening feeling, knowing that this craft so carefully constructed by human hands can be so fully at the mercy of Mother Nature.

Fortunately, our crew of 4 standing helplessly on Terrace Point decided to be helpless no longer. Sacrificing the warmth and comfort of their dry boots, socks, and pants, they all jumped into the Lake and pushed. With the four of them pushing from below and me pushing from above with the pole, we finally got the boat turned completely around and pushed far enough away from the shore so Justin could lower the prop. He threw the boat in gear, and for a few moments we were stuck in a stasis as the forward momentum matched the momentum being hurled by the waves in the opposite direction, but then - freedom! I stood in the stern as we sped away from Terrace Point, watching my comrades crawl back onto the rock and wave goodbye, dripping from their water-stained pant legs.

Justin and I had a somber drive back to Bridge Bay, once again fighting the troughs and crests in West Thumb Channel. As we pulled into the protected waters of Bridge Bay, I think the tension was visible as it fell from our shoulders.

The crew left on the Lake had to hike with sodden clothes for the rest of that day, but were able to dry off in front of the wood stove of the backcountry cabin they stayed in for that night. I can't remember for certain, but I think we picked them up again at the same place a few days later. We were all a little gun-shy but the pickup came off without a hitch.

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Yellowstone Lake is cold all the time. Year round. If you fall into the water, you have an estimated 20 minutes to live before hypothermia kills you, probably less if you don't have a life jacket keeping you above water. Colorful signs plastered all over Bridge Bay, featuring a young man dangling lifelessly in the water, head rolled back onto the pad of his life jacket, reminded us of this fact constantly. One time, while staying at a cabin on an island in the South Arm, I got the bright idea (formed with the aid of whiskey) that we all should go jump into the Lake after dinner, since we had the nice wood stove and hot chocolate (with whiskey) to warm us up. We did. It was cold. 

Toward the end of the season as our field work was wrapping up, we all got the opportunity to join the bear trappers when they traveled to the eastern shore of the Lake to set some culvert traps. The huge, heavy culverts were already out in the field, but we needed to bring lots of supplies - bait (a lovely mixture of blood and guts of some kind, or kinds, of animals and fish), equipment for processing captured bears, as well as all of our overnight camping gear.

The day dawned cold, windy, and rainy. We all gathered at Bridge Bay and loaded up the Ursus. There were four or five of us from the research team accompanying the three-man crew of the capture team, plus all the added weight of our stuff. It took us quite a while to load up. When we left the dock, the Ursus teetered back and forth ponderously with each slight turn of the rudder in the still waters.

I think the Ursus and the Silvertip were about the same size, but there were some key differences. The Ursus was a bit flatter, more square-like in shape, while the Silvertip resembled more of the typical boat shape, with a sharper prow and more streamlined body. Because of the Ursus's squareness, it was definitely less stable when heavy. We discovered this the hard way.

Craig drove the boat out of Bridge Bay. As soon as we hit the West Thumb Channel, waves larger than any I had yet seen rolled before our eyes. Slowly, carefully, Craig did his best to steer in and out of the troughs of the confused waters. We in the back sat silently, trying not to panic as each wave rolled us back and forth. Spitting rain pelted the windshield, driven by the high winds into an icy stinging spray, and the waves reflected a murky grayness from the turbulent clouds scudding overhead. I found myself clinging to the person sitting next to me, fear written plainly in every feature of my face and every reaction of my body.

It became clear in ten or fifteen minutes that we could not make it to the eastern shore. The plans were abandoned. Craig carefully turned the boat around, and we headed back to Bridge Bay. I took a deep breath, probably the only one I'd really taken since we left the safety of the marina, feeling immensely relieved, even if I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to help catch a grizzly bear.

Craig decided to try to let the waves push him back into Bridge Bay, so as he steered toward it, he craned his body around to watch the waves rolling in behind him. I watched too from my seat on the port side, the rear of the cabin open to provide better visibility.

Without warning, all of us on the port side were thrown to starboard as the boat listed dangerously and nearly rolled. Craig's attention had been focused so completely on the waves behind us that he never noticed the huge one creeping up from the left. It felt like one of those rides at an amusement park where a huge ship (or, at Six Flags Houston, a space shuttle) swings back and forth, getting higher and higher with each swing until you feel like it's going to stop upside down and maybe, just maybe, complete a full revolution. For a few terrifying milliseconds, we were suspended in mid-air as the boat decided whether or not to roll completely.

Finally, it crashed back to port. I wasn't the only one panicking now, but we managed to keep a lid on it as Craig successfully led us back into the safety of Bridge Bay.

It was the last time I rode in the Ursus. I may have ridden in the Tip once or twice more before the season ended. I've only ridden in a boat once since I worked in Yellowstone - a short jaunt across a small lake in Colorado to sample some mountain lion data points - but it's definitely not something I miss.