Recalling A Disastrous Travel Experience…

Several years ago my writing coach gave me an assignment: Write about a disastrous travel experience.

My challenge: Which one?

Actually, in my 40-plus-year career of planning and leading groups to wondrous destinations all over the world, there hadn’t been too many disasters. Which is remarkable, considering the million-and-one variables that were beyond my control when planning a trip for a group of customers. But this one came to mind . . .

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June 1995

It’s not supposed to snow on the first day of summer. But it was snowing!

For four nights, 150 guests of my most important corporate client had gathered for their annual conference at the Sun Valley Lodge - an historic haunt favored by the likes of Ernest Hemingway and Marilyn Monroe. My group of electrical contractors enjoyed 5-star wining, dining, and leisure-time activities at the lodge, which included a bowling alley and a skating rink.

Sun Valley Lodge

It was my custom to offer an optional add-on trip for those who had more time. But I was challenged, since it doesn’t get much more beautiful than Sun Valley. I’d researched a Snake River rafting trip with a wilderness outfitter. An option that would appeal to a few hardy souls, but I needed to offer another, less physically challenging, destination.

Jed, with whom I was collaborating on all out-of-hotel details, suggested, “What about a luxury camping experience on Yellowstone Lake?”

“Tell me more,” I said eagerly.

He went on to describe an intriguing adventure: “It’s less than five hours from Sun Valley to the West Gate of the National Park in Wyoming. As you can imagine, it’s a beautiful drive. You could spend your first night at the historic Yellowstone Lake Hotel, a very nice property. They even have a string quartet playing during dinner."

“The next day, we can charter boats from the nearby marina to get you across the lake - about an hour - to a nice camping area. People can buy fishing licenses at the marina. I’ll arrange for all the necessary gear: tents, zip-together sleeping bags, and fishing poles. Food will be fabulous. My guides are great - they’ll play guitar and tell cowboy stories around the campfire after dinner. You can make s’mores . . .”

My mind wandered to childhood memories of camping vacations with my family, sitting on canvas campstools in my pajamas, making s’mores with my brothers.

Jed was still talking, “... and people can hike in the meadow which will be full of wildflowers. There’s good fly fishing, too. And they can just enjoy the quiet and unspoiled natural beauty.”

I needed no more convincing. He had me at s’mores!

Bingo! I love when a plan comes together.

June 20, 1995

The day started as perfectly as I’d envisioned. It was a glorious summer morning when we left Sun Valley. We headed south toward Idaho Falls and crossed through a corner of Montana. Passing the One Horse Motel in West Yellowstone I teased them, “That place was my second choice for accommodations.”

One Horse Motel, West Yellowstone

Almost immediately after entering Yellowstone we spotted our first buffalo – a slovenly beast, trailing clumps of his winter fur. We passed stands of trees gutted several years before by massive wildfires which raged unchecked for several months. Those fires burned more than a third of the park, but nature’s healing was evident in meadows filled with knee-high seedlings that would eventually grow into towering Lodgepole Pines.

It had been a long transfer day and everyone looked forward to a hot shower and a clean, comfy bed. Not having inspected the hotel beforehand, as I preferred to do, I had not hyped it in my description. So none of us were prepared for the elegance of the Yellowstone Lake Hotel, with its traditional architecture painted – appropriately – yellow, fronted with massive white columns.

And just as Jed had hinted, they did have a string quartet to entertain in the dining room! Wow - what a great start!

Yellowstone Lake Hotel

June 21, 1995
The morning dawned sunny and bright. I took a short hike. A strong wind was blowing. When we arrived at the marina a few hours later, the clouds were ominous.

And then it started snowing. Big, fat flakes of snow. On the first day of summer!

A lady approached me with a logical question. “Marilyn, what do we do now?”  

Because a trip leader must always stay calm (at least on the outside), I simply replied, “We get in the boat.”

Our three boats set off across the lake, and, as if everything was part of my grand plan, within 15 minutes the skies cleared up and the sun shone brightly. “Whew!” I thought. “Glad that’s over.”

Twenty minutes later, the blizzard hit. With a vengeance. A total white-out with zero visibility. Our boat captain killed the engine and we huddled together for warmth as we drifted. Ten minutes later, the weather abruptly changed and skies were once again clear.

When we finally made it to the opposite shore, a guide from one of the other boats took me aside to warn me about a disgruntled lady who had asked, “So, where is the lodge?” When told that there was no lodge she said, indignantly, “There MUST be a lodge! Marilyn wouldn’t bring us all the way here without a nice place to stay.”

I swallowed hard and asked him to discreetly point her out to me. She was the one with the beehive hairdo and brightly painted nails. I made a mental note to keep close tabs on her - from a distance. I busied myself helping unload the gear.

Next up on the agenda: an ice storm! Mother Nature just could not make up her mind! The wind blew sideways and freezing rain coated the pile of duffel bags that hadn’t yet been delivered to the tents. My guests ran to their little tents for cover and guides rushed to secure the kitchen pavilion as powerful gusts loosened the tent stakes from the ground.

No different than before, this storm was over within ten minutes, and skies cleared again. The cook busied himself with lunch as the guides chipped ice off the duffel bags.

I gathered my guests around the fire-pit for an orientation. One of the women complained, “Marilyn, I thought you said we’d have sleeping bags that zipped together. The ones in our tent are individual mummy bags.”

I turned toward one of the guides with a questioning look. “Sorry, ma’am. Nobody told us to bring zip-together sleeping bags.”

I soon learned that nobody had told them to bring fishing rods, either. Nor was there a guitar. I dared not ask about campfire stories, marshmallows, or Hershey bars.

Next, the lead guide, Austin, gave the “bear lecture.” He explained that grizzlies had been spotted in the vicinity and that there would be no hiking through the meadow to pick wildflowers. Continuing his fireside chat, he instructed, “Before nightfall, you’ll surrender everything that has any fragrance – lotions, toothpaste, mints, lipstick, chewing gum, soap, shampoo, snacks – EVERYTHING. We’ll put all that stuff into a knapsack and hoist it up a tree. Even our cook will shed his clothes, smelling of food, before bedtime.”

“And if you see a bear, do not run. I repeat, do NOT run away. Bears run faster than humans, and they think chasing prey is fun.” He demonstrates as he instructs, “Instead, stand and face the bear. Slowly raise your arms to make yourself as big as possible. Speak to the bear in a low, calm voice. And slowly begin to back away. The bear should leave you alone.”

The group giggled nervously. The bear should leave us alone???

The three boatmen had left me with promises that they’d be back at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. Discreetly, I glanced at my watch. Slightly more than 17 hours to go.

Throughout the afternoon I avoided eye contact with the beehive hair lady. I learned that her husband had signed up for the Yellowstone extension without sharing any details with her.

I’m relieved to see people engaging in pleasant fireside chats. One couple played cards at the lunch table. One guy had brought his own fishing rod, which he generously shared with other anglers. We can’t take the hike through the meadow as I’d promised - so there wasn’t much to do.

It occasionally rained, and we scattered to our tents until it passed. More than once, I hoped it would never stop raining so I could just hide out in my tent. I’d created great expectations about this adventure and now I was letting people down. I was furious at Jed for not delivering on his promises, and frustrated that there was no way to contact him. And I was mad at myself for not double and triple-checking the details in advance.

In front of the group, I put on my game face but I was a lousy actress. For my entire career, I have always fixed whatever might have gone wrong. But this time, I couldn’t fix it. There’s nothing I could do and there’s no place to hide.

I struggled to shift out of my negativity. I needed to find something to “do”, so I decided to fetch some wood for the fire. I headed toward the outhouse at the edge of the woods, grabbing an axe as I left the campsite. I don’t realize that three of my guys had seen me and decided to come to help! This is NOT what I had in mind. All I need now is a slip of the axe or a heart attack . . .

None of which happened, thankfully. Again, I sneaked a peek at my watch. About 14 hours to go. Time has never passed more slowly than this day - the longest day of the year.

June 22, 1995

A bright shaft of sunlight streamed through my tent - finally, it was morning! Somehow, I had managed to sleep through the night. I heard people stirring and stretching. I heard chattering and chuckling. I smelled coffee. And bacon. Nothing smells better than bacon.

It was a gorgeous sunny morning. No bear attacks. No medical emergencies. There was lots of laughter. I felt vindicated. Even beehive hair lady was smiling.

I heaved a big sigh and discreetly looked at my watch. We survived. Only two more hours . . .