Every year when we visit the park Mark makes up a new murder scenario. This year no imagination was required, the plots presented themselves.
To see Grand Prismatic Spring you have to walk up hill for a fair distance. It was warm on Saturday afternoon. As we were climbing up toward the Spring we encountered a couple in their (?)70's. Both were well groomed for an afternoon of shopping, not hiking. In addition to his tasseled loafers and golf sweater the man was also sporting blue tinged skin. Cyanotic as all get out. He had stopped walking and was wheezing and gasping for air. People were crowding around him to continue up the board walk. I slowed down thinking we might have to launch into CPR. Since we slowed down people began passing us, momentarily trapping us next to this couple. The wife, cool and composed in lavender and white, and that was just her hair, was urging her obviously seriously compromised husband forward. "You always do this. We can't ever go anywhere without you making a scene. There is nothing wrong with you that a little exercise wouldn't cure. Close your mouth when you breath. I have waited years to see this and I am going to see it. I wanted to see it with you but if you are going to just stand there I am going on ahead." And she did. We waited a moment to see if he was going to be okay and then we also left. If she took him to the Canyon or Tower Falls he is now a dead duck.
The other potential murderers we first encountered in a grocery store in West Yellowstone (a small Montana town just outside the park) at eight o'clock in the morning. They were from some eastern European country. There were six of them. Three couples. We were buying water and apples. They were buying booze. Each couple had a cart full to the brim with wine and beer. They were having a gay old time. We paid for our stuff and wished we could be invited to the evening's festivities. We next ran across the group at one of the stops along the Fire Hole River. They were slowly walking along the path talking at top speed and carrying glasses of wine. One of the men was toting a gallon jug and was frequently topping off everyone's glass. We bumped into these folks at various places for most of the day. At each stop they were more inebriated. They were driving a huge tan van. At 5PM we saw them stopped at a pull out. The driver was asleep in the driver's seat in the sun. His compatriots were still toasting one another. I hope they made it back to their hotel without killing anyone.
Markovian Theory: Cod liver oil is "fishist." Why can't local trout livers be used for oil? It is because the Government and the Eastern Cod Liver Treader's Union are in cahoots convincing people that only cods' livers are healthy enough to be squeezed for oil. This is a blatant lie, and it is depriving people in this valley of a badly needed industry. Think how much money "the little guy" could make if he just purchased a Ronco Fish Liver Squeezer. Heck, he spends most of his time fishing anyway, and the wife could quick run the trout through the machine after she cleaned them before she cooked them. He could use the empties from the fishing trips to bottle the stuff and then use the wife's craft stamp to print "Squeezed by number 32" on the labels. The whole process would cost almost nothing, make money, and not cut into his hunting time at all.
I am in good spaces. Take care of yourselves. Love Bea