By a guy who doesn’t trust any plan that involves outrunning a bear.
We woke up early the next day, the sort of early that only ever feels like a good idea the night before. Having ditched our previous Airbnb—which was about as comfortable as a prison cell with curtains—we’d moved to a new one. And this time, jackpot. It was a log cabin mock-up, two bedrooms, a full kitchen, a bathroom, and a loft. Outside, the kind of place where you expect a lumberjack called Hank to emerge with a freshly felled pine under one arm and a mug of hot coffee in the other. Except this wasn’t in Wyoming anymore; we’d crossed into Victor, Idaho. Family town. Safe. Clean. A place where nothing bad ever happens—unless you count boredom.
Breakfast was exactly what you’d expect: scrambled eggs that looked as though they’d been tipped out of a paint can, sausage patties so salty they could pickle your insides, and bacon sliced so thin it resembled something more metaphysical than actual meat. Bacon ghosts. There were potatoes, but we didn’t linger on that—because honestly, when has anyone ever lingered over potatoes? There was also toast, cereal, and yogurt. Not groundbreaking, but hearty enough to make you think you could wrestle a bear.
And speaking of bears—Jenny Lake. Now that’s a sight. A massive stretch of water hugged by mountains, named after a Shoshone woman from 1872. You can hike all the way around it if you’re into blisters, dehydration, and possible death by wildlife. We, on the other hand, are not lunatics. We opted for the boat ride across. Far more civilized.
Once you’re on the other side, it’s like stepping into a version of Earth that’s never been touched by humans. Trees stand tall and proud, birds sing like they’re auditioning for Disney, chipmunks dart around stuffing their faces with berries, and the landscape… well, the landscape makes you feel small in the best possible way. A mile in, there’s a waterfall. We walked to it, perched on a rock, and just sat. Rejuvenated. Healed. For about five minutes, I thought I’d cracked nirvana.
But then reality intruded: bears. The ranger had made a point about them, and we’d cleverly left our bear spray in the car. Which, even if we’d remembered, was about as useful as trying to stop a freight train with a can of deodorant. Because to actually use it, the bear needs to be 10 feet away, running at 35 miles an hour. At that point, frankly, you’re already lunch. Still, it’s comforting to carry, like an umbrella in the desert—you’ll never need it, but it makes you feel grown-up.
Next stop, Jackson Lake. A natural hangout where tourists and possibly the three locals in existence swim, kayak, and paddleboard like it’s summer camp. The water was warm—warm!—in a mountain park. Practically begging us to swim. But, of course, we hadn’t packed swim gear or towels, so instead, we just took pictures. My girlfriend’s phone promptly gave up and died. I respect that phone. It had had enough. It went out with dignity. Sadly for it, she commandeered mine as backup.
Now here’s the thing about the Tetons and Yellowstone: it’s mostly driving. But what driving. Not tedious motorway stuff. This is rolling through scenery so pristine it feels like God’s screensaver. Bears, bison, elk, and even crows flying close enough to qualify as passengers. It’s the sort of driving that makes you forget you’ve been sitting on your backside for four hours—until you finally get out and realize your legs no longer work.
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A Kings 
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