© Johanna Breiding and Mary Rasmussen
us like we were out of place, some poor LA folk stuck in the middle of sky country. She was very amused when we told her we needed to get a cab and make it to the west entrance by 6AM the following morning. It was there we were meeting a special egg mobile to take us into the park. She told us exasperated— clearly we weren’t the only people to have done this—that the entrance to the park was not outside the airport’s exit doors, but instead a five-hour drive on a snow-covered highway. As usual, we had planned ruthlessly for each and every one of our wardrobe changes, every single prop, including an intricate crystal headgear, but we had neglected to figure out the details of where/how. Needless to say, a friendly Montanan man was awoken from slumber and called early to his morning cab shift.
I DIDN’T HAVE ANY LONG UNDERWEAR. Johanna, being from the
coldest place I could imagine, the Swiss Alps, had them in every color and also knew that good socks were integral to conquering the cold. In fact, I was often under-prepared for the cold, having arrived years before in Iceland in November in a t-shirt and skirt. We set off on this adventure, to visit Yellowstone at its extremity, in the middle of Winter. Johanna leant what she had, and we paired that with trips to various Los Angeles thrift stores (it’s rather strange, but LA is a great place to get winter gear. I imagine some Pasadena socialite getting her family a new spread for a family trip to Aspen, only to return declaring that was enough “nature” for the time being). I bought a ski jumpsuit, with bright large giant florescent puzzle pieces on the front, practically identical to the one I wore as a child in the early nineties; the trip my mother called our last family ski trip. Johanna bought one, too, so we set off matching like two doeeyed twins in their Sunday best.
Into the dark night we rode, passing beautiful Montana landscape, completely unbeknownst to us as it flew by in darkness. The cab driver told us stories about mining for quartz and the insane drop that was supposedly just on our right-hand side. I imagined a life of working out there in the unknown, collecting rocks, living closer to the land.
We flew into Bozeman in the dead of night. The airport stirred like a cat awoken from slumber. After unsuccessfully hailing a cab freeform style, we searched the airport until we plopped our five huge “gear” bags on the counter of a visitor’s welcoming desk. The lady was a fiery woman. She looked at American Society of Picture Professionals
We arrived at the West entrance to an old hotel with a few cars and a welcoming light. The light was faint in the expanse of 22