night falls to learn the cabin's heater is working. (Unlike the sink, which has a leaky pipe. One of the travails of rustic lodgings--no big deal except for Chaucer, who is initially blamed for the wet carpet.)

Since cooking is prohibited in the cabins, we had come prepared with a picnic supper of cheese, bread, fruit, and wine, and then treat ourselves to a hot take-out breakfast from the hotel dining room the following morning (carefully packed by a friendly employee for the walk to the cabin).

As with all the park's lodgings, the cabins have no televisions, radios, air conditioning, or Internet hook-ups. Making it the perfect spot for a working writer's vacation though is a simple desk with a view. And if you should run low on reading material, the hotel gift shop features an interesting selection of books related to Yellowstone and the West--and cuddly versions of the bear, bison, and wolves that populate the park and may be seen wandering down the street. (See photo at left.)

For the next two days, we tour America's first national park by car and on foot: the Mud Volcano, where The Boy wrinkles his nose at its powerful rotten-egg odor; the Sulphur Cauldron, its burbling contents almost as acidic as battery acid yet teaming with microscopic life; the bright Paint Pots I remember well from high school. Thousands of mud pots, fumaroles, and hot springs make much of Yellowstone an enormous cooking pot, its violent beauty barely contained. We do not need signs to warn us to grasp The Boy's hands.

Dogs are restricted to parking lots and what officials define in the must-read online rules as Yellowstone's front country. So even if we were not limited to toddler-length walks, taking