Tourists were the worst of the worst. John loathed them —to be fair, he loathed anything that would jeopardize the Yellowstone—, specially if he found them on his land; tourists who just happened to be trespassors were even worst than the average Montana tourist.

John had spotted her from a mile away from his horse, his morning ride interrupted, a woman stood near the creek birthed by the mountains with her phone up to the sky, God knows why. He rode ahead towards her with a mission on mind: get her off his land.

"Morning" he greeted, pushing the cowboy hat back to get a better look at her. "You're trespassing, this is private property" was all he said, praying silently she wouldn't make things difficult, that she wouldn't be one of those worst of the worst kind of tourists.