yellowstone in august

We’re driving to the 45th parallel of latitude, the halfway mark between the equator and the north pole. As we cross into Montana on Highway 89 we’ve left behind the shelter of the mountains and it is brutally hot. “I thought it’s supposed to get cooler the further north we go!” someone says. But then we’re in Montana, mostly just so Dad can check it off his list, never mind that stepping across an arbitrary state line is different than actually spending time in a place. We stop for pictures and our phones ding with messages, back in the land of service. The boys slide down the embankment to the Gardner River and strip down, jump in the frothy water. The girls stand and watch, wish it were easier to join them. Then we’re back in Wyoming, climbing back up into the subtle mountains of Yellowstone, listening to Kacey Musgraves and breathing a sigh of relief as the temperatures drop. 

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t this. Yellowstone is unimaginably big, to the point it doesn’t feel cohesive. Most of the park is forested; you drive through undulating trees from one clearing to another. What’s behind the pines is always a surprise. In some areas the park is pockmarked with steaming portals to the earth’s molten interior. Many of the geothermal features are grotesquely ugly, belching sulfurous mud and steam, but some of the pools are so benignly beautiful it’s hard to believe they’d kill you in a matter of seconds. In the southeast Yellowstone Lake appears huge and calm, an oasis from the cauldrons of the deep. In the northern section, towards Montana, the trees fall away to a barren high desert that surrounds the strange little town of Mammoth. 

Our days in the park fell into that beautiful camping rhythm: coffee and oatmeal in the biggest patch of sunlight you can find; getting dressed in the morning chill with agonizing slowness; piling in the car for that day’s sightseeing; eating way too many pb&js with a view; pulling back into camp with enough time for a beer before dinner; getting ready for bed while it’s still light out so you can go straight from campfire to sleeping bag when the dew descends. We all felt like this was our real life, couldn’t imagine living any other way. It was a shock to return home. That’s what’s so important about these trips, I think—when all the distractions and busyness are stripped away, you’re reminded of what makes you feel alive. Hold these truths close and let them guide your life—they are a gift.