On The Road...

Chasing Summer Through Yellowstone National Park

Life comes and goes as quickly as a camera flashes. It’s been years since I’ve paused the rat race to creak the floorboards at the Old Faithful Inn, loop my way around bubbling geysers or rest on the shores of Yellowstone Lake.

Slow Down. Take my hand. Breathe.

Yellowstone National Park calls to me even with the Smokey Mountains and the Gulf of Mexico not far from my door. 

 

My husband and I frequented Yellowstone as newlyweds when we lived nearby in the late 1980s. We returned as parents three times, gifting our children memories we hoped would be precious someday. Now, we are the upper limbs of our family tree, with our cherished offshoots branched off or rooted and transplanted elsewhere. And so this late summer, my other half and I return to this spiritual land for a whirlwind weekend alone with silver in our hair and creases in our smiles. 

Our mission is to catch the last days of summer before it fades. To get here, we flew into Salt Lake City and rented a Jeep like half-hearted hippies rushing from one adventure to the next. It was a four and a half hour drive north to the tiny village of West Yellowstone. Along the way, the heights of the Rocky Mountains melted into scrubby hills before pine forests crept up to the edges of the highway. The air lightened, the wind danced, and then as if we never blinked, we were here. 

West Yellowstone is a standard American tourist trap, almost kitschy, but it’s a unique entrance to the park. Historic log shops keep it homey even with the impressive Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center that’s been added since our college days. We chose the vintage Stage Coach Inn to rest our heads since it’s only blocks away from the park entrance. It’s a clean, comfortable, cliché but doesn’t cost a fortune—and we’ll get in line faster in the morning traffic.

After checking in to our digs, we cruise into the park late for a quick ride north to Gibbon Falls. The Gibbon River makes fly fishermen salivate until it begins to climb enormous stair-stepped cascades. In earlier days, there was nowhere to pull over, but now there’s a pleasant concrete viewing area with stairs leading down to various scenic points. We capture sunset over the distant black mountains then return in the dark to dare dinner at the highly rated Three Bear Restaurant. The restaurant is modest inside, but the menu is irresistible. I chow down on bison chili, blown away by the unique flavors. My request for the recipe is politely denied. 

Morning arrives sooner than my body expects, and a warm hoodie and knit beanie are slung on although they’ll be shed by noon. We reach the park a half an hour late. It’s tempting to feel frazzled for not usurping every free second we have here, but the last bulk of the summer tourists are gone. Bikes and motorcycles whirr past us as the smooth Madison River zigzags alongside the Jeep. We roll down the windows to feel the sharp, cold air and reminisce over past snowmobiling trips when reservations weren’t required.

The South Loop highway is our target on this weekend getaway. Because retirement is only another hectic career change, time is limited. We want to see our favorite old sights for nostalgia’s sake, and check out a few new trails if possible. The park is still fresh and clean after all this time—almost virginal—despite the millions of people who continue to visit every year. I’m brought to tears in the first few miles because of a familiar song that begins to play in my heart. There’s no urge to drive at wild freeway speeds to this melody because life does not rush in the woods. 

 

Thirty minutes later, we reach Madison Junction and take a sharp turn into a giant cove called Firehole Falls. The road is a small, low-traffic circle beneath bald and steely National Park Mountain. Its peak rises over the caldera boundary. It hovers like a steep sentry, but I feel as if I’ve walked into the safety of my grandmother’s house. I could laze here for hours watching the waterfall, but a few deep breaths on the gritty brown banks must be enough. We climb back into the Jeep, crank the heat and go.

With the admiration of the tumbling waters behind us, we cruise south to the Lower Geyser Basin and its enormous gem-colored pools. Meandering streams cut through low-lying meadows along the way, perfect for photos of moose and elk if you can spot them, then the grass fades away to a sandy crust dotted with hot pools. 

 

The steam of the geysers here drifts high into the air like smoke signals. The pools are linked by boardwalks that make moving people sound like cattle, but at least it’s a sign of life around the silent water and flakey earth. A lip-curling smell of sulfur accompanies a warm, tickling breeze as we clomp quickly across the basin for the prize: Grand Prismatic Spring. Its turquoise water spans 200 feet across a chasm ringed by a living rainbow. The colors are formed by microscopic thermophiles. We discover a trail around the springs, and after climbing a footpath up through the trees, reach a ridge over the basin. For the first time, I see Grand Prismatic as God intended. It’s beautiful and haunting—a scar from when the earth was “becoming” that never healed. I have scars, too, but they’re not pretty rainbows. I’ve lived my life trying to make something out of them—those little bacteria of my own.

At lunchtime, I’m giddy to return to my favorite haunt. I don’t care that it’s built up, crowded, or a cliché. If the park is home, then the Old Faithful Inn is my parlor. It reeks wonderfully of wood smoke, grilled chicken, and the faint smells of bug spray and sunscreen. They welcome artists inside, and I browse a Native American young man’s photography before returning to admire the towering chimney that rises from the central fireplace. It stops me in my hasty tracks.

 

The chimney is eighty-five feet high and draws the eye to the pitched roof. I have memories ingrained in these rafters here. Once upon a time, I brought four little boys to this wonderful place, and we stayed in charming, musty rooms with bear-shaped soaps we treasured for years until they were used up with wistful smiles.

After a reasonably priced meal at the Old Faithful Lodge Cafeteria—an annexed building across campus that wasn’t around in our college days—we stroll the boardwalks near Old Faithful. The geyser erupts when it’s good and ready, flooding my mind with pictures of other times and seasons when I saw it flume, and I pensively leave for the parking lot to see more sights, dodging basking bison around the mini-geysers that compete with the inn’s namesake. We take the top off the Jeep and hit the road again. No radio is necessary, just the wind and golden-blue skies that hint autumn is around the bend. I feel it in the air and understand I’m in my autumn now, too.

The pavement winds through and past foresty West Thumb. We skip its visitors center and continue to the top of the South Loop, bypassing the lake for now, in order to visit the magnificent Yellowstone Canyon and its roaring falls. There is a small strip mall and education center at nearby Canyon Village that offers souvenirs, art and rather good burgers. Down the road from the crowds, trails wind around the upper and lower cliffs of the three hundred-foot waterfall. We snap a few pictures while the thundering view assures us time has not eroded the canyon’s power, then return to the touristy village to purchase a beautiful art piece for the mantel as the sun begins to sag.

 

Back on the road, we retrace our earlier route rather than complete the loop to Gibbon Falls. Our final and favorite stop is Lake Village. It looks exactly the same as it did thirty years ago when it first took my breath away. There’s an old fishing bridge that’s a great place for Instagram fodder. A nearby museum is filled with taxidermized birds. It’s disappointing it’s too late for a kayak tour, but the lake’s already cold. We know that. Winter waits for no one in the wilderness. Reflective, I step outside behind the museum to the small beach where I once photographed my boys at play, perfectly capturing their personalities as I urged time to hurry so I could have peace and rest. The picture sits on my foyer table today, reminding me of those exhausting days of messy motherhood that I miss desperately now. 

Entranced by the view, I drop onto the obsidian sand on the shore as a nearby ranger entertains a crowd with the differences between ravens and crows. Ravens mate for life and return to the same place year after year, and I like the idea. Leaning into my other half, we watch the sun drop behind the stunning blue lake, leaving a prism over the surface. It is pure light, not bacterium or fungi. The effect turns the sky violet, the last color on the rainbow, and with it, the air becomes as icy as a winter night. 

 

Shivering, we trudge back to the Jeep and reinstall the roof while the wind stirs up nearby campfires. The aroma is the first fragrance of fall—a precursor to winter, death and legacy. My heart is torn between hurrying back to my life or staying here longer, but with darkness descending, there’s little choice. It is time to move on. We drive silently back to our lodgings, unwilling to leave Yellowstone’s last days of summer behind as thoughtlessly as we left our own. At the crossroads to Madison Junction, we turn in, but roll toward the exit at a buffalo’s pace for miles.

Literally.

A big, woolly, peaceful beast has decided to amble down the center of the road at its own speed, impassable, and in no hurry to live. I admire him for taking his time and take a quick snapshot. It’s a promise I’ll be back before my winter season comes to rock me to sleep forever. There is no rush.