Finally, fresh snow has made an appearance. Overnight, two to three inches of the wintery cover added to the packed base which has progressively gotten crunchier since our arrival a week ago. The overall weather was not what was expected or forecast; it has been warmer and sunnier than we had imagined, and the park employees would wish for. After all, it is winter in Yellowstone, and at this time of year, everything and everyone operates on the snow, not grass and asphalt. Today is our last day in the park.

We are not in a hurry to do much of anything. With the new snow, we would have needed snowshoes to take the trail past Morning Glory Pool to Gem Pool and Pinto Spring, where last year we were amazed at bands of icy ribbons Caroline referred to as “ice bacon.” So, with Yaktrax stretched onto our boots we march out around Old Faithful to the bridge crossing the Firehole River.

Turned out that had we been carrying the snowshoes with us, they wouldn’t have been put to much use anyway, as we got stuck behind the same herd of bison we had been watching yesterday. It was near Infant Geyser that we stopped to watch and photograph the snow-covered bison who were just beginning to move from their slumber. As they started to stir this early morning, they moved directly towards our trail and then up and over the boardwalk, stopping us in our tracks.

No matter, watching this small herd lazily stand up, stretch, and shake off sleep and snow while others raise their tails for a morning salute is immensely entertaining. We greatly appreciate our close encounter with these furry brown bison. As more of the herd disperses from the close-knit sleeping grounds, some are heading for the edge of the forest; others are walking over the boardwalk, and a few more pass over a hot spring, pausing to warm themselves in the steam washing over their thick coats and up large dark nostrils.

A bison walks out a few steps from the group and presses her head through the snow, swinging from side to side, making a clearing to look for still edible grass in her effort to break the fast. With snow less than a foot deep, her foraging attempt isn’t quite as impressive as the large male we had seen on the Lonestar Geyser trail last year as he stood in snow reaching up to the bottom of his chin, his head disappearing in the deep powder on his hunt for food.

Stragglers slowly rise from their snowy beds and bear down on us as we smartly back away. This is going to take a while. A park ranger who emerged from the forest near the boardwalk warns a man on the other side of the herd that he is too close and to move away. Three or four steps were not adequate, and the ranger admonished him to move further. The wait continues.

We have some hours to go before our snow coach arrives to spirit us back to Mammoth Hot Springs; turning around now would put us back at the hotel with little to do. We wait. Not that bison are not fascinating to watch, but after watching them awaken, shake, have a morning constitution, eat, meander, stand around, and indulge in a steam bath, we start to get antsy and want to walk about, too. The quiet Doublet Pool deserves to be gawked at; we oblige.

The thumping and pulsing we heard and felt yesterday are not returning to Doublet. Waiting behind the bison, we have ample opportunity to trace the outline of the pool and note the colors. Some other people joined us at the bison jam, but their patience was not nearly as strong as ours; after ten or fifteen minutes, they turned and went back. We look at bison, look at Doublet, back to bison, back to the pool, look at the steam, look at bison, and so our routine plays out. As a light snow begins to fall, the sun at the same time is off again, on again trying to peek through clouds.

The last bison to get moving was a smaller one. Not a calf, but maybe a juvenile; then again, it may have been a smaller animal due to its serious injury. Its right front leg was broken, the hoof dangling just above the surface of land and snow below it. This tenacious bison stumbled over to join the herd, not able to put an ounce of weight on the damaged leg. She would move two or three steps, collect herself, and eke out a few more painful limping steps to move closer to the group that must be her family. Time paused while this poor creature inched along.

Finally, a break, and we make tracks down onto the segment of the boardwalk that enters the edge of the forest alongside the Firehole River. We didn’t get far before we were startled by a bison hidden behind a tree just feet from the trail. For the next fifteen minutes, we wait patiently, but this bison seems to have found some tasty morsels and is content to linger. We are not and begin to cut a path into the forest on the other side of the trail through knee-deep snow, over and around fallen trees. At the point we are about to cut left, the bison starts to move towards the river, letting us backtrack through our steps and continue our way north on the boardwalk.

Some of the trees are frosty; some have a new coating of snow that hasn’t yet blown off. The diamond dust we saw here last year was not to be found here this time We walk on, looking at nothing in particular and everything all at the same time. Northward, we go with the umpteenth stop at Sawmill Geyser to watch it erupt. Refusing to stand here an hour snapping another thousand photos, we satisfy ourselves with just a few minutes of ogling.

Spasmodic is quiet again today. That does not imply anything less than amazing, though. The ever-changing dynamic landscape of evolving art is like a constant transitioning painting being created for the observer instant by instant, with flairs of water and steam rippling forward only to be drawn away, revealing the canvas, which itself is only another layer upon a deeper canvas. The entire panorama is alive, contorted, and brilliant under a radiant sun, mysterious and elusive under a gray sky. Superficially, I may have understood the idea that Yellowstone will never appear the same between two visits, but it wasn’t until this visit that I truly began to appreciate how to discern that these differences can be observed from day to day, hour to hour, even minute to minute. How long does it take for us to see that Old Faithful is more than a geyser of water shooting into the sky on a somewhat predictable schedule? How long does it take a man or woman to see more than the pool of water or the color of a rock? Why are we so easily overwhelmed by the new and so slow to find reflection and appreciate unknown qualities that may lie just before us?

Here is the empty Oval Spring with light puffs of steam rising from below. Would you stop to have a closer inspection? While erupting hissing thermal features surround you, does a gray, brown, and tan seemingly lifeless crater warrant your attention? What if this hole-in-the-ground was full of rapturous aqua waters frothing and gurgling with belching gasses, creating a column of water splaying the surroundings? Anyone would likely stop then, but I have to now. I want to understand how this drab vent has all the splendor to have been included in the magnificent display here in Yellowstone.

Up close, through the steam, deep in the crater, a wall of damp bulbous rock growths is glistening, moistened by the steam and the occasional spurting water. Looking at the details of this spring, my eyes start to reveal the beauty that my impatience might have ignored otherwise. From the boardwalk, we are only offered a limited vantage point from which to capture the essence of the thing we would like to experience, the compromise a necessity brought on by humankind’s desire to destroy through carelessness or the collection of a souvenir or memento to take home. And still, with the knowledge of how this can bring ruin upon the world and its beauty around us, there are those who will throw coins, sticks, or other debris into these “things” that have taken hundreds of our lifespans to create and only the flick of a wrist to stop the rest of us from enjoying.

On another side of the boardwalk, a tree with snow-covered gnarled bare roots plays second fiddle to the surrounding beauty. The patterns on display in nature’s museum shame the greatest of man’s museums, and yet only a fraction of the number of visitors will ever visit a national park in comparison to how many people will pay a visit to a climate-controlled building featuring the works of man and woman. Eight and a half million people will pass the Mona Lisa this year; I may be the only soul to recognize this root and find the art inherent in what Mother Nature has created for our delight.

Yesterday, the colors of the Belgian Pool were vibrant; today, they are muted under a gray sky. Without the sun to dance across its surface and illuminate the steam, stillness prevails, letting me see more. Sure, the colors of the pool in the sun are a spectacle we all desire to have captured in our photographs of this terrific place, but it is alone in this quiet, under a calm, overcast sky that contemplation and attention to detail are allowed to mount. From the angle I stood yesterday, the pool didn’t seem that deep; today, I find intrigue, not knowing to what depths this darkening blue center might descend.

What is this? One thing is certain: we are looking at the surface below the water of either a geyser, a bacteria mat, or the edge of a hot spring. My memory fails me as to where precisely I was standing and what in particular I was looking at. Entranced, maybe I must have found this small detail just off the boardwalk, and while down on hands and knees, I became acquainted with this landscape of jutting mountains, deep crevasses, and precipitous cliffs.

Winter, even amongst the freezing air and snow-covered earth, can be an illusion. Here, next to the seasonally dormant grasses, fresh green life clings to the edge of warmth and light in a bid to deny winter its grip on the environment. These contrasts in survival must be a part of that wonderment that propelled those early visitors from the Eastern United States to recognize the importance of such a place and then toil in their efforts to help create the world’s first National Park.

Thar she blows! Daisy is a spoutin’, gone and blown her top. Two days ago, we waited patiently, if waiting fifteen minutes could be considered patient, for Daisy to erupt – we moved on. From afar today, we look west to see the geyser going full steam ahead. Even if we were to put our butts into run-for-it mode right now, we would not arrive geyser side for an up-close view of Daisy’s majesty, and so we pause to enjoy it from where we stand.

We race by Grotto; nature is summoning Caroline to take care of business. Also racing by is a coyote. The lucky coyote only needs to raise a leg or squat with nary a care as to who might be witnessing this necessity; then again, the lucky coyote doesn’t require the doffing of four layers of protective clothing to expose the essentials required for finding relief. In an instant, the coyote was out of view, going in the same direction we were traveling; maybe our paths would cross again.

Steam and grass, water and snow, ice and mud, hoof prints and bird calls, all of this in one place. I want to return in spring, in summer, in fall; I want to be here every day to see how it all changes. I need to capture the rising and descending water, the turning of plants from brown to green, the migration of birds, the explosion of colors, and their subsequent fading to prove to everyone that the earth is indeed alive and is a master of creation, architecture, and building greater than the all of the combined efforts of us puny little people. Where has our sense of awe gone that our daily actions don’t reflect our compassion for preserving a planet that gives us all that we so irresponsibly take from it without offering every concession possible to allow it to remain healthy and intact?

It’s 11:47, tea time. Once again, we are at Morning Glory, and as it has been on other visits, this is the turnaround point and, in effect, the end of our visit to Yellowstone. From here, we begin our goodbyes. We are no longer traveling into but away from. We raise our cup of hot tea and toast Yellowstone. A little bit of sun pokes through as the wind whips snow from the trees. Words fail to describe the immensity and totality of the experience once one has been immersed in Yellowstone for a goodly period of time. The landscape and its components become a singular whole, with each individual element being an obvious part of a larger body. Only because we are so tiny ourselves are we able to witness the finery and details we look at and pretend to understand. Each part is like a cell that, when grouped together, forms an organ, but looking from afar at the individual element, can we understand its role? The organ that is Yellowstone is too complex, too large to come to an appreciable understanding of just what it is and how its myriad pieces fit together in a week, a month, or a year. That this park delivers such extraordinary experiences is part of the draw that brings those of us back who have been here before. We become two more pieces of the puzzle, with a sense that our small part must be filled, and for a short time, we, too, can and must be a part of Yellowstone.

We deviate from the trail returning us to the Snow Lodge, veering onto Riverside Drive. A pool is overflowing, spilling into the Firehole River. This pool is bubbling with a few small eruptions, only reaching heights of six or seven inches, but these are signs that Riverside Geyser is likely to erupt within the next 90 minutes. Yet nearly a half hour passes and the activity, while not constant, remains as it was, never becoming a full eruption. With less than an hour before check-in for our snow coach, it is now time to beat feet.

Just because we are leaving doesn’t mean we don’t have time to enjoy a sight or two. Earlier, we had skipped by Grotto; now, as we were walking by some sun and blue sky bringing cheer to these moments, we attempted to draw out of the sadness of the end of an incredible trip. Someone might ask, why don’t you make an effort to spend more time here, to work here, to live within the borders of Yellowstone? Is there a job title describing one who sits and stares at nature for months and years on end and who is not an accomplished author or photographer? Is it even possible to write tomes on a mind-ascending beauty with no regard for a thread of story besides the journey of recognition of the aesthetics of the natural world?

Wouldn’t you know it – another bison jam? Our herd from up the hill moved its way west and is presently crossing the bicycle path, our only short distance and expedient path to the Snow Lodge. Backtracking to cut a return passing Beehive Geyser might make us late. We need a lifesaver. And it is delivered by a Matt-Track vehicle whose approach scurries the bison forward while part of the herd is yet to jump over the stream to cross the bicycle path – we break for it, oh no, so is a bison, we run, it lumbers, but it’s big and heavy so we allow fear to propel us out of its way. Out of the wind and out of harm’s way, we are soon in front of the shuttered Old Faithful Inn, its big red door closed for the season. Its presence is ghostly with the echoes of summer and the shadow of crowds in the foyer spilling out of the sealed namesake of the geyser it was built next to. Walking by I can’t help but see Jack Nicholson opening the doors and inviting us in for a private winter tour.

And it’s done. Our bags are about to be loaded on the Prinoth, and us on a snow coach bound for Mammoth. Dipper Darla will be our driver and guide for the four-hour, fifty-mile ride north. Passing Black Sand Basin, Biscuit, and Midway Basin with its Grand Prismatic until we reach the Lower Geyser Basin Thermal area, the Fountain Group to be precise, also known as the Fountain Paint Pots. A thirty-minute speed tour over the boardwalk feels like a fifteen-minute blur. We barely have a minute to appreciate Clepsydra Geyser, the geyser that never stops erupting – almost never.

A peek into the mud pots and Silex Spring and Darla get us to pile back into the snow coach. Twenty minutes later we take a short break at Madison Junction. Unceremoniously, we dart past Norris Geyser Basin, Roaring Mountain, Obsidian Cliff, and more until we reach Swan Lake Flat in the dark. We did stop momentarily on the way for a sighting of a bald eagle. We pulled over, slowing down as we passed Gibbon Falls, but we did stop a few times to spot Dippers. The American Dipper is a small dark gray aquatic bird that survives Yellowstone’s harsh winter by diving and feeding in the rich, warm waters of the Yellowstone River system. Darla loves these birds so much she has been christened Dipper Darla.

Bunsen and Electric Peaks are not to be seen in the dark. We pass the Golden Gate knowing so only because we are told. In front of the Mammoth Hotel, we stretch tired limbs and hobble to our room to deposit our bags before stuffing ourselves at the Mammoth Dining Room. What we ate wasn’t spectacular; it hardly registers, but the dessert of Apple Gallete ala Mode could be considered a primary factor in returning. For all I know, this sweet treat is a frozen toaster pasty, but after a long cold day, it does fill a certain spot. [The photo above is Silex Spring.]

A short break before collecting the key to the hot tub for an hour-long basking in steaming waters topped with the cold night air. We look skyward at the stars while a light snow is blowing in from where we do not know. Music plays softly in the background, drifting in from the adjacent ice skating rink. The barren trees overhead and behind are illuminated by the lights of the ice rink, the hot tub light is blue, and a clock in the window of the cabin reminds us of the time. All too soon, the spa, the sight of the stars over Yellowstone, the smell of sulfur from the springs, geysers, and fumaroles, and our week-long vacation here will all come to an end for us and will probably be just getting started for someone else. We are finished packing and ready for sleep. In the morning, we will have breakfast and await H.A. Moore’s return to ferry us back to the Bozeman Airport. [The photo above is out the window of the snow coach; you see, it pays to leave your vehicle and explore this world around you.]

Up early and downstairs before 6:15 for the “Wake up to Wildlife” tour. Our guide this morning is Tyrene, who also happened to be our driver last year for the snow coach drive from Mammoth to Old Faithful. Tyrene is a vet in Yellowstone, having worked here for more than ten years. She tells of the more than five thousand miles put on her hiking boots over that time and that her favorite past-time is fly fishing, hence her love affair with Yellowstone. During our current trip, Tyrene will twice more handle the driving and tour guide chores while Caroline and I hope to return one day for a chartered tour led by her, where we can choose to linger a little longer to enjoy the sights at our pace instead of meeting the schedule of the group. For you fly fishing aficionados: Tyrene leads chartered tours of the many rivers in Yellowstone, such as the Firehole and Madison during Summer.

Pulling away from the hotel, the road to Lamar Valley is a mix of clear to snowy with intermittent icy spots. From out of the dark blue of twilight, the sky begins to brighten, and I can see clouds stretching along the north and south with a patch of clear sky to the east that is brighter than the heavens surrounding us. Even that small window to where we should have greeted the rising sun soon disappears. Occasional flashes of pink illuminate low wisps of clouds as the sun finds holes in the heavy overcast sky.

It would be more than a few miles before we spot wildlife. Elk, first on a shadowy ridge in the distance, then a large herd covering the hillsides. While plentiful enough, they are a goodly distance from the road, great for viewing, less so for photography. Then we encountered a forlorn bison calf walking up the road, seemingly lost of its herd. As we approached with our snow coach, the little bison turned tail ambling down the road in front of us. About a mile later, the juvenile rejoined its extended family.

After the bison jam spread out, letting us pass, Tyrene pulled over near Slough Creek for a facilities break for those who might need it – seems as though everyone did. Piling back in the van, off in the distance, I heard the unmistakable howl of a wolf and then a second howl. Initially, the loud conversation nearly drowned out the canine call until I was able to arrest the group’s attention so they, too, could enjoy the call of the wild. Seeing a wolf, though, was not in the cards on this tour. But a surprise was on hand that didn’t disappoint. Two bighorn sheep were grazing the hillside next to the road just north of Soda Butte Creek.

Soda Butte Creek, which lies east of the Lamar River, sandwiched between Mount Norris and Druid Peak, was also our turnaround point. The return to Mammoth would take us back up the road we came down on with little promise of seeing more wildlife than we had seen on our first drive-through. That turned out not to be altogether true, though. Shortly after we passed the same bison, we had spotted forty-five minutes earlier, someone in the coach noticed a coyote in the snow not far from the road.

One and all, we scoured the hillsides looking for an elusive wolf. In some sad way, Yellowstone is reduced to collecting trophy sights; one is spotting wolves, the other witnessing Old Faithful erupt. So much more exists, seen and unseeable, that requires more than a casual drive-through with an itinerary that demands we stop only at the famous and predictable. Then, there on the left, lying in the brush, a bull elk. Not just any bull either, this is number ten, six’s rival. Well, if six were still alive, he died in a freak accident about a year ago; you can read about that here. And that, folks, concluded our Wake up to Wildlife tour of the Lamar Valley.

Back at the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, we have but a short time to grab some lunch in the dining room before the next tour gets underway. The sandwiches are ordered and delivered in less than seven minutes; we are gone ten minutes later. Now early, we cross back over to the hotel to await the snow coach. A black-billed magpie walks along with us as though it were awaiting falling snacks; somebody hasn’t been listening to National Park rules, nor probably would have I if it weren’t for the constant reminders from my wife.

Going south, we require a tracked vehicle, specifically a Mattrack snow coach. At the wheel for our afternoon trip to the Norris Geyser Basin is Tyrene one more time. The bumpy drive down is gray and getting colder; only a few bison are spotted in the distance. At Obsidian Cliff, the vehicle comes to a stop for us to learn about and see the obsidian embedded in the cliff on our left. About 180,000 years ago, a lava flow here quickly cooled, probably buried under a glacier, and formed obsidian. For centuries, Native Americans made arrowheads and spear points with this form of volcanic glass, then used them for trade with other tribes, with some pieces being found as far away as Oklahoma. Amazing what we can learn here in the park.

Another stop is in order here on the Grand Loop Road, traveling south. Five hundred feet south of Nymph Lake is Frying Pan Spring and fumarole. With the windows down, we listen to the escaping gas as it hisses, passing through tiny pebbles and stone, forming little bubbles of water boiling out of the earth, sounding indeed like a sizzling frying pan. On the other side of the coach are steaming hot water pools over shallow clay and mud craters, with a hint of bacteria growth tinting areas green. How easy it could be to get lost in the intricate patterns and rippling waters, the sounds and smells of even the most insignificant roadside features that many probably pass by without a second thought.

As if on cue, the sky begins to part, the sun emerges, and blue is the new background that will remain the backdrop for the hour and a half we are afforded to tour the Norris Geyser Basin. With our Yaktrax pulled onto our boots and the temperature comfortable enough that our outer shells are left in the vehicle, Caroline and I depart company with the group and head towards Porcelain Basin while Tyrene takes the remainder to the Back Basin.

Depending on the average age and condition of the group members, the pace and amount of features seen can be greatly encumbered, and the group is encouraged to stick together, limiting our time to get lost examining in minute detail those bright, shiny objects we find ever so interesting. Furthermore, our selfish desire to not listen to the comments or occasionally inane attempts at sulfurous humor urges us to break away on our own. For all of you who feel compelled to equate nearly all you see and do to something you once saw on television, please stop the narration. Those of us who do not participate in that form of entertainment cannot relate nor do you best exemplify your experience when blurting out that you once saw this or that on some random program. Pardon my grump; I’ll try to keep my lament contained to this one time.

While Caroline insists I have seen the Norris area looking so beautiful before, to me, this was the most spectacular sight on these boardwalks ever. With a mere ninety minutes to cover an area that can easily consume a day, we waste no time and walk two or three more feet to view the same relative area from a slightly different angle. After uttering another series of “oohs” and “aahs,” we do the unthinkable and move from our perfect perspective, taking up a perch yet another two or three feet from where we just were and would you believe it? Even stronger, more emphasized “OOOHS” and “AAAHS” follow. I wouldn’t bet against that an occasional “WOW” fell from our lips.

There are moments when light, shadow, steam, and sparkle are so overwhelming that we stand in awe, admiring how perfect the nature of this scene is as it stands before us. The path has been tamped down; the narrow center of the boardwalk is surrounded by fluffy, deep, fresh snow. We trudge up the trail towards steam plumes that pull us forward.

Jets of steam are pulsing and rushing from vent holes. Hot Springs and geysers are obscured by billowing clouds rising into the blue skies, with lodgepole pine trees in the background delineating the border between the geyser basin and the world at large. An orchestra develops from the various earthly wind instruments hissing and bellowing, joined by bubbles of water and gas boiling out of the gravel.

Birds chirp above, flittering between branches while flowing hot water glides over orange, red, brown, green, black, and yellow bacteria mats. At millions of times per second, dissolved minerals are building new geyserite deposits, promising us a future we won’t recognize even if our memories could recall the minutiae of detail. Clouds glide by as the steam dissipates, and the entire scene is built anew, again and again.

Terrence McKenna once said, “The further you go, the bigger it gets.” Here at Yellowstone, that idea could be explored by close examination of the thermophile bacteria mats. From above, a splotch of gooey, bumpy, slimy-looking stuff, but down close, down on your hands and knees as you hang precariously over the edge of the boardwalk, as you risk planting your face in acidic hot water for a closer look at just what is this bacterial mat stuff anyway, you see an entire universe of possibility. How many layers of this fibrous tendril-like thread structure are there below what I can see? Will the broken geyserite pebbles that alter the flow of water, even changing the color of the bacteria that lies in its shadow, be the building blocks of something yet to be seen with its own astounding characteristics? The filaments flutter and dance, waving from side to side like so many fish swimming upstream as we lose ourselves in a trance before the spectacle. You see, ninety minutes for one who is curious is barely enough time to examine even a small patch of magic that exists on these geyser basins.

And that is just what we see in thirty seconds in one spot. Move ten feet up the boardwalk, and the shifting shadows, sounds, and smells create a nearly entirely new experience. We long to linger; we dream of a day when we can return to Yellowstone and spend unmeasured time with each location that demands our attention. During the main tourist season, when we are allowed our own car to whisk us from location to location, it will then once again be our choice how long we will tolerate the ever-present throngs of crowding, often loud fellow visitors, but during the winter we are delivered by and scooped up by the immutable schedule of the snow coach. But we are alone. The human rock concert of screams singing to the beat of feet running over boardwalks erases the subtle sounds we proffer greedily standing here in the crystal-cold blue of our perfect day at Norris. I say perfect day because we cannot allow our short hour and a half to be a limitation – we are in an infinite moment, our eyes transfixed on the immensity of the universe of Yellowstone growing larger in our ever-expanding imagination.

Recognition that the weather and availability of sunshine are not as predictable as this geyser basin that will continue hissing, sputtering, and boiling away, we break the fall into a hypnotic state and move again. We exit beauty and find majesty. A collection of perfection is growing while we mush over the trail to amazement found in dazzlement at how snow collects and covers fence, bush, and tree.

The wind shifts the steam; clouds fill a new corner of the forest and sky. I fight the impulse to photograph so much that if I were to snap more photos, I would probably be better served to simply shoot video. I have heard more than one nostalgic grumble from an old-timer who stops short of sneering at the wasteful amateurishness of those who have picked up digital photography and our ever-growing capacity to shoot a thousand photos a day. While I often think of Ansel Adams waiting for that special moment before exposing his expensive large format film to light that was to become a classic in landscape photography, I am of a different generation, here for my own memories, and cannot help myself in trying to recognize a thousand special moments a day.

By the time we are halfway through the Porcelain Basin, I feel like I’ve shot a thousand photos already. Time started to chase us as I began the climb up the hill; Caroline would have to be prodded from her hunched-over position on the boardwalk, still mesmerized by the mottled surfaces of bacteria mats that, according to her, can only be truly appreciated when one is but inches above the water on the precipice of the edge. I wait on the trail as she indulges herself. Anyway, I’m content to catch my breath and gaze out over this spectacular scenery.

With a half-hour left before we must rejoin our group, the trail leads us to Steamboat Geyser. The wheels of our mind try to convince us we can speed-march the Back Basin, but the magnetic world of possibility tricks us into watching Steamboat with the idea that it’s not impossible this geyser can actually erupt during the very moments we are standing here.

No matter that it hasn’t erupted since 2005. Luck might be on our side! I’m still almost certain that it could have erupted and I am sure it will yet happen, but not while we were to be the witnesses who would have the good fortune to experience the world’s highest geyser do what it does so infrequently. Our guide Tyrene had mentioned on our drive to the Basin that she missed Steamboat’s last eruption by a quarter of an hour. With a mere ten minutes left, we debate, running downhill to see just one more geyser. Echinus Geyser is almost right there; it’s just down…

We stopped to take a selfie. This hasn’t occurred very often on this visit. Our eyes and minds are so transfixed by our environment we scarcely find time to recognize one another. From previous visits to Yellowstone, we are well aware of how fleeting our time in the park feels when, just days before, we couldn’t see the end of our trip, and before we know it, we are driving away for what could very well be our last ever visit this corner of Wyoming in America’s wildlands.

Beginning our short trek away from the Back Basin feels like leaving the park, for we are leaving the Norris Geyser Basin with the knowledge these are the final minutes here. Any and all impressions we are going to carry with us of this particular winter sojourn are being captured and stored. Those areas not seen will remain unseen as time will not allow even a glimpse into those corners we could not visit.

Our path leads us out of this wintery wonderland of steam and delight. Just around the corner, we will return to civilization, albeit not one that in any way is similar to the one writ large in the metropolis we are going to find ourselves once again in five days. The civilization we are about to find ourselves reintegrating with momentarily is the society of schedules, complaints, and motorized vehicles. For a brief time, we escaped the trappings of mass-shared reality and were afforded the luxury of communion with a bigger world around us, free of the noise we encumber our lives with.

Just one minute more to glimpse the light gleaming over the untouched, sparkling, soft snow. This effect of witnessing a sight so beautiful that maybe only the passing of decades of experience and being inundated with artifice can the eyes begin to appreciate the subtle beauty no object of man’s creation can hope to imitate. While said before, it bears saying again: we stand in awe and humble ourselves before thine greatness. Here in Yellowstone, one finds god in nature and the nature of god.

Rumble and bump, groan and hiss, the snow coach awakes from its slumber to carry us back. We sit in stunned silence, still gawking at the munificence nature has on parade as our windows offer us a view of what we are now only allowed to see in passing. All too fast, snow-covered trees come into view and are gone just as quickly. On our left, here comes a lake; there it goes, too. The sun is sinking ever lower in the sky while we race to find our way out of the trees to a clearing for a panoramic view of the landscape bathed in all the glorious colors of the sunset.

Swan Lake Flat is only hundreds of feet in front of our slow-moving snow taxi, with the light and colors of sunset moving faster than we are. In a minute or two we passengers rave in unison with a chorus of expressed manna, each afforded a thousand beautiful sunsets in one. By the time our vehicle rolls to a stop, a band of luminous hot orange glow is all that remains of what seconds before was a symphony of light reaching a crescendo pitch that danced upon the clouds and behind the mountains. Our mind’s eye will never be the same; we have seen a sunset that all other sunsets will now have to compare.

Had you rested with a brief nap, it would have stolen you of this experience. It would be forever lost, for it lasted but seconds. The sky was just as quickly divided between various shades of blue with an onslaught of approaching gray. And with the last flicker of sunlight, twilight laid in to grip the land, animal and human alike, in its encroaching cold. Welcoming the warmth of body and engine that would hug us for the remaining few miles, we return to the final leg of our drive in the metallic cocoon birthed by Mother Chevy.

One last look, one last glance at the poorly illuminated land of Swan Lake Flat. Even in the poor light just before night overtakes the day, the emotions wrought by Yellowstone tug at the desire for more. Sad but grateful, a day over but one of extraordinary charm, it will be but a few more minutes before we touch down at the hotel and collect the parachute of experience that delivered us safely and rewarded to where our day began.

Thinking that somehow the day was over, that the wow factor was being diminished as routine and darkness shrouded our exploration, that line of thinking proved wrong. Following dinner and a hot tub under a starry clear sky, Caroline and I made ourselves cozy in the Map Room here at Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel just as Park Ranger and Interpretive Historian Carissa Black was beginning a talk about the Wilderness. Her program was far more interesting than I had first anticipated, leaving us with serious food for thought about how our role as visitors affects wilderness and just what wilderness is anyway. After the talk, we snagged her attention to discuss some of her points, and she recommended I read “Confessions of a Barbarian” by Edward Abbey, “Searching for Yellowstone” by Paul Schullery, and “Wilderness and the American Mind” by Professor Roderick Nash. The first two I now own, and the third I am awaiting confirmation from the Ranger if that is, in fact, the correct title. And the very best bit of information given to us was actually directed to Caroline, “There is no age restriction for qualifying to become a Junior Ranger”!