Serendipity often plays its part during our travels. A series of events or circumstances line up with results that initially are not always appreciated. Hours later, when recognizing how perfectly the day unfolded, we’ll see that had those things not occurred as they did, we wouldn’t have been in the right place at the right time. Today, for example, we had to return to our room after breakfast to grab a couple of items prior to hitting the trail. It was still twilight, and as I looked out the window, the scene demanded I take a photo. Upon viewing it, I see that the camera sensor is as dirty as it can be – frustration ensues. I’ve brought nothing to clean a dirty sensor, and auto clean is failing. The squeeze bulb used to shoot a puff of air to dislodge light fuzz is not budging these glued-on specks, what to do?

We had originally planned to tour the boardwalk on the terraces of Mammoth Hot Springs for sunrise. Sunrise has come and gone. Finally, a silk sock liner comes to the rescue with a drop or two of contact lens fluid and does a more or less adequate job of cleaning the sensor. Now late, much later than expected we finally leave the room and make our way to the ski shop to check our options. We inquire about the Beaver Ponds trail and the Bunsen Peak trail, Chris recommends the Snow Pass trail. With rented snowshoes in hand, Doug drives us to the Upper Terraces Loop parking lot, where we strap ’em on and get going up the path to the left. A light overnight snow has dusted the trail, letting us know we are the only ones out here, besides whatever wildlife might be lurking in the shadows or perched in the trees.

The first leg of the trail is deceptively easy, setting a tone that will soon dramatically change. Through the woods, we trek until we approach an intersection where the road forks. A sign points to the left for those looking to go to Golden Gate, and to the right is the trail to Snow Pass. We turn right and begin the part of today’s hike that can honestly be called strenuous. Coming from Phoenix at about 1000 feet of elevation to snowshoeing in freezing weather up over 7000 feet, most everything we do these first days can be considered strenuous.

After the first steep hill climb, we see a break developing in the overcast skies with the snow drifting from and clouds steaming off Bunsen Peak. The first sunlight of the day begins to shine on our surroundings. We take a break soaking in the view of the mountains stretching from side to side and off into the distance from our vantage point at the edge of the mountain we are snowshoeing on. From the backpack, we grab a snack and have a drink of water while watching wisps of steam lift off the forest, forming momentary clouds that stretch, lift, and swirl before dissipating.

Through the forest, we continue our climb going higher and higher. The sun is making more frequent appearances, casting shadows through the tall trees, alternating shadows of gray-blue that transition to areas of bright white sunlit snow. Pausing to catch our breath, rests during our hike are taken more often, and breathing in the cold high-altitude air becomes more labored. The trail is getting steeper.

Off to the right, I’m the first to spot motion. My first thought is bear. I have been anticipating seeing a bear as the weather has been so warm. I’ve heard of bears coming out of hibernation when the weather is warm enough and food still plentiful, my imagination has convinced me that conditions are perfect and that I may look like a tempting four-course meal. But we won’t be that (un)lucky today; it is either elk or deer. It moves again; a deer is looking at us, and we are looking at it. Off to the left, downhill from the deer, we spot another deer moving through the forest, sporting a large set of antlers. The other deer starts to move in the direction of the first one, and in a moment, they are gone. We return to huffing and puffing.

Round the corner, climb, turn, sink in the snow, and keep climbing. The forest is beautiful, with a deep blue sky framing the tall evergreens surrounding us. The wind occasionally blows snow from the branches above, giving the appearance that it’s snowing. Clouds are thinning overhead while off towards the edge of the horizon; heavier, darker clouds are bunched together, looking like they could break loose at any moment, erasing our blue skies.

Three hours after we took to the trail, we were at Snow Pass, taking the last respite before our return down the mountain. No grand view from here, no sign recognizing our feat. Caroline climbs higher, trying to find a better photo but the wind is picking up and cutting through our thinned layers as we had tried to keep cool on the way up. We begin our descent, and in less than an hour, we are back at the Mammoth Terrace.

Not only have we returned from the mountain, but the weather is taking a turn for the worse, or is it? Clouds have moved in, snow is falling, and we are getting cold. No matter, we are heading back to the hotel, or are we? To the east, the sun hasn’t stopped shining on the mountaintops. Soon that sunshine starts to spread over the terrace as the clouds pull back. Our visit in January 2009 delivered gray days here in the Mammoth area, but today, it looks like we will have at least a few moments of gorgeous sun-drenched hot springs on a snowy winter day for us to admire.

On the terrace, our inclination is to run as fast as our legs will carry us on snow and ice. To see each and every corner under the glistening illumination of a fantastic sun that allows us to see into the dark corners and be blinded by the reflective waters shimmering in the late afternoon. The terrace breathes a new life, one of bold, dynamic color where, between cloud and steam, sun and gray, the surface of things can convince one that they are not looking at the same thing twice.

More difficult than figuring out what to photograph will be attempting to match this text to the photos once we’re back home. For now, I photograph everything – twice, maybe more. As much as I might enjoy simply staring at one particular sight, I am pressed on to find the light angling a perspective not yet seen by me, where the perfect captured image will remain unseen by my rush over the boardwalk until I return home where I can linger in front of the print to absorb every drop of beauty that was laden upon this terrace.

Canary Spring is the recipient of the majority of our time up here. Over the years, we have been afforded the opportunity to see a dramatic change as nature altered the course of water and mineral deposits, forcing the relocation of a part of the boardwalk. Less visible to us was the disappearance of the New Blue Pool. Apparently, it had been flowing on our first visit back in the year 2000 but is now a dry, dormant feature, leaving us no memory of what it may have looked like ten years ago.

And while change can be dramatic, it is usually far more subtle. Even as I stand here next to a hot spring, watching hot mineral-charged water spill over the side of the travertine that may be younger than I am, the terrace is changing. It is growing; an edge may be weakening, getting ready to break away with the waters it holds back, splashing forward, putting new pressures, or maybe adding new dimensions to a pool that is ripe for change or has not yet begun to form.

Standing here, watching this instant evolution of the Mammoth Hot Spring area, I feel compelled to leave the boardwalk to get up close with the terrace, to see its every nook and cranny, to see what secrets are yet kept from me behind the steam and overhangs where mystery is at play. The intrigue with each successive visit grows, as does my curiosity to know more about the immensity that is Yellowstone.

Moments stretch into minutes, and the clouds and snow are at bay. This is where circumstances pave the way for us to recognize what could have been seen as a setback earlier in the day, turning out to be a serendipitous event because had I not struggled with the camera earlier, we would not have been where we were each step of this wonderful day. We could have possibly missed these sights, not had the chance to snap the images that will supplement our memories into old age, and could have been anywhere else besides right here, right now, being dazzled by these experiences of perfection.

While the Buddhist may know this way of thinking and the recognition to accept the hurdles and stumbling blocks that alter our paths and those things that intrude into our expectations, it is a difficult piece of knowledge that often eludes me and is probably one source of my petty frustrations.

We revel in the beauty of the golden afternoon light as it paints the landscape anew. The cliché is alive and well that Yellowstone is never the same twice but always remains twice as spectacular as your memory will tell you it was the last time you witnessed it.

The dark of night returns early during the winter, driving us indoors. The Map Room is quiet and warm. Around the corner, a girl sells hot chocolate and espresso to further warm our cold bones. Later, after dinner, the Map Room fills with guests who watch, listen, and learn from a Park Ranger and the evening’s program. I will sit here and write until the reservation made for our nightly relaxation ritual moves us from this cozy room to the blissfully hot and steamy bubbling waters of the hot tub.

Mention Yellowstone, and the universal question asked is, “Did you see Old Faithful?” The Old Faithful geyser is a mythological landmark that, while well known and seen the world over, exists only for the travel connoisseur,  photographer, and filmmaker to capture on their pilgrimage to this remote corner of our first national park. The reality is much more mundane: Old Faithful sits directly in front of three of the park’s major hotels. In order to claim a trophy and/or bragging rights to having seen Old Faithful, many visitors speed into the park, snap a photo, and are back in their vehicle before the geyser’s 5-7 minute eruption comes to an end.

Caroline and I have seen this trusty geyser erupt from all sides, from the balcony at Old Faithful Inn to the Observation Point two hundred feet above the geyser basin and many points between. From this early winter morning eruption, seen above, to a late evening moonlit eruption, we’ve tried to see it with as much importance as we place on all of the other beautiful details we are fortunate enough to view. We have watched Old Faithful on springtime visits, in the middle of a summer day, during fall, and now during winter. But Yellowstone is so much more than Old Faithful; it is a bastion for wildlife. It is boiling mud and steaming sulfurous hot springs. It is America wild and free, a national treasure to throw in a cliche.

Today’s snowshoe expedition is taking us to the Black Sand Basin, but first, we must cross over the Upper Geyser Basin once more. You might be able to tell from the amount of steam and fog hugging the earth that today is significantly colder than yesterday.

Hot water flowing underfoot and steam drifting over the basins create conditions that allow some quite peculiar ice formations to take shape. Maybe this configuration of stacked leaves of ice looking like fish scales [or sheepskin – Caroline] is mundane to someone who lives in Minnesota, but to my eyes, this is new and alien.

Yesterday, I mentioned ghost trees but never shared an image of one; well, here’s an example, and there will be more to follow.

With the heavily reduced visibility out here on the geyser basin, the whole place is seen anew. What might have been familiar yesterday is rendered other by so many reference points erased by the fog and steam. Here at Beach Spring, this is anything other than beachy.

Clarifying things about ghost trees a bit further: in yesterday’s writing, I mentioned them, twice even, but when I wrote that, I was showing you trees covered in ice. To add some accuracy to the story, the steam that washes over the trees collects on leaves and needles as ice crystals; I guess the fog, too. As they accumulate, they look like piles of snowflakes, which makes sense when you consider that snowflakes form on dust particles in the atmosphere, so the tip of a leaf or needle probably makes for a good point to bond with for water vapor. Then, as the sun rises and the snowy camouflage begins to melt, things start dripping, and if the air temperature chills quickly enough, icicles start to form.

Caroline is on the trail between Lion Group and Liberty Pool next to the Firehole River, mesmerized by the ghost trees ahead of her.

Well, this is nearly impossible to photograph in a way that you can see exactly what we are looking at. The air is FULL of diamond dust. This is also called a ground-level cloud that has taken form on an exceptionally cold day. Then, as I was trying to learn more about the phenomenon, I read that I was actually already familiar with diamond dust, as that’s what we are looking through when we witness a sun halo or sun dog.

Ghost trees, diamond dust, steam, fog, blue skies, and two toasty people on hand to witness it all. Oh yeah, we were heading to Black Sand Basin and were not supposed to get lost in all the magical sights we were seeing and experiencing this morning.

Liberty Pool is usually a non-descript and not very colorful hot spring at other times, but reflecting ghost trees in its black waters make it a spectacular feature.

Sawmill Geyser will only capture 15 or 20 minutes of our attention as I swear we really are trying to get to our destination instead of getting lost in wonder.

For anyone who knows us, you couldn’t have believed the end of that last sentence as you’d know we’d give about anything to be lost in wonder. Why else would we have kitted ourselves out with so much technical winter gear if not to explore an environment that can dip below minus 20 Fahrenheit?

Earlier in the day, our balaclavas were pulled down to our eyebrows and up to the bottom of our glasses; it was that cold. It doesn’t take long walking through the snow to warm up and soon find that you have too many layers on, but you wouldn’t have made it out in this kind of extreme cold had you worn anything less. Lucky me that Caroline will gladly take my shell and wrap it around her shoulders and all I have to offer her is this big warm smile.

We walk out into the fog, stride into the cold of the morning, and thank our lucky stars that we have the ambition to explore the extraordinary. Not everyone cares about where they are in life, even though they may fret about what they have or don’t have. What they are really concerned about is that they don’t have the aspiration to do anything about changing things. Change is uncomfortable and can leave you feeling alone and lost in a kind of spiritual winter, but it’s up to you to endure and see the sun shining through, no matter the difficulty.

As we near the Daisy Group, we are on the segment of the trail that will take us over the main north/south road that bisects Yellowstone, letting us begin our first winter visit to the Black Sand Basin.

Black Sand Pond, while still on the east side of the main road, should, at least by its name, be part of the basin, right? On the trail here this morning, we passed one other snowshoer but were otherwise alone. Hmmm, saying we were alone could imply that even with one another, we were alone; well, that’s not what I meant at all. We are here with every moment of time that has ever preceded us, carrying the mantle of life and acting as the ambassadors of perpetual happiness.

And then, when you think you’ve seen it all, the universe presents you with snow tails hanging on a fence and leaving you a mystery you know you’ll never want an answer to so as to not explain the unknown.

I wonder what Cliff Geyser might have looked like 1,000, 5,000, or 25,000 years ago? What will it look like 100, 500, or 1,000 years from today? I can’t begin to answer those questions but I can assure you that what I personally photographed here today, in fact, looked just as it appears above. Maybe the following is a well-worn trope here on this blog by now. I can’t remember, but I’m still astonished that Caroline and I will be the only two people in the history of humanity who will have witnessed this very moment in this corner of the earth.

Millions will choose to see the same football game, American or Global, and millions will listen to the same songs, play the same video games, and simultaneously dig into a Big Mac, but only Caroline and John Wise will look overhead here at Black Sand Basin on a Friday afternoon in January 2009 and be dazzled by three bald eagles gliding effortlessly south without so much as flapping a wing.

Part of me wants to take Photoshop to those yellow poles and erase them so I have a perfect nature shot of bison trodding on the snow in silent step with one another. The problem with that is I’d be covering up imperfection, and while in my eyes and from my words, it could appear that all is perfect in our world, there are always blemishes, though they should never take a front seat to elevating all we can to perfection.

Denuded nearly branchless trees sure look appealing to me in their stark contrast to ghost trees, psychedelic frost art, herds of bison, or the two people on the other side of the camera.

An hour and a half watching life roll by here at Black Sand Basin was thoroughly enjoyed. When a breeze came along and shook some snow from the tree, we were, for a moment, caught in a snowstorm under blue skies, a first for us. Of course, everything about this journey into Yellowstone has been a series of firsts for us while also being a glaring admission that my poverty of language doesn’t afford me enough superlatives to adequately explain or relate a fraction of our days, hours, minutes, seconds.

Punch Bowl Geyser back at the Upper Geyser Basin signals that we are on our return journey.

Along the way, we passed four cross-country skiers, including the Shefflers from Washington, whom we bumped into again and again during our eight days in Yellowstone. With the roads snowed over and a small fraction of the number of visitors that are attracted to Yellowstone in the winter compared to summer, this really is the time to feel nearly alone in the park, seeing it much the way it has been for the better part of the last half-million years before hordes of tourists arrived.

If you arrive at the recognition that we have a fascination with Sawmill Geyser verging on obsession, you wouldn’t be exactly wrong, except we are just as enamored with West Thumb, Artist Paint Pots, the meandering waterways cutting through meadows, night skies, hissing gasses, bubbling vats, and the crazy play of light here in Yellowstone.

The day started with Old Faithful and ended with Old Faithful, too. I wish you could see what you don’t see without me having to tell you, but there are no people between us and the geyser. They were not removed by Photoshop; they didn’t step aside so we could have an uninterrupted view, nor did we pay anyone for a private screening. This really has been our life where when we put ourselves out in it, we seem to have it all to ourselves.

Another snowshoe hike was on order for the day; this one was taking us over the Upper Geyser Basin to Biscuit Basin with a return on a snowy bike path.

Starting out early today, we were able to take our time lingering under the ghost trees, eyeballing ice bacon, watching bison stalk us, and catching our breath after the altitude and cold air stole it from us. More about all of that as this day unfolds.

These particular bison weren’t the creepy stalker ones that were hiding behind trees plotting something nefarious just out of view. I’d tried photographing those, but they were blending in with the dark trees, trying to be stealthy. Never trust a conniving bison is what my grandfather taught me.

Having spent the latter half of Tuesday here on a mostly sunny Upper Geyser Basin, we were not taking a lot of time this morning to dwell, as the area between Morning Glory Pool and Biscuit Basin is an unexplored corner for us, I think, and we want to get to it.

The geyser in the previous photo was captured as it was finishing an eruption before returning to just billowing steam. I’ve always found it intriguing to be able to see deeper into the springs and geysers of Yellowstone, so I’m sharing this close-up view of the interior.

The vertebrae and pelvic bone of an elk are not something you see every day.

For that matter, the interior of the Morning Glory Pool is also not seen every day.

Maybe I should have gone through all of our other photos of previous visits to Yellowstone to see if I have another image of Artemisia Geyser, but I do believe this is our first.

Ghost trees typically sit next to hot springs where the steam freezes on the tree, enshrouding it with incredible ice sculptures, dripping icicles, and what we affectionately call ice bacon. Ice ribbons form on branches with stripes in a gradation of clear to milky ice and back to clear – it appears that as the water freezes, the temperature, humidity, or who knows what determines whether the ice forming is going to be clear or milky. This looks to all the world like bacon strips made of glass.

A close-up of some of the ice sculptures we found intriguing.

We’ve never in our lives seen ice like this.

With blue skies on the horizon, we can have hope for a bit of sunlight today.

What you may not be able to immediately make out in this photo is that ribbons of ice have melted to a small extent during the previous warm days when it was hitting highs in the mid-30s (+1 and +2 Celsius), creating the icicles hanging from the tree.

Tempting fate, Caroline is standing next to Mirror Pool under nature’s daggers.

A bit of a guessing game is going on here, but I think that we’re looking over towards Cauliflower Geyser from a bridge that will take us over to Biscuit Basin.

The weather moves around a lot in Yellowstone, threatening doom one moment and heaven the next.

Near the entrance to Biscuit Basin, you’ll find Vulnerable Spring, though not typically with bison in the background standing in the snow.

As I write this, I find no small amount of sadness that the diversity of colorful hot springs right before my senses is unable to elicit the poetry or creation of a new language to convey the profundity of what is experienced when approaching something simultaneously beautiful, mysterious, and absolutely dangerous to life. While this is not something that can attack and maul you, it would be a conscious decision to be taken by its scalding grip.

Step upon the wrong spot, and you could find yourself the victim of your own curiosity, but that cautious distance we maintain works to pique the interest to see further into the workings of the earth. Drawn to see more, smell more, and know more, we are pulled closer, if not physically, then sensually, so we might have a secret whispered to the spirit looking for more.

If I were a painter, the play of light, steam, elements, life, light, and time would certainly guide my hand in knowing where to put down the stroke that might define the shape of things on the canvas. If I were a musician, might the patterns become self-evident notes offering me access to a world the likes of Eric Satie, Sergei Rachmaninoff, or Max Richter have known? But I aspire to write and find myself grasping at worn words that, much like tones and hues in novice hands, leave little lasting impression, and so I continue to practice laying letters down while never really growing confident that I have added any value to the page.

It will have to suffice that the light that shines from within the shared love of these two people fortunate enough to experience places that can make hearts sing, simply plays to the universe with us as the only audience.

There’s a poetry that floats overhead and flows downstream while shadows play and a glistening reflection works to seduce us, but the fleeting nature of it all is orchestrated for an immediacy that does not wait for others to join in with appreciation for this once-in-a-lifetime moment that can only ever be known by those present for witnessing such things. And so we take all we can into memories, but those impressions are weak and betray the desire that wishes to hold fast forever to a scene that might only exist in a passing, yet profound, glance.

What if we understood that all around us, above and below, everywhere in all situations, we were capable of extracting immense beauty from life? Would we continue numbing our sense of the profound that stared at us from our first to last breath and still chose to be immune to awareness in exchange for some meaningless gratification of the ego that never really satisfies the soul?

We are as steam is to a hot spring, the life on a planet. We will appear for a simple moment, adding grace to a landscape, and just as quickly disappear into an invisible atmosphere as though we never existed. Yet, within those fleeting few seconds, the light of our being might have illuminated a corner of someone else’s consciousness. Did we offer delight to them or weigh heavy like storm clouds looming on the horizon?

How easy it is to witness beauty and allow its constructs to be assembled in ways we define as intrinsically wonderful when we condition ourselves to define nature in non-threatening ways. Replacing the grandeur of our earth with promises of heavenly eternities diminishes our need to see the world as it is: incredible and rich with wealth beyond the things we adorn upon vapid existences.

There is no monetary value to seeing one’s shadows standing 30 feet tall in pristine snow, but then again, the remembrance of such a moment shared with the person you love is priceless.

We burst into nature and expend our energy in a flash of bedazzling spectacle if we are fortunate, or we whimper to the exit, hurt and unsatisfied as being here and gone is the fate of us all.

The warm glow of the late day tells us that time is moving us toward sunset and that we’ll soon approach nightfall. The temperature will drop, as will our ability to continue past the wee hours. We’ll take time to replenish ourselves with food and sleep, but who among us understands the need to take time to replenish ourselves with sensuality found in the dance of nature? Even if our lives should be brief and taken away too soon, what will the encounter with its magic have been worth? Will you have lived or simply existed? This then begs the question, how do we accept the machinations of a society diminishing the value of the individual by corrupting our ability to find the light that illuminates our better senses?

The silhouettes of life around us grow longer, as does the value of what our own shadows have collected by just being out here walking into beauty.

Goodbye day, and thanks for allowing me this opportunity to roam in a world that, for a little while, is mine to share with others from now and into the future, should these words continue to flow outward.

I achingly long to remain under these skies, in these moments, next to my best friend, who is in the same space as I am. I sense the sting in her eyes and murmur in her heart as the music of nature paints this canvas of the extraordinary that’s being amplified by our shared love.

The pulse of life is there; can you hear it, see it, feel it? It will continue throughout the night and still be with us the next day, with or without you, with or without me. If we are lucky, we will rise together again to witness the cold give way as our hearts warm the relationship between you and me, us and them, day and night, life and death. Persisting in celebration, love, and happiness, this is the landscape we live to always explore.

The call of life comes from deep within and deep below if you are able to tune your senses to pick up on the magic of all this. But for now…

…we will go to sleep like all things do so we might restore ourselves for another day emerging from the deep.