The Lower Falls of Yellowstone were framed by jagged rock walls, stained yellow from sulfur, red, purple, pink from iron and aluminum oxides. Lodgepole pine lined the path we hiked from the viewpoint. Snow crunched under my boots and Evan’s sandals. “This is uncomfortable,” said Evan.
“We can turn back any time.”
“No, it’s my fault for wearing sandals. Let’s at least get to the first lake.”
We crossed a log bridge over a pond into an aspen grove, where the wind picked up, rattling the leaves and knocking the trees against each other. At a splintering sound behind us I leapt around, certain my last sight would be a charging grizzly, but the noise was only an aspen toppling in the wind. “I thought we were gonna die,” I said, laughing.
There was another loud splintering then, directly above us. “Run!”
We bolted as an aspen crashed across the path where we’d stood.
“Holy shit,” said Evan.
“Holy shit.”
On our way back down the trail, the sun began to descend. Its rays caught the Lower Falls in an unreal light—gems beaming through falling water, gold dancing off the yellow canyon walls.
Next morning, I drove back into Yellowstone. I planned to exit into Wyoming, but the eastern pass was blocked by snow. I took a quick, angry detour to the Upper Falls, snapped a few photos, then headed north. A herd of bison blocked this road, and the line of cars waiting for them to move stretched fifteen miles. I gave the traffic jam until I’d finished my paperback, then returned to West Yellowstone, cursing the whole way, and cursing at myself for cursing instead of enjoying the natural beauty that surrounded me.
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This is the fifth post in a cross-country road trip series. To start from the beginning, click here!
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