For nearly 100 miles I drove through Wyoming seeing only sparse evidence of life: a truck behind me for five miles at a time, a town with more barns than houses, a sign stating “Population: 50,” a single pronghorn. The mellow cadence of an audiobook melded with the infinite stretch of road ahead while the small blue arrow of the GPS moved imperceptibly across a sea of green.

Finally I reached my destination: a small hotel at the edge of a town named Cody with large yet unassuming cabin-like rooms and a woman at the front desk who couldn’t be bothered to look away from her phone, even as she handed me the room keys. I hauled my dozen or so bags and bins to my room, and when I had nothing left to carry I stood, stuck in place, my whole body vibrating. My limbs twitched and my vision shifted in and out of focus. My mind felt like a sprinkler, thoughts and feelings coming through in rapid fragments that were difficult to piece together, yet drenching me all at once. Small decisions felt impossible. Should I pee or drink water? Should I sit down or take off my shoes? I was so fatigued that figuring out which basic need to take care of first became a monumental task.

Finally I decided on food - though my stomach hurt - hoping calories would help. I ate peanut butter and a sprinkling of granola on a tortilla, washing it down painfully with water and Ativan.

I had plans to go to the rodeo - plans I had been looking forward to for months. Now I wasn’t sure I could get myself back into the car, even for the five minute drive. I went through a very familiar mental wrestling match with myself: “Be gentle with yourself. Lay down and get the rest you need.” and “Don’t let anxiety win, you dumb bitch. Get in the car.” jousting back and forth, each taking quick stabs and poking holes in the other.

I hadn’t traveled all this way for comfort. I got in the car and drove to the rodeo, a blanket of benzodiazepine tucking in my spiraling thoughts.

Cody Nite Rodeo

At the arena I settled in to my spot on the bleachers and sat waiting for the rodeo to start, all the while worrying that between the lack of sleep, lack of food and addition of a sedative I would soon be too exhausted to safely drive myself back to the hotel. With each person that walked by I assessed whether I felt I’d be safe to confide in them about my mental and physical state and ask for help, should I need it. I decided a sweet-looking older couple sitting behind me would do.

At the start of the show the emcee began hyping up the crowd by circling the arena atop his horse and throwing up his hands while naming states into the mic, encouraging rowdy cheers from the people representing them. Texas, Alabama, Idaho, Montana, Utah. I wondered if he ever thought to name Connecticut.

He then built up to the climax of his spiel. “We live in the United States of America, the greatest nation in the world,” he said. “The greatest because we have freedoms, freedom to practice the one true religion…” and then began a prayer to Jesus Christ. The crowd bowed their heads in unison, closing their eyes and holding their Stetsons to their chests. I watched, not another pair of eyes looking up to meet mine.

After a moment of silence, southern rock music blared, signaling the start of the action. Gates crashed open and dirt flew from under the hooves of broncos as they twisted and bucked. Men held on tight with one hand, the other in the air, their heads and shoulders thrown the opposite directions of their legs and hips until they were forced to jump out of the path of their kicking companions. Duos mounted their horses and rode in tandem, ropes circling the air, chasing after steers. At the start of the barrel racing the crowd giggled and cheered as a 5-year-old girl entered the ring, her and her horse circling the barrels at the pace of a casual stroll. As the excitement and laughter rose my worries diminished, the energy of the stadium a great relief and distraction from my long day alone with my thoughts. I’d made it to Wyoming.

*A man competes for best time in bronc riding*

The Laundromat

The next morning it happened again - the same thing that happened at the top of the Gateway Arch. I was standing at the trunk of my car outside of the laundromat, stuffing my dirty clothes into a trash bag, when a woman pulling out of her parking spot next to me rolled down her window. She told someone on the other end of the phone to “hold on,” looked me dead in the face, and said: “You're beautiful.” Before I could respond she rolled the window back up and took off.

I paused, clutching my trash bag of dirty clothes, holding back tears. Not more than 20 minutes prior, as I brushed my teeth under the yellow hotel light in front of the bathroom mirror, I had poked at the loose bags under my eyes and inspected the melasma spread across my face. I procrastinated a shower, because each time I washed my hair it fell out in clumps, and that morning I couldn’t bare to see it all tangled up in my finger tips. The woman’s words washed through me like warm tea, her simple acknowledgement of my existence a much needed validation.

I took my time in the laundromat, sitting on a bench and resting my eyes as I waited, the whirring of washers and dryers hypnotizing me into a state of relaxation. I savored the warmth of the fabric as I emptied the dryer and noted my gratitude for a suitcase full of clean clothes as I folded and placed each article of clothing. My mind was a little quieter with everything in its place.

Eric and an Airport

That afternoon I sat in front of an airport the size of a three-car garage, looking in Darla’s righthand mirror at the sidewalk until Eric appeared in the frame. My belly fluttered with excitement. I was ecstatic and relieved to see him, but was surprised to feel unsure of how to greet him. After only a week of being alone, the smile on my face felt awkward - how long had it been since my muscles had contorted that way? Already I had to reacclimate to what it meant to be with someone else.

We kissed and hugged and whispered “I missed you” back and forth, and within moments, the switch flipped. I remembered what it was to be a partner, and to have a partner. Eric took over the driver’s seat and I settled in to my new spot for the next week on the right side of Darla.

We spent the hour-long drive to Yellowstone catching up on the little bits of each other’s lives we’d missed throughout the week: conversations with coworkers and random thoughts one has while driving. Time had moved differently for us during that week, his a steady march while mine was elastic, stretching on and on, me waiting for the inevitable snap and consequential burn. But there was no snap. Instead of burning came warmth, Eric’s hand on my thigh and his gentle voice in my ears.

*My view from the passenger seat as Eric drove us into Yellowstone*

Arriving in Yellowstone

We arrived at the Bay Bridge Campground as the sky was transitioning from blue to orange. At the campground kiosk an incredibly pleasant man checked us in, spending an inordinate amount of time sharing stories and advice. “The bears won’t bother you,” he said, while reviewing a non-comprehensive list of about 30 things that must not enter our tent as to ensure the bears wouldn’t smell us. I was skeptical.

We set up our tent and treated the scene like a hazmat situation - at my request - to ensure our safety from the grizzlies we’d been assured wanted nothing to do with us. We washed our hands after every time we touched anything that may have ever smelled of something, and after cooking I handed Eric a change of clothes that were free of smoke and the scent of dinner.

As the sun disappeared and the temperature approached freezing, we decided on sleeping in Darla to help retain heat. We folded the back seats down and squeezed the two-person sleeping pad into the trunk, maneuvering our way into the shared sleeping bag, bumping heads and knees. Finally we were supine, tucked in under layers of clothing and blankets. Eric’s warm hands slipped under my sweatshirt, circling my waist and pulling my hips close to his. Laying my head on his chest I felt sleepy for the first time in days, finally able to rest knowing I could share half the weight of the world with him now.

Mudpots and Grizzly Bears

The next morning we woke up to steamy windows, pale sunlight reflecting off of the condensation from our breath. I was recalibrated; our timelines were realigned.

After an oatmeal breakfast at the picnic table, we set out, driving until a small brown NPS sign beckoned.

Our first stop was Volcano Mud, where the most acidic waters in Yellowstone speckle the landscape, surfacing through mudpots. Hot, bubbling, gray water boiled up around us, steam floating up from the forbidden pools. We were so enamored with the spectacle we almost missed the lone lazy bison laying along the edge of one of earth’s cauldrons, enjoying a spa of sulfur steam only feet in front of us.

We continued through the park, Eric skillfully maneuvering Darla in and out of pull-offs each time we spotted a person with binoculars, hoping to reap the rewards of other’s hard work - surely years spent learning the patterns of the wildlife and hours spent patiently waiting for them to arrive. Eric’s method proved fruitful; at our first stop we were greeted with images of a grizzly mother and her two cubs foraging in the endless field of green ahead of us. At our second stop we met a kid, not older than 12, who pointed us toward a pack of seven wolves resting atop a ridgeline far in the distance - so far I would have written them off as specs of dust on my binoculars if the child’s father hadn’t walked us through the scene framed within his spotting scope. There with us in the small crowd of wolf-viewers was a couple, the man taking photos with a camera lens that I could only dream of having. “I drive around taking photos until I get tired, and then I park my car and sleep on the side of the road,” he said as he flipped through astrophotography and wildlife photos, showing us snippets through the viewfinder. His girlfriend nodded and shrugged, content to be along for the ride.

After sufficiently connecting with strangers over the shared scenes, we continued North, chattering with amazement as we went at how many ecosystems exist in such a small sliver of the world. I had driven across three states and seen only corn. Here I could walk three minutes and go from silent prairie to raging river, from tranquil forest to bubbling lake.

Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone

We approached a sign for Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, a giant gorge in the earth hidden among rolling plains extending out on either side. As we parked and walked the path toward the canyon we bumped into the couple from our previous stop, greeting each other as old friends. “Don’t look yet,” the man said to his girlfriend, glancing over to us to share the same instruction. “You have to wait until we get to the top. Don’t spoil it.” Eric and I obeyed, keeping our eyes forward on the path until we reached the viewing point.

Emerald and alabaster water fell from the edge of the earth and rushed toward us through golden walls. At the viewing point, crowds gathered and dissipated, pushing and pulling, each group wanting their turn to snap a photo in front of the dramatic scene. I stood admiring the view and snapping my shutter until an internal timer went off, alerting me that the conveyor belt of people was starting up again, my queue to continue down the path and allow others their short moment.

Discontent began to churn in my chest as we stepped away. In that same month alone, nearly 1 million people would stand where I was standing, each taking their own photo of the same exact view from the same exact place. What was mine? More pixels to take up space on the endless internet. A copy of a copy of a copy. I wanted to make it mean something, to capture something deeper, something that was mine and mine alone. I didn’t want to be one in a million; I longed to be one.

I hesitated to leave, growing increasingly desperate. I ached to feel a deep connection to the land, to the moment, to have an emotional epiphany that would radiate through my photos, unable to be denied. But I’d done nothing to earn it. I was a lost cow in the herd of cattle being shepherded down the paved path in front of me. I hadn’t spent time getting to know the land, or made any sacrifices to get there. There was no journey, no conflict or climax or resolution to this story. Just a straight line. I got in a car, parked in a very full lot, took a few quick steps down a well-worn path, reached the brink of the earth, snapped a photo, and moved down the conveyor belt to make room for the next camera.

I left the brink of the earth with an empty spirit, and Eric left with an empty stomach. In search of food we went.

*A bison grazes somewhere near Hayden Valley*

A Pit Stop for the Pits in our Stomachs

Next to the Canyon Visitors Center was a cafeteria styled as though it was a 1950s diner, complete with boys in paper hats and girls in frilly dresses and aprons. I ordered a chicken sandwich with pepper jack cheese. How very American of me, I thought, to put myself in the most remote place I could find, only to find myself in a fast-food restaurant, eating chicken that had surely been killed elsewhere, hung in an assembly line, packaged, frozen, and shipped to the nostalgia-themed building in which I sat so that I wouldn’t have to consider what animal needed to die, or what farmer needed to do grueling work, in order for me to eat a comfortable meal. Another superficial pleasure that left me feeling empty.

My emotional churning grew into a discomfort large enough to manifest physically; my thoughts became static, my breath short and shallow, and my throat tight. I turned to tell Eric, only to find him in a thousand-yard stare and realize that he too was navigating choppy mental waters. We headed toward the car, got in our respective seats, laid the seat backs down, held hands, and closed our eyes.

That moment in the car with the windows cracked, the breeze floating over us and Eric’s hand in mine, changed everything about my mental state. Time slowed, and my lungs filled to the bottom reaches. The emotional churning settled into a gentle pulse. I was in the heart of the continent with the person I love, with nothing to do but enjoy it. We could stand at the top of a canyon, or we could lay in the car. We could continue north, or we could go home to our tent. We could take a picture, or we could take a moment just for us. We could do anything or nothing at all. We could just be.

Mammoth Hot Springs

After our nap we journeyed north, to the top western corner of the park, to find the travertine terraces that form Mammoth Hot Springs. We strolled the boardwalks perched delicately over the cascading landscape, yellow and white mushroom-like figures seemingly growing up from layered pools, steaming water flowing gently from one platform to the next.

We ascended the walkway, following closely behind a family of four: a mother and father, each with a young girl attached by the hand. A gust of wind blew over the terraces, picking up one of the little girls’ hats right off of her head and dropping it just over the boardwalk railing into a stream of a dozen other ballcaps and bucket hats stolen by mother nature, a playful thing. Eric laid flat on the boardwalk and extended his arm as far as it could reach, successfully ensnaring the brim of the hat between his pointer and middle fingers, just enough of a grip to pull it back to safety. Today, Eric a hero and one less hat lost to the limestone.

We traversed the maze of boardwalk until we had worked up an appetite again, and found our way to the material hub that is Mammoth, a busy site that serves as the administrative headquarters of the park. At the terrace grill I had another sandwich, plus some of Eric’s fries, followed by an ice cream cone nearly the length of my torso. By second lunch I had eaten more that day than I had in the entire week prior.

Sunset, Mosquitoes and Porridge for the Bears

We took our time traveling back south toward our campsite, exploring a new route and stopping at various pull-offs along the way to stretch our legs and breathe in the fresh air, which was cool and brisk despite it being the height of summer.

Upon approaching our campsite, confusion hit. Where was our tent? I wondered out loud whether we had driven the wrong loop, or if we had somehow each forgotten which site number was ours. But no, Eric was sure this was it. We parked Darla and scouted the plot for any sign of our gear. Next to the bear box was our tent, folded up and pinned under a log. Inside the door of the box was the green plastic of the rainfly, rolled around the tent poles. As we counted the pieces a man approached, hand waving and a bounce in each step. “It was blowing away! We think we tracked down everything, at least I hope we got it all!” he exclaimed, one hand still in the air and a solo cup in the other. A large group of people sitting behind him at the campsite next door all smiled and waved, raising their own cups in our direction. I had previously wondered why such a big crew would travel to Yellowstone only to sit at the campground, surrounded by cars and RVs, and drink around a firepit when there was so much more to see. Now I was grateful they were there.

After re-erecting the tent, we went for a short drive to the Yellowstone Lodge to take photos over the lake at sunset. The colors of the sky were magnificent, the lake sparkled, and mosquitoes dotted the foreground and swarmed our faces. A lone elk laid in the meadow under the pink and turquoise skies, unbothered by the bugs, tucking itself into bed for the evening.

It was nearly 10 p.m. when darkness started to settle in. We returned to our campsite, with tent intact this time, and started a fire, over which we cooked a pot of what was intended to be cheesy noodles but turned out more like watery grits. Together, perched upon a log that doubled as a bench, we snuggled close and leaned into the flames for warmth, giggling about our mediocre dinner being porridge for the bears.

*Wildflowers bloom in the woods of Yellowstone*

Grand Prismatic

Our last day in Yellowstone began the same as the others, with Eric and I laying pressed closely against each other, soaking in each moment of our time together and the heat trapped beneath the covers of the sleeping bag before opening the zipper to the rush of cold air.

We had saved the two most popular Yellowstone attractions for our final full day in the park: Grand Prismatic and Old Faithful.

The walk to Grand Prismatic was a trek of fire and ice. At the start of the path, boiling water flows down fiery orange slopes into the Firehole River, a mass of deep navy liquid carrying small snow-white peaks downriver. Further up the trail, steam emanates off of the cool-blue waters of Excelsior Geyser Crater.

We followed the curved boardwalk around the edge of the crater toward Grand Prismatic, a trail of lost hats - each just out of reach - marking the way. Still, shallow waters around the edge of the spring reflected the clear blue sky and called for us to touch, imploring our fingertips to test the heat.

*Shallow water surrounding Grand Prismatic, just off the boardwalk path, reflects the sky*

From the edge of the spring, pastel tones of blue and orange circle each other, a thick layer of vapor dancing above the delicate crust of the earth. From the ground, Grand Prismatic is a shy subject, hiding beneath her veil.

From the viewing point at the top of the hill above, she is radiant, saturated hues of every which color bursting from her deep turquoise center, coloring the rising steam in pinks and blues.

*Grand prismatic as seen from the viewing deck above*

The viewing deck was chaos. Hoards of people rushed to the small gap between the trees to pose for their photo in front of the vibrant scene below. The crowd was frenzied, people pushing and pulling and squeezing where they did not belong. A mother spat commands over the cacophony of voices, corralling children and grandparents as if she were an army general preparing her unruly troops for battle: “You, stand here! You, fix your hair! You, stand up straight! How many times do I have to tell you how to smile?!”

Grand Prismatic sat silent in the background, her grandeur dwarfing the pandemonium surrounding her. She was indifferent to us, the millions of specs passing through her orbit.

Old Faithful

Grand Prismatic’s quiet brilliance was juxtaposed by Old Faithful’s brazen splendor, water sputtering and then suddenly spewing from the earth.

We arrived for Old Faithful’s promised display nearly an hour before she was due. At first, the wooden benches surrounding the geyser were largely empty, aside from ourselves and a few mothers who sat scrolling their phones as their children zipped and ducked around and under the seats. As we waited, the crowd trickled in, bodies filling the benches, until a handful grew into hundreds.

This time the mass of people didn’t detract from the experience, but rather felt a part of it. Together, thousands of us waited in anticipation, hungry for our turn to experience awe. With 20 minutes to go, the spirit of the crowd began to grow. The people to the left sent a wave to the right, which was then passed back and forth, a seamless surge of energy connecting us all around the semicircle. As the time ticked on the anticipation became palpable, suffocating the noise and demanding silence. Finally, Old Faithful burst forth, her power on full display.

*A crowd gathers to watch Old Faithful put on a show*

Between Two Oceans: The Continental Divide

Our trek toward the patch of grass where our tent sat brought us to Isa Lake; a small, dark body of water spotted with lily pads that sits at the “backbone of a continent,” as told by the worn, crooked sign standing awkwardly in the plot of grass beside the water. “The Continental Divide is marked by simple road signs merely hinting at the enormity of the boundary they represent,” the sign continues. “This imaginary line winds its way through the mountains from Alaska to Mexico, separating the waters that flow into the Pacific Ocean from those that flow into the Atlantic Ocean.” Here we stood between two oceans, floating over the land like the yellow pond-lilies before us.

*Lily pads decorate the surface of Isa Lake*

An Evening With Elliot the Elk and Peter the Tour Guide

We returned to Yellowstone Lake to watch the water lap at the shore as the sun sank lower in the sky. On the beach, Eric sifted through the sand, collecting pumice and obsidian and then burying it once again, meanwhile pretending not to mind that my camera was pointed in his direction.

Upon return to the campground we were greeted by a crowd of people forming around an elk - lovingly name Elliot, as we were told by a park ranger - who was taste testing the sneakers someone had left on top of the bear box at their site. His antlers, at least eight shoes long, bobbed up and down with each lick, until he lifted his head, now aware of the mass of people forming, one shoe hanging from his mouth.

At our campsite, our dinner - another pot of cheesy noodles, to be paired with a packet of chicken salad - was interrupted by Peter, our camp neighbor, who climbed from the back of his RV toward our campfire. “Do you like elk?” he asked, offering up a plastic container of meat and charred zucchini. “I hunted it myself,” he said, the his hand and the container still extended in our direction. Eric hesitated before taking a piece. I watched for him to nibble it a bit before accepting the zucchini. “I also have wine from my vineyard in Oregon,” he said, drinking from the bottle before passing it to me. I poured some in my cup and pretended to take a sip. “It tastes really great,” I lied. I looked to Eric to gauge how concerned I should be and wondered if he was second-guessing his bite of Elk.

Peter made himself at home at our picnic table, taking bites from the same container of food he offered us while recounting his day leading a private tour through the park and asking us what sites we had seen so that he could spout his knowledge about each of them. He told stories of his hikes through some of the most remote areas of the country, apparently not a road to be found within 40 miles. I asked if he was ever bothered by the tourists he paraded around the paved roads of the park if what he loved so much was the vast, wild places. “You know, I was just talking to another guide about this. He was complaining that the park was going south because of all the tourism,” Peter said. “But, I think there’s good to it. I reminded him that the park is in the best shape it’s ever been in, and that’s thanks to tourism dollars, and people coming and falling in love with the park.” He noted the history of the bison - a population of 30-60 thousand that had been hunted down to less than 500 lonely bison - and that now they are being repopulated in Yellowstone enough to start to bring them to other places like Wind Cave National Park. “Wolves are being repopulated too,” he said, “and having the national park status made that possible. Having people come to admire and revere these things helps to preserve them.”

After a long chat with Peter, the fire began to dwindle and we parted ways toward our respective beds. As we settled in, Eric pulled the covers up over my shoulder and nestled his nose into my hair. “My hair smells like sulfur and mud from all the steam,” I said, a little embarrassed. Eric didn’t seem to care. He pulled me in close and we drifted off.

West Thumb Geyser Basin

The trip from Yellowstone to our campsite in the Tetons was set to take us a little more than an hour of driving. “Should we stop at West Thumb Geyser Basin?” I asked. “It’s on our way out of the park.”

This unscheduled stop was proof that unplanned exploration often reaps the greatest benefits.

Situated along the edge of Yellowstone Lake, wooden boardwalks meander the delicate landscape, winding their way through geysers every direction. Clear streams of water trickle from turquoise pools down bright red-orange slopes, colored by microorganisms living in the mineral-rich waters. Each pool was a unique ecosystem, a painting in a gallery of curated masterpieces brought together for a cohesive viewing experience.

We took our time, strolling the path and stopping along the lakeside edge to take in one last view of Yellowstone before heading toward the mountains.

Yellowstone, Wyoming