Nature’s Spectacle of Fire, Water, and Yellow Stone

Yellowstone courses through the veins of the American Dream. I’m not talking about the TV series. I’m referring to the national park. America’s first national park.

Embarrassed by its failure to preserve the sanctity of Western New York’s natural wonder, our nation sought to avoid repeating the debacle of Niagara Falls’ commercial free-for-all. After exploring Yellowstone’s natural beauty, Dr. Ferdinand V. Hayden wrote this warning to Congress in his Geological Survey of 1871 (reprinted in Hayden’s 1880 book The Great West and in the September 1880 issue of The Naturalists’ Leisure Hour and Monthly Bulletin):

“Persons are now waiting for the spring to open to enter in and take possession of these remarkable curiosities, to make merchandise of these beautiful specimens, to fence in these rare wonders so as to charge visitors a fee, as is now done at Niagara Falls, for the sight of that which ought to be as free as the air or water.”

Throughout his report, Hayden sprinkled evidence of a grand American endeavor, scientific conquest, and the democratic ideal. He also included pictures and illustrations to hammer home the idea of unparalleled natural grandeur. Thus inspired, Congress passed the Yellowstone National Park Protection Act. On March 1, 1872, President Ulysses S. Grant signed the Act of Dedication, officially creating Yellowstone National Park.

Do you remember the first time you heard of Yellowstone? There’s Yogi Bear’s “Jellystone” Park, but I was too young to get the connection. What remains etched in my brain, however, is that illustration from our third-grade textbook. It was a simple pen and ink drawing, with a hint of blue shading. Beneath it read the caption, “Old Faithful.”

Old Faithful fascinated me. It was one of those phases all boys seem to go through. First, you like dinosaurs. Then you like space. Then it’s geology. Well, third grade was my geology phase. I devoured every book about volcanoes, earthquakes, and various geothermal wonders. It was the grade that the class laughed at me when I suggested the continents of Africa and South America fit together like pieces of a puzzle. I even drew a picture to show what I was talking about.

Their scorn only emboldened me. Little did they (or I) know that, even as their laughing intensified, three scientists, independently and across the world, were echoing this same idea. (They weren’t the first, but they were the first to be taken seriously.)  In separate conference presentations and publications, Jason Morgan, Dan McKenzie, and Xavier Le Pichon provided distinct frameworks to support this concept of continental motion. The synthesis of these research efforts proved an “aha!” moment for the geology community. By the early 1970s, the theory of plate tectonics had become the consensus.

Too bad that was several years after. I could have used the support. I didn’t even live in the same city anymore, so I couldn’t rub it in their faces. Not that I cared. I was into the next phase—meteorology—at that point in my life. Instead of predicting continental movements, I was predicting tomorrow’s weather.

Still, that old textbook vision lingered. A dream hatched from a third-grade textbook. I yearned to see Old Faithful. To feel firsthand what it would be like to see the boiling earth belch a steady stream of steam and superheated water. Yeah, the science attracted me, but it was the anticipated wonder of the senses that captivated my imagination.

By the afternoon of this day, that dream would be fulfilled.

But first, we again had to answer the call of the sweet light. All to capture the Lower Falls from the North Rim Parking Lot right as the first light of the rising sun illuminated its brink.

The schedule demanded we check out of the comfortable lodge by 6:30 AM. In other words, that meant waking up at 6:00. If that sounds early (for me), it wasn’t. Remember, we were in Yellowstone National Park. That meant we were now on Mountain Time. And 6:00 AM Mountain Time is identical to 8:00 AM Eastern Time. I could live with that.

And it gave me enough time to buy that souvenir bison Betsy liked so much. Or at least it would’ve, if the lodge hadn’t run out.

Though the morning air had a certain crispness, we couldn’t avoid the reality of Yellowstone’s weather forecast. (Truth is, that phase never really left me.) Early concerns about the heat had us stock up on water bottles. And by “us,” I mean everybody except me. I stocked up on a pair of bottles—one containing orange Gatorade Zero and the other Diet Pepsi.

As was fast becoming tradition, we let the kids do the hiking while Betsy and I puttered around the parking lot. I had a good view of the canyon and the waterfall.

They call it “The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.” It’s big, mind you, but it’s somewhat misleading. It’s nothing compared to the real Grand Canyon, although it is larger than the Grand Canyon of the East (i.e., Letchworth State Park). Cut by the Yellowstone River (from which the park gets its name), the canyon sides feature yellow stone (from which the river gets its name). The low angle of the sun highlights the yellow in the stone even more.

 

The distant falls themselves look small. The largest waterfall by volume in the Rocky Mountains, the Lower Falls stands at 308 feet in height. That’s nearly double the height of Niagara Falls. But with a width of only 70 feet (compared to Niagara’s 2,600 feet), the volume of water flowing over the Lower Falls pales compared to its Niagara kin.

Yet, the power of the roar remains unmistakable. Though it looks to be falling in slow motion, you can sense the relentless force behind it. I snapped away while avoiding getting too close to the canyon’s steep edge. I don’t think the photos captured what it felt like in person.

Ah, vertigo. Is there nothing it can’t ruin?

We left the canyon ahead of schedule—and ahead of the crowds. Our map then took us through the heart of Yellowstone, where the gurgling hot springs spewed steam in the most ominous way. It’s hard to forget we’re driving over a supervolcano bubbling beneath the caldera. This is the invisible force powering the entire geothermal landscape.

The heat, however, comes from both directions. The summer sun began baking the land beneath our feet. It’s hot, but not too hot. For me. Everyone else is drinking their water. And hollering at me for not hydrating as we set off on foot for our next destination.

Yes, that’s right. This time we’re all going on the hike to the Grand Prismatic Spring. The Overlook Trail is long but, thankfully, flat. That is, until you get to the part that leads to the actual overlook. That’s a steep incline. Betsy opts out. I threw caution to the wind—if there had been any—and stayed on the tree-shaded side of the trail.

Here’s the amazing thing. When you get to the overlook point, the Grand Prismatic Spring looks just like all those pictures you see of it. Usually, the real thing never looks as good as the brochure pictures. The vivid Kodachrome of the brilliant spectrum of colors concentrically surrounding Yellowstone’s largest hot spring does not disappoint.

As beautiful and inviting as the Grand Prismatic Spring looks, this is no wading pool. The colors come from thermophilic bacterial mats. Different microbes prefer different temperatures. Each species produces its own color.

Tempting as it looks, the water is lethally hot. It’s 160°F—not quite boiling, but hot enough to paralyze you quickly. That’s what happened to a wayward bison a week after our visit. It was like he had visited the Hotel California. He checked out, but he could never leave. RIP, bison.

It was tough to leave the mesmerizing stained glass of hot water. It was a visual feast, like seeing not merely a painting, but a living painting. From the overlook, you could take it all in—beauty, without the danger.

But don’t take my word for it. Go ask the bison.

We again departed early, and this time it was important to arrive ahead of the crowds, as in the several tour buses hot on our tail. Even without the buses, the parking lot resembles a sea of cars. We found a far-off spot and trekked to the Old Faithful Visitor Center.

We had barely missed the previous eruption, and the schedule said the next one was due in a little over an hour. That gave us enough time to explore the exhibits. Their simplicity rekindled that third-grade imagination that lay dormant in my head. But the swelling crowd swiftly quelled that notion.

Then we made our way to the geyser observation deck. We snagged some prime seats (based on the sun’s position for picture taking). They weren’t in the front row, but only a young family sat separating us from the venerated chief attraction.

If the book, movie, or play Waiting for Godot ever frustrated you, then you know what the next fifty minutes felt like for us. The geyser teased us with several false starts. You could feel the sunbaked crowd growing antsy.

But then, about ten minutes before expected, a column of steaming froth shot from the earth. And then it pulled back. Another boiling bolt spewed upward before falling. A second. A third. Each quicker than the last. Like a locomotive building speed.

Soon, the frequency gushed at a furious pace, preventing the previous belch from returning to earth. Instead, it boosted its predecessor to higher heights. Slowly, methodically, at first. Until it launched a steady stream into the air, leaving a trail of white steam wisping away to its right like the quiet smoke of a doused fire.

After the climax, the geyser refused to give up. The column descended with a struggle. You could feel Old Faithful desperately trying to live up to its name. But with each laborious spurt, the height shrank. It finally gave up the ghost, exhausting only a cloud of steam. Eventually, that too faded.

As I watched, memories of that old textbook etching rushed through my head. So did those old feelings. It immediately dawned on me. I had waited my whole life for this moment. And there it was. Right in front of me. Just like the drawing—but alive, loud, and completely real.

When it was clear the geyser had given its all, the crowd stood and cheered. I sensed they cheered not only for the performer, but for what the performance represented. They cheered for Yellowstone. And the American Dream it represents. In that singular instant, they all saw—and felt—that same ideal Hayden experienced when he first explored Yellowstone more than a century and a half earlier.

No time to dwell, though. We had time for lunch—if only we could find the commissary ahead of everyone else. We did precisely that and commandeered the last open table. It was the usual Western meal—a burger and fries—and we dispatched it in due haste to allow the crowd a chance to sit.

Afterwards, we browsed through the gift shop, making sure we acquired the mandatory Christmas ornament that would testify to our visit.

We departed Yellowstone with bittersweet feelings. We had seen so much in a short time. So much beauty. So much power. And yet, so much left unexplored.

But our exploration wasn’t done for the day. We were leaving the churning underbelly of nature’s depths for the soaring ice-sculpted peaks of America’s newest mountain range.

We weren’t simply sightseeing. We were experiencing seismic time travel. From steamy power to alpine serenity.

But it’s not just a story of nature. It’s a story of man, himself.