I went to Yellowstone this summer. My best friend Pat and I loaded up his truck and drove the 2000 miles from Delaware to Wyoming, with anticipation for what we were heading towards dripping from every word we spoke to each other for the entirety of the long drive before of us. In my mind when people spoke of the “Great Outdoors” Yellowstone was what I imagined. Smokey the Bear lounging about out on Old Faithful, elk at every turn, rivers flowing south out towards the sea and the world beyond, these were the images were at the very heart of what I imagined Yellowstone to be. As we approached the park I felt like my expectations were being met. The drive through Wyoming towards Yellowstone brought us through through some of the most wide open spaces that this country has to offer. In all directions there is nothing but mile after mile of countryside, with mountains breaking the beautiful monotony of fields far off in the distance. As we drove further those mountains begin to grow, imperceptibly at first but gradually growing taller until you feel as if we were being swallowed by crags and the sharp tips of peaks. These are the Grand Tetons, and their presence momentarily confirmed everything I thought I knew about the world out west.
But then things began to change. We hit traffic, lots of it. The entrance into Yellowstone is a carefully guarded boarder, with your park pass checked by young men and women decked out in khaki and funny hats. Their role is to check every car that enters their hallowed ground for the correct paper work (or in this case a small piece of green printed plastic) and to turn away anybody who won’t shell out the $25 entrance fee. Getting past that check point only worsens the effect of the traffic, as most of the cars that enter the compound are converging on one central point: Old Faithful.
Undoubtedly beautiful, Old Faithful is a testament to the mystery and the wonder of the natural world. This magnificence, however, felt slightly undercut by the hoards of tourists just like us who flocked from all over the world to get a glimpse at the geyser. Finding a parking spot alone felt like just as much of a wonder as the caldera itself. The wooden deck which guides the hoards towards designated lookout points were crowded by hoards of screaming children following inattentive parents, and camera shudders over shadowed the natural ambiance. It was at this point in our voyage that my mood began to turn. My mind ran with accusations. To me these people weren’t properly appreciating what was around them. Where was the stunned silence? Or the palpable awe at the beauty of nature? In my mind I began to blame these people for all the problems I saw in this place. It was their fault that this slice of unsullied land had paved roads and a infrastructure better than some small towns. It was their fault that the air smelled slightly of gasoline and sweat. It was their fault that I wasn’t feeling the rapture of natural world.
As my friend and I pulled out of the parking lot I began to restructure my thoughts about the national park system and ideas for angry tweets filled my mind just waiting for internet access to be able to fulfill them. But then something special happened. While stuck in traffic waiting to find our way to the campsite where we’d be spending the night, Pat noticed a couple of cars pulled off the road and people walking into a trail head between a dense row of trees. Without saying a word he pulled our own car over and together we followed where we saw the other people enter. On the other side of the trees was a field surrounded on all sides by mountains and with a river running lazily through it. On the opposite bank of the river was a mother Elk tending to her child. Overhead a hawk flew over, screaming as it went. To look up at it forced me to look into the vast expanse of blue sky, a sky somehow bigger than any I had ever seen before. In that moment all my anger and frustrations dissipated, and I realized why this place exists and became grateful for it. It is amazing that such places can possibly exist today. That collectively as a nation we can point at a place and agree in saying “this, this is worth keeping the way it is.” Yellowstone and places like it are a humbling reminder that nature does not exist in spite of humanity, but rather alongside it. And that we must fight viciously to preserve it.
-Tim Caston
The Junction Journal 