Dispatch from Geyserland: Frosty Mornings

Weekend mornings in the Old Faithful District are my domain. I've started taking my camera with me more often for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the mostly un-witnessed beauty of winter mornings. In these hours, Yellowstone becomes my private world - vast, secretive, fantastic. There are more wonders here than can be seen in a lifetime, and at this time of year so many of them unfold for my eyes alone. As I ride my snowmobile past the still-quiet Snow Lodge, I witness bison clad in frost moving along the roadway, plodding along the path of least resistance to conserve what energy they can. For a moment I stop at a distance and consider taking a photograph, but as the lead bison lifts its head to assess my intentions I think better of it and leave them in peace. They are spread out, three or four of them - such a small group compared with the throngs of bison that gather in the fall. We often say here that winter is the ultimate predator. I think for a moment of how much they must have enjoyed these past weeks of 20-degree weather after the bitter cold of early December, then move on.

I often find it difficult to explain my feelings about this place. It is sometimes brutally, heartbreakingly real, and sometimes implausible, magical, seeming to exist outside of time. Like Narnia, Skyrim, Serre, and Middle Earth it is full of wonderment and danger. I can be annoyingly poetic and yet fail to capture even a fraction of the essence of Yellowstone. Even my photos from today fall woefully short.

As I continue north the fog becomes impenetrable. I decide to turn south until there is more light and head for Kepler Cascades. One of my favorite views, I have photos of Kepler in almost every light and condition. Even on a dark night I like to go up and just stand there, listening to the roar of the falls. The snow on the boardwalk thuds under my approach. It's cold - not terribly cold by Yellowstone standards, but the increased moisture is palpable. I never wear gloves when using my camera, and my fingers begin to ache as I snap a few quick, improperly metered shots. Turning to the north I put the gloves back on for a few moments. Old Faithful is erupting in the distance, and the cold has turned the always impressive plume of steam into a billowing storm cloud. I can't see the geyser, but there is no mistaking the source of the steam. Moments later this is confirmed by the voice on my radio giving the next prediction. I head back toward the ranger station, my knuckles still protesting.

I make it back to the station a little before 9:00 and record the weather observations. It's still -4°F. No wonder my fingers hurt. Last night's low of -15°F is still nothing to the weather of a month or so ago, but it's a good 10 degrees colder than it's been the last couple of weeks. For giggles, I check last year's observations for this date. They are almost identical.

The remainder of my shift passes as shifts do during winter in the interior. The snowcoaches pass like colorful canned hams in and out of the parking lot. The snowmobile tours make their rounds, and the ambulance goes out on Mattracks to take a patient to the hospital with the ponderous persistence of a tortoise. By 4:00 it's twilight and I'm happy that the Christmas lights are still up outside the front door. The boards have been up on our lower level and front walkway for weeks, keeping out the snow but also the light. After getting geared down I check my photos and am disappointed. Next time I'll take the extra moment to make the correct adjustments, but I doubt that my camera will ever capture what I see in this place. The snow is more beautiful when one can also feel it.

Now, as I sit here indulging in the narcissism that is blogging, it's a balmy 10°F and has been fully dark for a couple of hours. The days will get longer from here on out, however imperceptibly at first. I'm making my plans for tomorrow which will necessarily include paperwork, but will undoubtedly include something amazing that I didn't even expect.

-- KMR