Yellowstone, WY

Day 22: September 12, 2018

1:57pm. I am refreshed and energized to explore. Currently writing this overlooking the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, contemplating what madness and power formed this splendor. The interiors of the canyon walls are painted with shades of yellow and gold, and a few streaks of white and brown. The Yellowstone river, which is both beside me and below, is a shimmering jade green. I am standing beside a break in the river—a waterfall dropping at least a thousand feet. It gives us a glimpse of the river’s power—a power that has slowly, steadily, and splendidly carved this landscape—before finally continuing on its way, winding downstream.

              I am standing a few feet from the brink of the falls. I watched, dazed and in awe of its roaring power. This jade green body of water moves steadily toward the rocky edge, and as it hits its jagged lip, the river’s smooth, steady flow is agitated turning it into a froth of white, as if with fear—or excitement—before the drop. It leaps and it roars; it falls, and slams heavy on the river below, and it splashes—no, splash is too soft of a word—it detonates into a thick cloud of mist shooting at least about 700 ft. downstream with such speed it could blow you off the ground; then it finally thins out into a light spray, coating the lower parts of the canyon walls. Looking farther downstream, the river continues on its way, as if nothing had happened.

              I stood and watched, exhilarated by this unselfconscious display of power and grace. I wondered what it would be like, if I jumped off into the river right before it passes the brink, letting the waters engulf me. There would be no stopping that. It would be a one-way ticket. Would I feel its power rush through me? Or would I turn white with fear?

I never knew; I walked back up the canyon and joined a ranger-led hike. We hiked along the southern rim of the canyon, learning about Yellowstone’s history and some of its geology along the way. I guess it wasn’t just the river that carved this landscape; it was a collaboration between the river, the hydrothermal activities in this part of the land, and glaciation. These forces, except glaciation, still act upon this land today, constantly reshaping it. A portion of the land erodes here, a cut in the canyon deepens there—it is a process involving destruction simultaneous with creation.

              Lodgepole pines are abundant here. The pine cones of these trees, which carry their seeds, are a curious mystery. They are serotinous, sealed shut by a waxy resin, trapping the seeds inside. The way it works is that the only way to get the cones to open up to release their seeds is if they’re exposed to extremely high temperatures—as during fires. So forest fires smother the land, destroying the adult trees, which in turn drop their cones. Heat dissolves the waxy resin and opens up the scales of the cones; the seeds are released on the ground, from which the roots will grow and hold fast to the soil. It is a new beginning. The Lodgepole pines will thrive again. The mechanism for releasing their seeds works like a kind of insurance, if you will. Was it inherent, built in their nature? Or was it adaptation, evolution? Nevertheless, someone planned for it to end up that way. Another function of natural forest fires is that they clear out the leafy canopy of old trees, letting more sunlight fall to the ground for the young ones to flourish.

              God’s elaborate and intelligent design has been set in motion long before humans have learned how to play ruler of the land; the trees hold seniority. Are they then more intelligent? More advanced, just subtly, inconceivably so? Maybe. Maybe not. We’re still young and we have a lot to learn. We have the capacity to be inventive and resilient, to act with grace and wit—it’s in our design. But the credit goes to the creator; we’re just spending the power.

I moved camp today. I am now at Norris campground and my tent is pitched right beside a meadow the color of faded green and dry wheat, with a forest of pines bordering the far end. A section of the narrow Gibbon river bisects the meadow, winding and coiling like a huge slick serpent stopped still on its tracks. Looking out from my tent, I have an outstanding view, relaxing to the senses. My neighbor, who is also from California, offered me coffee this morning (Peet’s coffee!) and spicy stir-fried cabbage at dinner. I accepted both. The cabbage was awesome. I, on the other hand, offered bagels.