Good Morning from Red Lodge, Montana
The sun has barely peeked over Red Lodge when we rise from our snug king suite at The Pollard — jacuzzi tub still looking at me like, “You’ll miss me later,” and my birthday cake sitting on the dresser like a half-eaten trophy of celebration and sugar-based triumph. Jeremy polishes off his eggs Benedict, I shamelessly inhale pancakes, and we check out like wandering adventurers being sent off by an innkeeper who has definitely seen some things.
The front desk clerk warns us about Beartooth Highway — with that tone folks use when they're trying to scare you straight but also know you’re too stubborn to turn back. And listen, I have survived steep hills, questionable roads, and one unfortunate Minnesota axle-incident that forever rewired my brain about going downhill too fast. So if the mountains thought they were going to intimidate me, they were sorely mistaken.
Well… mostly.
Beartooth Loop
Beartooth Loop unfurls before us like something straight out of Middle-earth — misty peaks, sweeping valleys, and cliffs dramatic enough to make even a dwarf gasp before loudly pretending they didn’t. We stop every chance we get, partly for photos and partly so braver drivers (and motorcyclists with zero regard for mortality) can scoot on by.
Then, out of nowhere — a lake. Glassy, perfect, framed by mountains like nature herself said, “Oh, you're taking pictures? Let me help you with the lighting.”
While I am busy playing photographer of the realm, Jeremy starts to spot mysterious furry creatures scampering about. We soon learn — courtesy of a kind traveler from Michigan — they are marmots. Tiny mountain guardians, if you will. The kind of critters that definitely gossip about hikers behind their furry paws.
Then we continue on, descending toward the mythical land of Yellowstone. More lakes, one surprise waterfall (thank you, mysterious roadside pull-off!), and finally — the Northeast Entrance, where bison await like ancient gatekeepers.
Soda Butte Geyser
We admire Soda Butte Geyser and simultaneously pretend not to see the man climbing all over it like a human “don’t be that guy” PSA. Sir, this is sacred geothermal ground, not a jungle gym.
Just as we are backing away from the geyser, fate tosses us a bonus challenge: bison, up close and personal. I tip-toed away while snapping photos like a woman torn between survival instincts and needing to capture the wildlife shot.
Let me tell you — if Tolkien had set a chapter in Lamar Valley, he'd have had elves picnicking with bison and birds harmonizing on top of their wooly heads. It was magic. Herds everywhere. Babies! Their little legs! I nearly burst into song like a Disney heroine.
Northeast Yellowstone National Park
Then came our first black bear sighting — cars pulling over, people gathering like we’d stumbled onto a royal wedding. The bear saunters through the meadow, probably thinking about snacks and regretting nothing.
Mammoth Hot Springs
Lunch at Mammoth Hot Springs was outdoors, courtesy of COVID precautions, but honestly? Eating sandwiches under big Western skies between geothermal wonders feels like something a hobbit would brag about forever. Afterwards, we admire elk lounging in the front yards of ranger housing like they pay the mortgage. Fawns, velvet-antlered bucks — the whole majestic catalogue.
We wander Mammoth’s formations — Liberty Cap (named politely now, though history has… opinions), Devil’s Thumb, Palette Springs with its dreamy layers of color. I swear half this park feels like the earth got really into watercolor at some point.
Obsidian Wall
The obsidian wall itself is actually hard to photograph as it just looks like a dark cliff, perhaps leftover remains from Sauron's time. I love the scenery along the trail though, with the little stone bridge. And, of course, I take a picture of the obsidian rock along the walk.
Western Yellowstone National Park
From there we follow waterfalls, sleepy bison, and one particularly handsome bull elk. Yellowstone Canyon glows the exact shade of gold that makes you understand why someone went, “You know what? Let’s name the whole place after this.”
We hike, we marvel, we sweat. I take photos like my memory only works when backed up by a camera roll.
Norris Geyser Basin
Then on to Norris Geyser Basin — steaming, bubbling, hissing earth like the planet has opinions and isn’t afraid to voice them.
Gibbon Falls
Gibbon Falls greets us like the final dramatic flourish of an already theatrical day — and even a raven perches nearby like a feathery concierge welcoming guests.
Leaving the Park
We journey on to Island Park, Idaho — where the bar at Connie’s feeds us like royalty (hospitality magic is real) and Springhill Suites attempts to house half the western United States with maybe twelve parking spaces and a prayer.
Good Morning (Again)
Our carriage is BLOCKED IN by two very rude lads who act like we are the inconvenience. I fume. Jeremy agrees. The saga continues.
Breakfast? Cold gas-station sandwiches in hotel to-go bags. The great breakfast betrayal of Yellowstone 2020. I have never been personally victimized by a sausage biscuit before, but there’s a first time for everything.
Finally free, we head back to the park, pausing only for a little shopping at West Yellowstone, dodging crowds like seasoned warriors avoiding Orc patrols.
Firehole Falls
Firehole Falls welcomes us with mist and song. It is nice driving along the river, and of course, I always love waterfalls.
We barely see anyone on the road, and we believe that we beat the day rush for the Park, a. win, for our introverted selves out in the wild.
Lower Geyser Basin
Geyser basins smoke and shimmer like the earth itself is releasing wisdom it has learned across the ages.
Midway Geyser Basin
We make our way to the Midway Geyser Basin next, and let me tell you — if nature had a spa district, this would be it. Steam rises like ancient magic, swirling over colorful pools that look suspiciously like someone let a rainbow melt. We cross a little bridge on our way in, watching hot, enchanted-looking water pour straight into the Firehole River. In case the bubbling cauldrons aren’t clue enough, there are signs reminding you not to treat this area like a casual swimming hole unless you’d like your skin to politely leave your body. Good to know.
Of course, every other intrepid traveler in Yellowstone has the same idea today, because this place is the busiest we’ve seen so far. It feels like half the continent woke up and chose to witness geothermal magic.
There is a parking lot, but it’s more of a suggestion really — as in, “suggest you park half a mile down the road and begin your pilgrimage from there.” And that is exactly what we do. We lace up our shoes and walk the road.
Naturally, I stop to take a few photos along the trail — of us, of the mist, of the steaming pools ahead — because if you go to a geyser basin and don’t document the mystical cauldron-water and your wind-tousled hair, did you even go?
Old Faithful
Old Faithful is so beloved and famous that she has her own dedicated exit system off the main road. I mean, when a geyser has better traffic control than most concert venues, you know she’s a star. By some stroke of traveler’s luck — or perhaps a blessing from whatever Yellowstone spirit watches over weary wanderers — we pull in with a perfect ten minutes to spare before her next scheduled performance.
Front-row bench seats welcome our wearied bodies, thank you very much. Some folks wait hours for less; we simply glide in like it was meant to be. Call it fate, call it timing, call it the universe not wanting us to miss a once-in-a-lifetime water explosion. We receive it gladly either way.
As we sit, waiting like eager theater-goers before the curtain rises, birds flit around the boardwalk as though they, too, have tickets to a show. Off in the distance, a bison decides to play security guard and wanders a little too close to a cluster of wide-eyed spectators. You never know if you should say “Aww” or “Start running,” so we simply observe, slightly alarmed but trying to look casual, like seasoned adventurers would.
Old Faithful likes to tease — there's no rushing a queen. She begins with soft sighs of steam, then gradually builds, hissing and billowing with dramatic flair. You can feel the energy shift when she's ready. The steam thickens, the crowd hushes, and you just know something ancient and powerful is about to happen.
Yellowstone Lake
As rain starts to pour dramatically from the heavens, because the story demanded atmosphere, we made our final pilgrimage to Yellowstone Lake — serene, vast, the kind of place you could write a poem about and still not do it justice.
Leaving the Park
We drive onward through mist and mountains toward Grand Teton — tired, grateful, sun-toasted, trail-dusted, and feeling that soft ache you get when nature reminds you she is grand and ancient and worth every mile it takes to see her.



