Back in the car, I noticed white clouds low in the sky. Smoke? It took a few seconds to realize that this must be the thermal areas coming up ahead, steam mixing with the cold air to create these low clouds slowly shifting shapes in the air. 

I had Old Faithful almost to myself that morning, a benefit of traveling close to winter and being an early riser. The heat from the earth mixed and mingled with warmth from the sun, which had now risen completely. I was content - a far cry from my frozen toes and fingers only an hour earlier. A lone bison grazed near the geysers, ignoring the "do not enter - fragile thermal areas" signs all around. I strolled around the boardwalks, making my way from boiling pool to steaming geyser, observing quietly this wonder of the earth. 

I made my way to the trails, and decided to start with Observation Peak, a short 0.8 mile hike with a vista of the thermal areas. A man passed by, warning me that there was a bison on the trail ahead. I cautiously continued on and saw that the bison had bedded down a few hundred yards off the trail. Quietly, carefully, I made my way around him and continued up the trail. 

The day was clear, revealing steam from geysers in the valley below me. For the first time since entering the state of Wyoming, I saw that I had cell service. I responded to a few text messages and emails and shared photos with Ben and some girlfriends. After 2 days with little human interaction, it felt nice to be connected to others, in this small way.

Hiking was making me acutely aware of the altitude. I had camped that night at 7,800 feet above sea level, and Old Faithful is at 7,349, a far cry from the 830 foot-elevation in Minneapolis. I was feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Rather than continue on to a longer hike, I walked back to the car, drank close to a gallon of water, and headed towards Grand Teton National Park. 

Immediately after crossing the border between Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons, I saw evidence of the very recent fire that had kept the road I was driving on closed on and off for many of the previous weeks. In Yellowstone, the trees in areas where fires had passed through were dead, stick straight, leaf-less and brown in color. New seedlings were beginning to grow beneath their towering neighbors. Unlike Yellowstone, the landscape was black in the Tetons, ground and trees, no evidence of any living things. It was eerie and beautiful, proof that nature will run its course no matter how we may try to control it.

After passing through that initial fire-ravaged area, I turned a bend and my first view of the mountains was nothing short of breathtaking. I literally gasped out loud and pulled over as quickly as I could to step outside and soak in the view. I took photos of the vibrant gold colors of fall with the lake and mountains beyond, accompanied by a busload of Asian tourists (which would become the norm as I continued on my journey, from state to state). It was, at that moment, the most beautiful part of the country I had ever seen.

That day I stopped many times, struggling with how to balance the desire to fully appreciate the view and the desire to take photos of the scenes before me. When the rear view mirror cannot even begin to capture the view behind you, you know you are in the presence of grandeur. This defined my entire day.

I was never alone at any of my stops, always joined by many other tourists. I quickly began to wish I had taken more time here to backpack deep into the park. Beauty such as this feels meditative in nature, like it needs to be savored, yet this was difficult when I was surrounded by people taking pictures with silly poses ("Jump!" "Now stand on one foot and put your arms out!"). I realized I had broken my several-week meditation streak (though one could argue that I had been meditating for hours every day as I drove in silence, completely present and appreciating the moment I was in), and knew this would be a perfect place to re-start the practice.

Driving along, I sought a place that felt appropriate for quiet contemplation. I found it on the shore along Jackson Lake Dam. While there were others exploring the area, it was much quieter, with far fewer visitors than my other stops. I sat on a rock, set my timer and closed my eyes. 

Peace. Calming quiet, the soft breeze and gentle lapping of the lake. When my eyes fluttered open, I felt refreshed and newly inspired. The pictures below capture the moment immediately after this meditation, and the full view around me. How could I not feel centered when meditating before such magnificence?

Driving through the rest of the park, I felt overwhelmed by its beauty time and time again. Gratitude for this opportunity, for the journey, for the views before me once again overwhelmed me. When I left the park, I made a promise to return in the near future. These parks deserved a week or two, backpacking and backcountry camping, fully exploring their inner depths, and I had only experienced them for a day.

At the base of the Tetons, I spent an hour in a coffee shop in Jackson Hole, catching up on emails, searching for a campground for the night that would get me a little farther West, and waiting to meet a good friend and his wife for dinner. This little town felt like a set from a Western film, most appropriate for tourist photos and shopping for trinkets. I found the real community when I explored a little further, watching high school students at their lacrosse practice, parents waiting around the perimeter of the field, sharing counter space at Cowboy Coffee with locals working on their laptops.

I met my friend and his wife, who I was meeting for the first time, at Cafe Genevieve for a delicious dinner and wonderful conversation. I watched this couple, who have been together since high school and built a beautiful life together, interact, all the while feeling like I was catching a glimpse of my future. So many years together and still so happy, loving, with gentle teasing and so much joy. Could Ben and I maintain this kind of relationship, even if we don't have the three kids as part of the equation? I think so. In fact, I know so.

After an amazing meal with great company I continued on, driving over Teton Pass in the dark (making a mental note to return someday soon so I could see the view during the day). My eyes were peeled for deer, but I saw none as I made my way to Juniper Campground in Ririe, Idaho to set up camp. I missed the first presidential debate that night. Somehow I doubt that looking back on that day, I will regret choosing to be having dinner with friends in Jackson Hole, WY and driving into Idaho instead of watching the painful debate between the historic, unprecedented candidates.

On the road that night it struck me how little our day-to-day lives really matter in the grand scheme of things. This wasn't a depressing thought, but rather a reminder of how large this world is, and that there are forces at work so much greater than us. We live our lives in a way that feels right to us, but compared to these mountains in Wyoming, our lives don't even register. This was a comfort, somehow. Reminding me that whatever we decide regarding growing our family will be a tiny speck compared to the grandeur of this world. I wrote in my journal that night "I'm not sure what I want for a next step, but do know that I want more of this. Three days in and I already feel my soul opening up."