Yellowstone in winter
- Richard Plater
- Mar 9, 2017
- 3 min read
Date: 23rd Feb 2017
If you’re an outdoorsy type, then certain names hold a powerful mystique. Those places you’ve seen documented in National Geographic photo-essays or in HD TV documentaries with images that make your jaw drop. Yosemite and Patagonia rank highly on my list, the former I’ve been lucky enough to visit and the latter still on the to do list. Also in my top five is Yellowstone. But Yellowstone away from the summer crowds. Yellowstone in winter.
For our first, and probably only, big trip for 2017 we headed to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for skiing. Right on the doorstep of Yellowstone and in our season of choice. So loath though we were to consider a day out of our ski boots and away from the champagne powder, we decided it would be odd to go all that way, be that close, and not at least take a peek into the national park.
Snow-mobiles with their roaring engines seemed a bit intrusive to us, so we settled instead for a tour via snow coach. A sort of jacked-up minibus on monster truck tyres. Perhaps not that green, but we didn’t have the time to invest in more human powered forms of transport. That will have to wait for next time, especially now we’ve heard enticing tales of hidden thermal bathing pools only accessible for those in the know and on Nordic skis.
We followed the Snake River in from the southern entrance to the park and then the Lewis River gorge for a good distance. Beside the track a mixture of fire-blackened trees and pale barked Aspens sat in chest-high drifts of untroden snow lending a monochrome quality to the views. Occasionally lines of sight opened up into twisting side valleys leading the eye up to that last tantalising bend in the creek bed and the promise of true wilderness beyond.
As we climbed further into the central plateau of the park, the temperature dropped, and the air took on a pristine crystal quality. We left the trees as we entered the wide Firehole River basin. Ghostly wisps of hanging steam began to drift across our gaze, evidence of the numerous thermal pools and geysers dotted about.
My big ambition was to see some buffalo, their mammoth spiky haired heads pushing aside feet of snow to find some grazing. The buffalo, it turns out, are not that hard to spot. Especially given that they’ve learnt that the compacted snow of the prepared roads offer the easiest routes from A to B. Several times our bus had to give way to a plodding troop of buffalo on the march. In the Midway Geyser Basin, a large bull buffalo sat content and dozing less than 10m from the road. It seems they know they’re in charge.
By this time we’d crossed the continental divide three times, hopping back and forth between snow fields destined to drain into the Atlantic and the Pacific once the big melt sets in. That sense of sitting at the very crest of the continental land mass was quite awe-inspiring in a subtle kind of way.
We took a tour on foot around the Paint Pots, a curious mix of different coloured mineral laced hot pools, glooping and bubbling mud holes, and geysers. Occasionally low angled rays of sun cut through the clouds to set the waters alight with shimmering reflections and prismatic patterns of diffracted light.
As we turned tail to start the journey back out of the park, a lone coyote broke from the roadside brush, trotted casually across the road, and was gone from sight within seconds. Another thrilling moment of wildlife wonder.
It was just a taste. We’ll have to come back and stay a night or two in the park next time. Get a bit off the road network and try to move a bit more quietly under our own steam. We’d seen enough to know that would be quite a journey. Maybe next time we'll meet some wolves!
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