Grand Prismatic +

As I made my way up the mountain behind Grand Prismatic, the air grew thinner, and the scent of pine mingled with the remnants of fire-scorched earth. Each step brought me closer to a viewpoint where nature’s resilience could be witnessed firsthand. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden rays through the last standing trees—silent sentinels that had somehow have not fallen since being scorched in the Yellowstone fire.

I reached a clearing and perched myself atop a pile of fallen trees, their bark charred but still proud in their decay. From this vantage point, the landscape unfolded below me. The vivid colors of Grand Prismatic danced in the distance, a stark contrast to the blackened trunks that surrounded me. Smoke had long since settled, but the echoes of the fire lingered, a reminder of nature's raw power.

I took a moment to absorb the beauty of rebirth amidst the destruction. New sprouts peeked through the trunks, and the sounds of recovery filled the air. It was a scene both haunting and hopeful, a testament to the cycle of life in this rugged wilderness. Each element told a story— of renewal, of a landscape that would rise again.