Our first stop was the hot springs area, just a few hundred yards from the lodge. Like many areas of Yellowstone, the ground at Mammoth can crumble away beneath you without warning, plunging you into a scalding hot spring bath. Boardwalks have been built throughout the area to protect visitors; it’s definitely not the place to wander off the trail, so I again kept to the path religiously, winding my way to the top of a ridge through a stand of fir trees. When I stepped out of the trees, I wasn’t in Wyoming anymore. I was on Venus.
Limestone layers like alabaster terraces descended in succession down the rise, as if a cavern had surged out the earth and into the light of day. Within each layer, a shallow pool of vaporous fluid ebbed into the next pool below, step by delicate calcified step all the way down the ridge.
The hot springs at Mammoth are not simply pools of hot water. The volcanically heated water boils up from deep underground through limestone deposits, remnants of shallow seas that covered much of the western continent a hundred million years ago. The acidic water dissolves and collects limestone and minerals on the way up, then bubbles out through tiny openings in the top of the ridge.
As the water flows down the hill, it cools and deposits the limestone on the way. Algae in the pools tint the travertine, forming the remarkable spectacle visible today. Each pool displayed its own pastel palette over the gleaming white limestone.
I tried taking a few photographs, though I was sure that no picture of mine could capture the subtle tinctures and unworldly architecture. Often on my journey, I wished for a better camera, anything that might help me recall the splendor and wonder of these experiences. But a better camera might have been more distraction than enhancement. Eyes and memory are the best camera. I enjoy the photographs I took, but treasure the memories more.
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