by Mandi Lynn
“Hey, you okay?”
Someone touches my shoulder, and I feel something, maybe the last of my dignity, snap out of place. I fall apart at the contact. All I’m aware of is that I can feel myself falling to the ground, hiding my face in my hands as I curl into a ball. I know there’s someone watching me, making the event all the worse, but I can’t hold anything back.
It seems stupid to care about people watching, but I do. I care too much.
“I’m sorry,” I say between gasping breaths. I can hear other voices around me.
“You okay, sweetie?” The voice of a woman is all I can make out.
“Maybe she’s having an allergic reaction?” Another voice this time. A man’s voice, closer.
I try to shut the voices away and pull myself out of the spell. I just need to breathe. It isn’t until a few minutes have passed, and I’ve counted thirty seconds, that I let my muscles relax and uncurl myself. When I look up, I see the father of the family kneeling beside me with the mother close behind him, two kids clutching at her legs, confused.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. I barely hear myself, but the man seems to relax a little. I cower into myself when I become aware of sitting on the ground, these strangers hovering close to me. I can feel my skin redden in embarrassment, and I shuffle to pick myself off the ground.
“Are you camping here tonight? Do you want me to walk you back to your site, or call someone?” he says, his eyes scanning me to see if I’m injured at all.
“No, I’ll be okay. I’m sorry.” I look up at the sky, and it’s turning orange now. I should have left sooner before I ruined their night.
“Which site are you?” the woman asks, watching me like she’s waiting for me to break down again.
“B20,” I tell her. “It’s not too far.” It’s one of the first campsites at the start of this trail, which feels like a blessing now.
“Honey, why don’t you stay with the kids? I’ll walk with her back to her campsite,” the woman says to her husband, taking a step forward.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“I need to get a few more steps in today on my Fitbit anyways. Me and my friends have a bit of a competition going on right now,” she says, pointing to her watch and giving me a wink.
I give in and let her walk with me back down the trail. It’s already dark in the trees, and while she’s a perfect stranger, I’m thankful for her company.
“You staying here alone?” she asks, concern lacing her words as we walk.
“For now, but I’m meeting up with a friend in a couple days.”
“That will be fun,” she says. “Camping is more fun the more people you have. I thought camping would become too much of a hassle once we had kids, but it brought it back to life in a whole new way. Plus they love meeting new people when we’re hiking. They stop to say hello to almost everyone, especially the people who hike with dogs.”
“I’m really sorry about tonight,” I say, keeping my face down to watch my steps.
“Nothing to be sorry about. I know a panic attack when I see one. I used to get them all the time in college. Still do every now and then, but I’ve learned to manage them.” She shrugs.
“What’s the secret behind that?” I ask.
“Besides learning whatever it is that triggers them and how to face that without breaking down? Learning to breathe,” the woman says, her voice light.
We’re almost back to the campsite now, and the bus is in sight, reflecting the glow from a neighboring campfire.
“Just don’t underestimate the kindness of strangers. If you need help, don’t be afraid to ask,” the woman says. She laughs a little as she sees my campsite and realizes the VW bus belongs to me. “Is that a camper?”
“Yeah, but my uncle is the one who deserves the credit,” I tell her.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, staring at it. And it’s true. Nestled amongst the trees, everything glows orange with the last of the sun going down, and the campfire makes everything spark back to life. The bus looks like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be.
I step away, and the woman lags behind. “If you need anything, we’re in site A34. Good luck!”
She gives a quick wave and walks back up the trail to her family. Just like that, I’m alone again.
Chapter 9
Waking up the next morning and realizing what happened makes things even worse. I had gone to bed almost as soon as I got back to the bus. Anxiety works in waves for me, and often those waves are crushing. It feels like I don’t have any control over my body, and usually the easiest thing is to give in and sleep.
The next morning is rough. I wish I could say I only remembered bits and pieces, but the details of each moment are engrained into my brain. All I can see are the faces of those strangers staring at me, concern written all over their faces. What I am thankful for is the fact that I need to check out of my campsite today and start my drive to Yellowstone.
Packing up is easy and checking out is as simple as going to the front office building and telling them I’m leaving. The drive to Yellowstone takes about seven and a half hours, but it feels much shorter than that. The views are spectacular the entire way, with unfamiliar mountain ranges off in the distance.
I pick up Lori at the airport the next day, and when I find her standing on the sidewalk, she’s scrolling through her phone, probably about to call me. I’m still a few cars down, but I see Lori a microsecond before she spots me. And I know for sure when she notices me because she starts jumping up and down the exact moment her eyes land on the bus. In fact, rather than wait for traffic to clear enough for me to pull up next to her, she cuts off a bunch of the cars sitting in traffic to get to me.
“Marly!” she’s practically shouting when she opens the door. The suitcase she brought is huge, and she throws it into the back of the bus, taking up the last remainder of floor space. I cross my fingers that it will fit in the front seat for storage at night when we need the bed.
“Oh my God, this is so cute! Even better in person!” Lori says, buckling her seat belt as she talks. She twists to look behind her at the bus interior, taking in every inch.
Traffic starts to move, and I pull forward and maneuver around the cars pulled off to the side so we can get out of the airport. We’re back on the road in just a few seconds and on our way to the campground I reserved for us.
“How was Washington? Did you do more hiking Tuesday?” Lori asks.
“I went for a walk, but that’s it, really.” And had a panic attack in front of strangers, but no need to divulge that.
“That’s it?” She raises her eyebrow in suspicion. “It’s Washington. Didn’t you have a bunch of places you wanted to go to on your hiking bucket list?”
The bucket list is a lot less formal than it sounds. Every time I discovered a hike with a gorgeous view, I did some research to get details about how hard the trail was based on the terrain. The idea of the notebook was that whenever I was on vacation, I could look through it to see if there were any hikes in the area on my bucket list. Truthfully, I’d forgotten about it. I had stopped adding entries to it after my parents died, not because I stopped finding hikes on the internet, but because the motivation to do the hikes was non-existent.
“There weren’t any near the campground,” I say, though I never checked. Maybe there weren’t any of the hikes I had put on my list, but I’m certain if I really wanted to, I could have found something.
“Marly! The whole point of that notebook is to eventually do those hikes! And the whole point of this trip is to have an excuse to travel.”
I give her a side-eye. “You know it’s not that simple.”
“Oh yes, it is. You’re the only one making it complicated.” Lori unbuckles and kneels on her seat, reaching into the back.
“What are you doing?” I say as s
he fishes for her suitcase.
“I brought you a few things from home.” I hear her suitcase unzip and she reaches farther back. Her entire upper half is in the back of the bus now and she tugs on something before it breaks free. Lori sits forward again, but this time she’s holding my notebook. It’s an old one that has seen better days. The pages are tattered, the cover is mostly destroyed, and I’ve spilled so many drinks on the paper that the edges are curling up, making it look ten times thicker than it is. It’s a tattered mess and barely qualifies as a notebook.
“Lori, I’m ninety-nine percent sure I had that stuffed away in one of my drawers,” I tell her, not sure if I’m appalled or impressed that she found it.
“Okay, let me admit something,” she says, flipping through the pages. The entries aren’t organized in any fashion because I just wrote things down as I found them, but I can see that she has pages marked off with sticky notes and color-coded. Never a good sign when Lori breaks out the sticky notes.
“I’m not here to visit Yellowstone,” Lori says. “I mean, yes, I see it as an added perk to get to enjoy the views while I’m here, but I’m mostly here because you obviously need an intervention, and here’s why.” She flips to a page with a pink sticky note. She holds up the page to me, which has a photo of a massive waterfall surrounded by stone and trees.
“Snoqualmie,” I say, recognizing it almost instantly. It’s a 269-foot waterfall in Washington that I went to with my parents when I was little, but we never hiked it. My parents always took me to the viewing platform rather than the hiking trails surrounding it—one of those trails I wanted to hike, at least according to my notebook.
“And tell me why you didn’t hike it? This is in Seattle. You literally flew in from Seattle. How could you not hike it?” Lori asks.
“I was visiting family when I was in the Seattle area, you know that.”
Lori flips a few more pages, skimming through them as she speaks. “All I’m saying is that I’ve got at least five more hikes in this notebook that are all in Washington, and you only did Mount Rainier. And it wasn’t even your idea! Ethan dragged you into it.”
“And I’m glad he did,” I say, because that at least is true.
“Then why not do more? You know it would make you happy.”
I let out a deep breath. “Because my dad was supposed to go on the hikes with me. He added just as many trails into that notebook as me.”
My response makes Lori stop. I’m not sure if it’s what I said or the fact that between the two of us, I’m never the one to bring up my parents’ deaths. My words stop any response from Lori, and we both sit in silence for too long, watching the scenery as we drive.
“Do you have anything planned today?” Lori asks.
“No. I got here late last night and didn’t have a chance to look anything up yet.” I glance over and Lori’s leafing through the notebook, the pages falling open to anything labeled with a yellow sticky note. “Let’s just drive around until we find something,” I say.
Lori looks up at me and smiles, closing the notebook, but leaving it in her lap in case she needs it. While I haven’t added pages to that notebook since my parents died, I had the Yellowstone pages partially memorized. About two years ago, my dad and I tried to plan a trip and started picking out our hikes and figuring out all the must-see places. The trip was canceled when he couldn’t get the time off from work, but he promised we’d check off those hikes one day. So while I haven’t looked at the notebook in months, I know we’ll drive by some of the best spots by taking Highway 89.
The Grand Prismatic Spring is the first stop. It’s one of the largest hot springs in the United States, and when we walk up to it, it’s hard to process just how large it is. It stretches out as far as we can see. A wooden walkway allows us to step closer to the edge of the water, close enough to feel the heat coming off of it. Toward the edges, the water turns a burnt orange and red color, giving it a stark contrast.
I’m staring at the blue-and green-tinged center of the spring as Lori reads a sign close by.
“Apparently the center of the hot springs is so hot that it sterilizes the water, which is why it’s so clear.” She watches the steam as it comes off the water, making it impossible to see to the other side. “Wonder if anyone ever tries to throw their ex in,” Lori mumbles quietly, and I can’t help but laugh, wondering how many times that joke has been made.
We find a hiking trail about a mile long that takes us up to a better viewing point of the entire spring, making the size more impressive and allowing us to see the full diameter and rainbow of color.
After the spring, we jump back in the bus until we drive up to Old Faithful. The parking lot is packed, and while I can’t see Old Faithful, a large crowd is gathered around a fenced area, giving us a direction.
“How often does it erupt?” Lori asks as she shuts the bus door.
“No clue, but there’s a crowd, so I assume it must be ready to blow soon,” I say, reaching into the back of the bus to grab my camera.
Lori runs to the crowd while I catch up, camera hanging by my side. I adjust the settings as I walk, trying to make sure I don’t miss the big moment. Lori taps a woman on her shoulder. “Excuse me, but do you know when it will erupt?” Lori says.
The woman shrugs, holding her camera up at the ready. “I’ve been here for over an hour, and from what I can tell, everyone thinks it will go off in another couple minutes. I got here right as it finished going off the last time, so my timing couldn’t have been worse.” She shakes her head.
“Thank you!” Lori says before coming up to meet me.
We walk around to find a good spot to stand, watching Old Faithful as nothing but steam comes out. We’re only there for about five minutes before we see it burst. It starts slowly at first, with water only going a foot or two high in the air.
“That’s it?” a little boy says a few feet away.
A parent shushes him. “Give it a second.”
As if on cue, it kicks in.
The water is thrown into the sky much, much higher until it reaches what must be at least one hundred feet. It goes on, continuing to erupt for about a minute or two while everyone around us takes photos and video, with murmurs of oohs and ahs as we watch.
I snap as many photos as possible until the water calms down. Just as fast as the water appeared, it disappears back into the ground, as if it were never there in the first place.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about, Mother Nature,” Lori says, stopping the video she had been taking on her phone.
People scatter back to their cars, while another handful make their way over to the hotel and information center in the same parking lot. Lori walks that direction, but I grab her arm.
“What?” she asks.
I point over to a sign in front of a few walking trails that go off in the opposite direction of the crowd. “Want to take a hike?” I ask. The trail sign is vague, but I figure worst-case scenario, we get a chance to stretch our legs before getting back in the bus to drive around.
The walk ends up being our favorite part of the day as we stumble upon a few other picture-worthy spots that aren’t littered with crowds of people. There are dozens of colorful springs along the trail, and we feel like we’ve hit the jackpot. Most people who watch Old Faithful have no idea this trail is a treasure trove of smaller wonders to see. We wander around on the path until I pull up a map on my phone that has the trail labeled.
“At what point do you want to turn around? This trail seems to go on forever,” I say, scrolling farther on the map.
Lori takes the phone from my hand and examines the map. “How about Morning Glory? I think I saw that on a website somewhere as a good place to visit when you’re in Yellowstone.”
It’s obvious why it was recommended when we reach the hot spring. All the other stops along the way were beautiful, but mostly col
ors of gray, red, and blue with lots of steam blocking the view. Morning Glory is a beautiful array of colors similar to the Grand Prismatic Spring, but it’s much smaller. And a giant hole. According to the plaque we find, it’s technically called Morning Glory Hole. Upon that realization, Lori breaks into a long list of bad jokes that I try to ignore, but end up laughing at anyway.
I stand a few feet from the edge, admiring it from a distance in a way I hadn’t for all the other springs we’ve encountered. Mostly because the other springs didn’t seem so terrifyingly deep.
To put it simply, it’s a giant hole in the ground full of water, but the water is so still and so clear that you can see every little detail. Except for the fact that you can’t see where it ends because it’s a bottomless pit waiting to drag you under.
As the type of person who hates swimming in deep water for fear of some large creature coming out of the depths to kill me, I don’t recommend good old Morning Glory Hole.
Despite the terrifying nature, the colors are gorgeous, as if it’s trying to allure its prey into the depths. The edges of the spring aren’t deep, with shallow beautiful yellowy-green water, but as you get closer to the center, it turns to teal and then finally a deep blue. And I mean deep in every sense of the word.
“You good?” Lori says, laughing at me. I hadn’t realized it, but while she was standing at the edge, leaning over to get a better view, I was slowly pacing away.
“Yeah, just didn’t expect the water to be so…clear.” I look closer at the center. “Or deep.”
“Look,” Lori says, pointing to a sign. “According to this, the hole gets narrower and narrower, and it’s clogged with rocks, coins, and whatever else people decide to throw in.” I cock my head to the side, looking at the sign, which is a drawing of what geologists think the hole looks like from a side-view. “Honestly, it kinda looks like those charts that you see at the doctor’s office of your ear canal.” She snickers at her joke as she points.