The wildlife sightings are excellent. I spy snow-white coyotes scouring plains for prey and a red squirrel scampering along a path clutching an acorn in its mouth—a Disney-worthy scene that delights me to my core. In Hayden Valley, around 100 bison graze against a backdrop of open plains, steaming plumes from a nearby hot spring rising in the distance. We get stuck in a traffic jam while a group lumbers leisurely across the road; a couple of bald eagles circle overhead.
Amid all the spectacle, there’s fragility. As we drive, swathes of dead pine trees appear. Some have fallen to forest fires, but many are victims of the mountain pine beetle—a virulently invasive insect that’s been thriving due to warmer temperatures linked to climate change, Emma explains. Millions of trees have been lost.
Learning about a global warming-induced scourge of tree-eating beetles was not something I expected today. It’s a stark reminder of how humans can throw off the balance of the ecosystem in unusual ways. I ask if we can intervene in these instances.
The jury is out on how to tackle the beetle issue, Emma says, but human intervention has led to other small victories within the park: Efforts to control invasive lake trout in Yellowstone Lake are helping the native cutthroat trout population, once vastly diminished, flourish again—no lake trout caught can return to the water alive. The park has even added 50 new rangers this year, defying the budget cuts that have plagued other US national parks.
She also shares that recent plans to sell off public land in Montana and Wyoming were scrapped this year after overwhelming pushback from locals. “Everyone was calling and calling their representatives,” she continues. “It was a real example of community spirit.”
Then she shares something I appreciate, pulling out a lodgepole pine cone from the van’s glove box. It’s a serotinous cone, scales closed up limpet-tight. Unlike regular cones, these have evolved to remain sealed until extreme heat from a forest fire triggers them to open. Some lie dormant for decades until it’s time. Life here waits patiently for the right moment to return.
We arrive at Old Faithful in good time for its predicted eruption, so we post up at the quaint Old Faithful Inn for one of its famous huckleberry martinis. I am sorely tempted by a Yellowstone poster in the gift shop. Then we sit and wait. Ten minutes past the predicted go time, I’m feeling that this geyser is not so faithful after all. The crowd gets shifty. Then the torrent shoots upwards, the tension making the payoff all the sweeter.
Back home, I can’t stop thinking about those serotinous cones. Lying on the forest floor, waiting for their moment. Nature adapts, and so can we. We have to do it for the lodgepoles. I can’t call upon my local representative to conserve these particular lands—but the day has been a reminder for me to do my bit where I can. Anything to help stave off the beetle death.
It looks like the West has got me too. If we’re careful, we can ensure these landscapes endure—not just for me and the rest of this season’s five million visitors, but for generations to come.
