October 6, 2025 — Late morning on our Hunt’s Photo Adventure
Don Toothaker, our fearless leader and photographic sage, casually suggested we head to the Upper Falls of the Yellowstone River. The reaction from our group was instant and unanimous—like kids told they could open one Christmas present early. To say we were enthusiastic would be like calling Howard Stern “a bit shy.”
After Don’s trademark gear rundown—lenses, filters, and a brief philosophical note on “finding the flow”—we marched to the overlook, tripods in hand and caffeine in bloodstream.
The Upper Falls is where nature flexes her biceps. The river surges toward the edge, then plummets 109 feet into a roaring cauldron of white water, mist, and thunder. The sheer power of it hits you square in the chest. You feel small, exhilarated, and slightly tempted to double-check your tripod’s stability. The scene is alive—steam rising, spray drifting, light bouncing off canyon walls in surreal hues of gold, rust, and green.
I was in full landscape mode—searching for that composition that could capture both the fury and grace of falling water. The kind of shot that makes people say, “You must have used Photoshop,” and you get to reply smugly, “Nope. Just Yellowstone being Yellowstone.”
And then it happened.
Adam came hustling down the trail, voice urgent but calm—like a National Geographic paramedic.
“There’s a red fox in the meadow!”
Just like that, inner peace gave way to pandemonium.
Tripods folded. Long lenses grabbed. Zen replaced by adrenaline.
By the time I made it down the path, there was already a crowd forming—a respectful but eager audience of fellow photographers, all aiming at the same fiery-orange performer in the field. The fox, of course, couldn’t have cared less. He looked like a seasoned professional who knew exactly how to work his crowd.
In fact, I swear every Yellowstone animal signs an unwritten agreement before entering the park:
Wildlife Disclosure:
By setting paw, hoof, or claw inside Yellowstone National Park, you consent to being observed, photographed, followed, oohed and aahed at, and occasionally chased by photographers who think camouflage means wearing khaki. Proceed at your own risk.
The fox prowled through the grass—ears twitching, eyes locked, body coiled with intent. You could almost feel the tension. Then—launch! A graceful, airborne pounce followed by a triumphant head lift. Lunch! Judging by the tail and dangling feet, the unlucky entrée was a vole.
What began as a serene morning photographing frosted bison, a majestic bald eagle, and a waterfall turned into a front-row seat to the wild’s unscripted drama. That’s Yellowstone for you—one minute, you’re mesmerized by cascading water; the next, you’re cheering for a fox with fast food.
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