October 10, 2025 – Our Hunt’s Photo Adventure with Don Toothaker
There’s something about Yellowstone that refuses to let you leave quietly. You can pack your gear, zip up your jacket, and start walking toward the van, but she’s always got one more surprise up her sleeve.
I was halfway to the van when someone yelled, “Look!”
I turned, and there he was — the black wolf — standing on a ridge, staring straight at me like I owed him money. For a split second, it felt personal. He held the look long enough to say, “Adios, tourist,” before vanishing over the hill. That was our final wolf encounter of the trip, and I remember thinking, I hope that picture isn’t just pixels of blurry fur.
Moments later, someone mentioned “Trumpeter Swans,” and before I knew it, Adam had the van in gear like he’d just heard “free donuts.” Our next stop: Yellowstone Lake — because apparently, Don Toothaker runs this park and had called ahead to make sure the swans were waiting.
And there they were. On cue. Gliding across the lake like they were auditioning for Swan Lake: The National Park Edition.
Now, watching a swan is an exercise in deception. They look so serene on the surface, but you just know under that calm exterior, their feet are paddling like caffeinated hamsters. Grace above, chaos below — a bit like the photographers about to hit the sand.
We piled out of the van and found a perfect spot along the sand. Don, ever the instructor, plopped right down and started fashioning what can only be described as a camera nest. A little mound in front to prop the lens. Screen flipped up for overhead viewing. Driftwood and dried seaweed for structural integrity. I half-expected him to pull out a couple of eggs.
We all joined him — sitting in the sand like obedient ducklings — cameras ready, feet slowly disappearing into Yellowstone grit. Objective: capture the reflection, frame the mountains, and pretend our knees didn’t hurt.
Don’t tell Don, but we actually loved it.
Then came the drama.
A little duck waddled into the swans’ buffet line. I braced for impact. Back in Rhode Island, I’ve seen Mute Swans chase geese halfway across a lake, wings flapping like angry umbrellas. But the Trumpeters? They couldn’t have cared less. They were busy stirring up nutrients from the bottom, creating a floating smorgasbord of duck delicacies. It was a full-on “all-you-can-eat” moment of interspecies harmony.
We spent about an hour watching them glide, preen, and dine. The scene was pure serenity — so calm it felt like nature’s apology for the “circle of life” carnage we’d witnessed earlier that morning. From carnage to choreography in sixty minutes flat.
And that’s Yellowstone for you. One minute you’re watching a wolf vanish into legend, the next you’re photographing swans who couldn’t care less about the circle of life as long as the buffet stays open.
Where else on earth do you get that kind of emotional whiplash?
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