A Hunt’s Photo Adventure in Yellowstone National Park with Don Toothaker
Okay, I’ll admit it: sometimes I’m just a little too enthusiastically creative about what I’m seeing. Let’s call it an imaginative overreaction to visual stimuli. Some people see clouds; I see epic sagas, lost civilizations, and occasionally, a penguin on a scooter.
And while I fully accept that my interpretations can seem a little… off the wall, I take comfort in knowing that sometimes—sometimes other people actually agree with me. Granted, those people might also talk to plants, but still—validation is validation.
The Setup
On this particular morning, Don scheduled time for us at Old Faithful, the iconic geyser that has been expelling superheated water and pent-up attitude with near-Swiss precision for over a century.
It’s like nature’s version of the office coffee machine: noisy, punctual, occasionally unpredictable, and inevitably surrounded by people taking pictures.
Now, while everyone else was talking about shutter speeds, vapor density, and “optimal plume geometry” (a phrase I’m fairly certain Don made up), I was starting to drift. Because here’s the thing: once you’ve seen Old Faithful blow its top… you’ve kind of seen it.
The Revelation
But then—something shifted. Maybe it was the angle of the light, maybe it was my lack of caffeine, but suddenly, the billowing steam became… alive.
“I see people,” I whispered, channeling my inner Haley Joel Osment.
At first, the group ignored me. (They’ve learned.) But I couldn’t stop staring. Because right there, in the mist—clear as day—I saw a woman.
Not just any woman. She looked Inuit, wearing a robe-like garment, face turned skyward, one arm raised as if making an offering to the gods. It was ethereal. Sacred. Profound.
I was moved.
Someone behind me said, “George, that’s just a cumulus drift.”
No. This was art.
Seconds later, the form shifted. My noble goddess was gone—replaced by none other than The Grinch, arm outstretched, reaching to snatch a present from Cindy Lou Who.
It was unmistakable. The smirk, the crooked fingers, the holiday malice. I almost expected Max the dog to appear in the runoff pool below.
The Descent Into Madness
From there, it was a free-for-all. I saw Abraham Lincoln, Mother Teresa, and what I swear looked like a bison riding a unicycle. Don says it was a tree branch. Don is wrong.
I began narrating each apparition like an over-caffeinated museum guide.
“Notice the expression of existential despair in this steam cluster—clearly an homage to Rodin’s Thinker.”
I’m not sure how long I talked, but when I came to, half the group had quietly migrated thirty feet down the boardwalk.
Epilogue
By the time Old Faithful’s finale sputtered out, I had a full mental screenplay. “The Steam People: A Geyser’s Tale.” It’s a story of transformation, redemption, and one man’s descent into artistic delusion at 8,000 feet.
I turned to Don and said, “You know, they should hold contests for this. Who sees the best character in the geyser?”
He looked at me, shook his head, and muttered, “George, you already won.”
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