Yellowstone: Living Close to the Wild Edge
We moved to Montana! Specifically, the north entrance to Yellowstone National Park! Since June, I’ve been coming back and forth from Utah as we settle into this beautiful land. Here are some of my thoughts and what the land is teaching me.
July 15, 2025
Driving back from Livingston, I spotted an owl perched on top of a light pole, ears pointed up, eyes pointed down, judging us mere mortals as we passed in our cars and pickups. It looked like a sentinel—descendant of a regal line—taught by its ancestors to observe humankind from a lofty perch.
I’ve never seen an owl during the day before; I’ve honestly only seen an owl maybe once more, at night. The moment made me feel honored. Montana already feels different.
In a world increasingly dominated by noise and haste, a single wild moment—a creature watching me back—reminds me that I am not separate from the natural world, but deeply entwined with it.
July 19, 2025
The evergreen boughs sway slightly in the breeze, their rhythm unhurried. A shaft of sunlight beams through, illuminating their needles like green, stained glass. There is healing in that light—subtle and persistent.
As I watch the wind ripple through the trees, I’m reminded how many of nature’s patterns remain unbroken, even as human ones fray. The planet, despite what we’ve done to it, continues its quiet acts of beauty, inviting us to slow down, to listen.
July 22, 2025
The chilly mornings here are soothing to my heart and soul - no dry, hot Utah desert to scorch my face. Life near Yellowstone is busy and bustling—tourists arriving with their plans and maps—but it quiets down by 10 o’clock. Then, the town exhales.
Earlier, in the park, across a meadow, a herd of buffalo grazed. The peace from watching even that is tangible. My skin feels softer. My hair—faded over the years from copper penny red to auburn—seems to catch the light differently. My breathing is deeper. My mind, calmer.
Maybe Yellowstone is healing me. Maybe it’s teaching me how to live in alignment with the land again.
I watch the families driving through the park on their once-in-a-lifetime trips—happy, stressed, slightly lost. I smile. This place draws us all in, not just with its beauty, but with its energy. There is something different about living in a transient town at the edge of a great wilderness. I’m constantly reminded that time is fleeting and nature is permanent.
***
July 22, 25, cont.
At night, when the town quiets down and the traffic slows to a murmur, I sit by an open window. Cool Montana mountain air rushes in, brushing my skin, lifting my hair. Occasionally, the sound of a child’s laughter filters through, light and unexpected.
There’s something about that sound—joy rising up in the midst of stillness—that reminds me how much I needed this place. The quiet. The space. The trees that don’t ask anything of me. I’ve lived too long in cities, with their constant pressure to be doing, producing, achieving. Here, I’m simply being—and it feels revolutionary.
The mountain air doesn’t just soothe. It restores. It reminds me that my nervous system was not designed for 24/7 notifications and five-lane traffic. It was meant for wind in the pines, the rustle of wildlife in the brush, the surprise of an owl in daylight.
This isn’t just about escape. It’s about return. Returning to the natural rhythms of things. Letting the days lengthen and the noise soften until the small-town life becomes familiar and, eventually, normal again.
A Town on the Edge
Living in a gateway town like this is a curious experience. It’s part real life, part liminal space. I watch the people coming through the park on their family vacations, chasing a once-in-a-lifetime memory. Some look exhilarated, others tired and cranky, with children trailing behind. It’s easy to tell who’s been camping and who’s been stuck in the car too long. Still, there’s a collective excitement humming in the air.
For me, the magic isn’t just in the dramatic views or the famous geysers. It’s in the energy of transience itself. There’s a pulse here—people moving through, wildlife crossing, rivers always rushing somewhere. It’s a place that teaches you the art of presence, because nothing lingers for long.
This transient nature doesn’t bother me. In fact, it brings a strange kind of comfort. Everyone is passing through something—grief, change, healing, growth. This town, like the park it borders, holds space for all of it.
A Final Reflection: The Earth Is Still Speaking
What Yellowstone teaches me most is that the earth is still speaking. In the rustle of grasses. In the rush and roar of erupting geysers. In the gaze of wild creatures who ask for nothing but space. The problem is never that nature has gone quiet—it’s that we have stopped listening.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if more people spent time watching trees instead of screens (myself included). If we measured our success by our stillness, not our speed. If we let places like this remind us how to be gentle again.
You don’t have to move to Montana to experience this (and I realize how lucky I am to be here). Even in a city park, a walk by the river, a moment spent noticing the clouds—these are acts of rewilding. Not just of land, but of self.
Maybe that’s what the owl was trying to say as it looked down from its perch: Slow down. Pay attention. You’re missing it.
Author’s Note:
If you’ve ever found healing in nature, I’d love to hear about it. Leave a comment below or share your own reflections. And if you’re planning a visit to Yellowstone, consider stepping off the beaten path (just bring bear spray). Wander a little slower. Breathe a little deeper. You might find what you didn’t even know you were missing.
