Last May, I moved to Yellowstone National Park.

I had just birthed a baby and finished a Ph.D. in an epic one-two punch, when my husband was offered a six-month long seasonal job with the National Park Service. We wanted to get out of the college town we’d been haunting, and I wanted to stay home with Lydia, so we went.

It was beautiful. It was isolated. It was intense.

We woke to elk bucks tapping on our bedroom window and carried bear spray to walk to the car. We watched geysers spray, heard tourists clamor and felt bison stampede. I struggled to make peace with motherhood, recover from a grueling decade of academia and find a way to still be a writer. We watched our baby grow, loved the landscape and did a lot of hiking.

That August, we ascended Purple Mountain, traveling three miles each way and climbing 1,500 feet. The hike was intense, moving steadily uphill, and the view overlooking the Gibbon River Valley was breathtaking.

When we had reached the top of the mountain, but before the end of the trail, we decided to stop and have a snack. The sky had oscillated from sunny to cloudy throughout the day, but as we ate our granola bars (and Lydia attempted to eat pine needles and dirt), the air cooled and the clouds grew dark. Rather than complete the final quarter mile around the crest, we decided it was prudent to turn back. We had pushed our bodies by scaling this mountain; we didn’t want to push our luck.

Not long after we started our descent, the wind gained speed, a heavy rain progressed to a downpour, and the thunder began to roll. We were prepared for rainfall, but this thunderstorm was both terrifying and exhilarating.

It was the first moment I believed that I lived in Yellowstone. I felt christened by the storm.

But, of course, we were worried about the baby. Her backpack had an excellent rain shield and she was wearing warm clothes and a rain jacket, but there was no way to prevent cold water and harsh wind from whipping against her face. Being struck by lighting was also a concern, so we were hauling ass down the side of this mountain. It took three hours to go up; only one to come down.

So many thoughts were racing through my mind. I was awestruck by the brilliance of the green things opening their pores and swallowing the storm. I was in love with our gear: our rugged boots gripping the soft dirt; our raincoats keeping us dry; Lydia in the backpack along for the ride. I could imagine myself telling her this story someday. I saw this experience toughening her on a subconscious level. I would call forward to her, and say, “You’re a tough baby, Lydia. You’ve got grit.”

I thought about the scene in Wild (the film, not the book) when Cheryl is walking calmly through the rain. I thought about Amanda in Another Roadside Attraction (the book, not the film) and the way the rain had no effect on her. I saw evidence of trail maintenance and thought about my friend Kelso—that powerhouse of a woman—and about how (when working for Montana Trail Crew) she had to evacuate her camp because of a fire. She trekked nine miles at full speed, carrying two backpacks and a chainsaw. And chainsaws always make me think of my sculptor friend, Charlotte, so I thought about them too.

I thought about gravity, about how it’s easier to travel downhill, but more dangerous, and more difficult on the joints. I thought about switchbacks, about how adding distance decreases the grade, and this back-and-forthness reminded me of sewing, which reminds me of my grandmother.

I’m not as fast as Rafal. I couldn’t match his pace, so the whole way down I would fall behind and then run, fall behind and then run. My upper body was protected, but my soaking wet thighs felt like ice. I was overcome with adventurous pleasure, so excited to write all this down, but again, I was worried about the baby.

And I allowed myself to have both.

I said to myself: it’s okay for you to enjoy this, even if they don’t. You may as well race down this mountain with a smile.

On that treacherous mountain, I found a deep sense of balance. There was enough space in me for both worry for my daughter and joy for myself. I could be both a mother and a writer, both devout and free. Next to my overwhelming love for Lydia, I found a pocket of space for myself.

The risk of lightning had pretty much passed, and we would dry off when we got to the car. Nothing else to be done. So I grinned at the sheer ridiculousness of it all and delighted in the adventure.

We live in Yellowstone, I thought again. This is our life.

Back at the car, damp shivers melted into fresh warm clothes, furrowed brows into soft faces, hungry bellies into satisfied sighs. We started the car and set off toward home, though in some ways, we were already there.

 

Author: Nico Wood Kos

Image: martinak15/Flickr

Editor: Nicole Cameron