Yellowstone

I flew into Jackson Hole, the air crisp with mountain silence, and drove beneath the towering spires of the Grand Tetons — a prelude to the obscene beauty that awaited. In the company of a school friend, I found myself stepping into a world that felt ancient, restless, and alive.

Yellowstone is no ordinary landscape; it is the earth laid bare, its pulse visible in the steaming vents and geysers that break the surface with primal force. The Old Faithful geyser rose in its timeless rhythm, while nearby, pools of impossible beauty shimmered in hues too bold to believe — aquamarine, amber, emerald, and surreal, in painterly brilliance. It was as though nature had borrowed an artist’s palette and spilled it across the earth.

Amid the geothermal wonder, the land was alive with its own guardians: bison, vast and unyielding, moving with a presence that felt both prehistoric and eternal. To stand before them was to feel the scale of wilderness — humbling, raw, undeniable.

This journey, my first encounter with America’s national parks, was not just travel but revelation: a reminder that the planet still keeps secrets, still breathes with fire and colour, still holds spaces where the wild is sovereign.