This morning, on the 24th of September 2025, I set out from Livingston with the sun rising gently over the Absaroka Range. The road carried me toward Pine Creek Falls Trailhead, where the crisp autumn air made the mile-long hike feel fresh and invigorating. The trail wound through a forest already turning toward fall, splashes of yellow aspens and russet undergrowth breaking through the evergreen canopy. When I reached the falls, the water tumbled down with a silvery force, framed by rugged rocks darkened by moisture.
I paused there, took a photograph, and allowed the sound of the falling water to settle into me before returning to the car.
As I had left Livingston without much of a breakfast, I lingered at the trailhead to prepare lunch. Eating slowly, with the mountains as a backdrop, I felt the quiet of Montana settle around me. Then I chose not to take the main Highway 89 but instead followed Road 540, which winds more closely along the Yellowstone River. It was the right decision: the road passed through open ranchland and farmland where fields stretched golden under the late September sun.
Farmhouses stood framed by wooden fences, and barns weathered by years of wind and light leaned toward the wide valley. I stopped several times to take pictures, trying to capture the calm dignity of the working landscape.
I arrived at Mammoth Hot Springs around 2:15 in the afternoon. The heat surprised me—the sun pressed down warmly, and the terraces shimmered under its brightness. Wanting to escape the midday crowds, I drove further to the Glacial Boulder Trail, a short walk that led me through meadows glowing in almost-Indian-Summer colours. The grasses were pale gold, dotted with bursts of red and deep orange, while sagebrush carried a dusty silver sheen. I stopped more than once to photograph the way the light settled on the rolling hillsides, softening their outlines against the blue horizon.
From there I continued onto the Blacktail Plateau Drive, a narrower road where wildlife seemed to own the landscape. A small herd of bison moved slowly across the sage flats, their heavy shapes dark against the bright grasses. A large deer startled me as it emerged suddenly from the edge of a grove, and not long after, I caught sight of a stately elk, its antlers lifted high against the backdrop of distant mountains. Each encounter felt like a reminder of Yellowstone’s vastness, where animals and landscapes coexist with a rhythm older than the roads I traveled.
By 5:15 I was back in Mammoth. The air had cooled pleasantly, and many visitors had already left, giving the terraces a quieter, more contemplative atmosphere. I walked among the travertine basins, their strange formations unfolding like a frozen cascade of stone. The colors fascinated me: in some places the terraces gleamed pure white, almost blinding under the last rays of sun, while in others they shifted into soft creams and pale grays. Where the water still flowed, it left streaks of ochre, rust, and a faint green—tones created by the thermophiles thriving in the warm mineral-rich streams.
Pools reflected the sky in deep blues, edged with deposits of chalky white. Some terraces curved like shallow bowls, others rose in sharp steps, and still others spread out in broad fans that looked as though they had been poured and left to harden.
I thought back to my visit ten years ago, in spring, when the terraces had looked entirely different—livelier, with more water running, more steam rising into the cool air. Now, in autumn, they seemed quieter, more subdued, as if preparing for winter. Yet this quieter beauty had its own appeal: the still pools mirrored the evening light, and the dry, sculpted ridges carried the memory of countless years of mineral deposition, shaping the strange, otherworldly landscape.
As the sun lowered, I lingered a while longer, walking the boardwalks in near solitude. The mountains framed the terraces in gentle blue shadows, and the calm of the evening deepened. It was not the vivid, steaming Mammoth I remembered from a decade ago, but it was no less striking. The silence, the colors, and the strange artistry of stone and water became the final impressions of this day’s journey.