This morning, 26th September 2025, I woke up at the Madison Campground after a cold night that had settled deep into my bones. The air was crisp when I stepped outside, the kind of sharp mountain air that instantly clears the head. From there, I drove toward the Midway Geyser Basin, determined to finally see the Grand Prismatic Spring with my own eyes. As I approached, a line of cars stretched endlessly toward the parking lot, so I chose to leave my car along the roadside and continued on foot. The decision turned out to be a gift, because walking in allowed me to absorb the landscape slowly, step by step, until the steam of the geysers began to roll across the boardwalks like shifting curtains.
The first thing I passed was the Excelsior Geyser Crater, a vast turquoise pool that once was one of the most powerful geysers in the park. Today, it no longer erupts with its former violence but instead releases a steady stream of boiling water into the Firehole River.
The entire crater seemed cloaked in thick, white steam that rose in heavy veils, hiding much of the pool from view. Through fleeting openings in the haze, I caught glimpses of deep, glowing blue—an almost otherworldly color that seemed to come from the heart of the earth itself. It felt as though the pool were keeping its beauty half-veiled, a secret shared only in passing moments when the wind lifted the curtain of vapor.
And then came the Grand Prismatic Spring itself. I had seen photographs before, but nothing prepared me for the way the colors unfolded in reality. From the center, the spring glowed in the purest, deepest blue, so intense that it seemed almost impossible for water to hold such a shade. Around this deep blue core lay a ring of lighter turquoise that shimmered under the sun, transitioning outward into bands of brilliant green,
then into blazing yellows and fiery oranges. At the very edges, where the mineral-rich runoff spread across the ground, the colors deepened into rusty reds and earthy browns. The palette seemed alive, shifting slightly as the steam drifted across the surface, sometimes softening, sometimes sharpening the contrasts.
The shapes of these bands were perfectly circular, like the iris of a giant eye gazing up from beneath the earth. Even the area surrounding the pool carried its own magic, as the runoff created streaks of color across the barren ground, painting it in flowing patterns.
I took photo after photo, unable to stop, as if capturing these colors on camera could preserve the sensation of standing there in their presence. Yet I knew that no picture could ever give me the full view—the spring is simply too vast, and only from high above could one truly see the entire circle. A drone might do it, but here in Yellowstone they are forbidden, so I contented myself with these close, breathtaking glimpses.
Not far away, the Opal Pool revealed itself with a gentler beauty. Its water shone with soft tones, shifting between clear blue and a milky opalescence that gave it a delicate, almost glasslike character.
Nearby, the Turquoise Pool lived up to its name: a jewel-like basin glowing with a blue-green hue, bright and welcoming. Compared to the fiery drama of the Grand Prismatic Spring, these smaller pools felt calm and intimate, like precious stones scattered around the basin. Together, they formed a world of colors and textures that seemed to belong more to a dream than to earth.
By the time I reached Old Faithful, the sun was already high and the day had slipped into early afternoon. It was 12:30, and I carried my lunch with me, settling down to eat while the famous geyser prepared its show. I had barely finished when, just twenty minutes later, Old Faithful lived up to its name. With a sudden burst, water shot into the sky, the column of spray rising high above the crowd gathered around.
The eruption was powerful and full of life, the water thundering upward in a display that seemed both precise and wild. The steam drifted away with the wind, catching the light and scattering it into a fine mist.
Afterward, I rewarded myself with a large cappuccino at the Old Faithful Inn. This one was rich and satisfying, in stark contrast to the disappointing coffee I had at the Mammoth Hotel, where I should have asked if they had run out of coffee entirely, for it had tasted only of milk. Here, the cappuccino was exactly as it should be, warming and strong. With the cup still in mind, I took a walk along the river, enjoying the peace of the flowing water and the surrounding lodgepole pines. When I returned, the crowd was already gathering again, and at 3:30 Old Faithful erupted once more, repeating its grand display with the same unshakable rhythm that has made it famous for generations.
Now, back at Madison Campground, I sit again at my picnic table after dinner, writing this account by the dimming light. Every other accommodation in the park is booked or impossibly expensive—nothing under six hundred dollars—so here I remain. It might not be the most comfortable option, but it keeps me close to the heart of Yellowstone. The night air is cooling quickly, and I can hear the quiet of the forest settling in around me. Despite the chill, I feel content. Today, I stood at the edge of the earth’s most vibrant colors, I watched one of nature’s most faithful geysers, and I walked among steaming rivers and glowing pools. It has been a day that I will carry with me long after I leave this campground behind.