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YELLOWSTONE’S
HOT SPRINGS:
An Aviator’s Perspective
Images & Article by Garrett Fisher
T
he plan was a simple one:
move 2,000 miles west to
Wyoming and photograph
Yellowstone for a book. As though
it was a prepackaged travel itinerary
as opposed to a major life change, I
approached the project like it was an
already completed event – I would be
in Wyoming, very close to the runway,
and well, since Yellowstone is mostly
in Wyoming, how hard could the
whole thing be? “Just fly up there and
get it done.”
This naivety is probably why I
continue to add schemes and dreams
to the end of my list of things to do
at a rate faster than I can do them,
the [intentionally] clueless mental
wanderings of someone with too
many ideas and too many hours on
dark nights looking at Google Maps,
feeding the monstrosity of ideological
delusion with satellite shots of remote
wilderness.
There was a problem I chose to forget
about prior to the 2,000-mile odyssey:
I flew to Yellowstone once, and it kind
of scared me. That might seem like a
normal proposition given the savage
nature of this part of the West married
to the fact that an unsuitably small
aircraft was my primary transport
mechanism. The reality is that fear is
not my thing. Fear is reserved for the
final moments of life, the bloodcurdling
scream that precipitates smashing into
the ground into an explosive fireball,
when all of one’s worst horrors come
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