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The line is out the door. I am barely hanging on to four hours of sleep, and the excitement that has been gnawing at me ever since that cold January morning when I opened my mailbox and found a packet with the words “Yellowstone” on it is the only thing keeping me awake.

I glance behind me and am quickly reminded I am not in New Mexico anymore. The mountains are tall and capped with snow, while elk graze in the grass below. To my left is the ancient tour bus that picked up myself and other intrepid adventurers in Bozeman that morning, and chugged its way up the winding roads to Gardner, where we now waited at employee check in.

Yellowstone National Park was the first national park in the United States, signed into law by President Ulysses S. Grant on March 1st, 1872. The park is known for its wildlife, geothermal features, and general insanity during tourist season. It is mostly located in Wyoming, with parts of the park extending into Montana and Idaho.

I had visited Yellowstone twice before: in 2007 when I graduated from high school, and again in 2009 when my youngest sister graduated from high school. Both times, while the park had been beautiful, it wasn’t something that stuck much in my memory.

Then, enter fall 2011 and spring 2012. In those two semesters, I dealt with some of the worst shit I had ever been through.

I got engaged — then said girl broke up with me out of the blue. I moved out on my own, got evicted, and couch hopped for two weeks before finally moving into a room the size of an office (all my possessions that didn’t fit shoved into a storage unit). My best friend moved to Illinois for the summer, and then when he came back, he decided to quit school and leave me behind. I barely managed to pass my classes and not kicked out of school. To make matters worse, I was struggling with my gender, and had to break up with the girlfriend who had been my first Mistress (she went off to law school) who had been my one spot of emotional stability.

I was floating… sort of unsure of who I was as a person. It felt like my soul needed a reset. I needed a chance to try and understand where my life had been up to that point. Was I meant for more? I felt trapped, useless, and the sadness I had known my whole life descended on me like a rock that I carried right between my shoulders.

That fall, it crossed my mind to put in an application to work in the park. It had always been a dream of mine, though I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that I wanted adventure, and while I loved the Organ Mountains I would see outside my window every morning, I longed for something different. I decided there wasn’t any harm in putting in an application — so I did. I figured the worst they could say was no.

Fast forward to several months later in May 2013, where I am still standing in line for employee check in. They hadn’t told us it was going to take this long, and the lunch-able I ate two hours ago seems like a distant memory as my stomach growls in complaint. I fiddle with my cell phone knowing I have no service, but at least the camera works. I lean my head out the door and snap a quick picture of the mountains to send to people back home.

When the lady taking pictures for IDs tells me to smile, I do, wide and grinning from ear to ear. A snap, and then a few minutes later, she hands me my shiny plastic employee ID, and tells me not to lose it.

I tuck it into my wallet, thank her, and step out in the Gardner sunshine for a cigarette.

===

When you first arrive as an employee, after checking in and orientation, the same bus that picked you up in Bozeman drops you off at your location — your home for the next three months.

Canyon Village, or Canyon, as it’s affectionately known, is not what I’m expecting. My memory of visiting this part of the park is from the new visitor center that had just been constructed. They’ve dropped us off behind the lodge itself, which looks like something out of the 70s. On my right are three dormitory style buildings: Wapiti, Grizzly and Bison. Further up the hill, I later discover, are cabins that look like bungalows from the 60s, where a select few managers and other staff live. Down the hill is the 24-hour quiet dorm.

By this point, I’ve been stuck with my bus mates since eight o’clock that morning. All through the ride to Gardner, Employee check in, uniform distribution, employee orientation, and the ride to our location. Whether it was meant to happen or not, most of these people would end up being my friends — although there would certainly be more people to add to this cast of characters.

There’s Zack, a Kentucky Boy who is as gay as I am with a sweet southern drawl and bright green eyes. Then there’s Moe, a hilarious and cynical girl from Wisconsin who agrees to be my roommate. Doran is the returner, or the one of us who is returning for his second season — large, friendly and from Georgia, who was raised by two moms. And then there’s Trace, who dropped out of the Marine Corp and hails from North Carolina. Bonded by exhaustion, hunger and the sight of the first bison out our bus window, we all find ourselves a cohort of sorts, and those friendships would remain with me for the rest of my life.

We check in at the personnel office, and Moe and I are assigned to our room — Grizzly Dorm, room 122. The room itself contains two bunk beds, two closets, and one nightstand, which Moe lets me have beside my bottom bunk so I can get to my glasses. It’s a communal shower and laundry room, with a lobby that has a bookshelf or two, a desk with a computer, payphone and vending machines. The floor above has simply rooms, but with their own showers.

After dinner, a few of us decide to hike down to the canyon itself, which is a short trail through the nicer cabins below. As we walk, I remind everyone since none of us can afford bear spray to make sure we make plenty of noise, so we don’t surprise any wildlife. At first, everyone laughs, but no one minds as we all talk about our homes, where we’re from, what we were doing before we got here, and the day’s events.

I hear the falls long before I see them. It’s a dull roar that sounds like… well, to this day I don’t think I can accurately describe what I hear. It’s a sound that still follows me in my dreams, and sometimes even in my waking hours.

We round the trail and come out to the parking lot at the trail head, which tells us that we have a bit longer to go before we can see the falls. Our personnel manager warned us during the tour to stay away from the crumbly limestone cliff faces, as last year an international employee was not even here twenty-four hours and fell to her death off the cliff side. As we make our way down the trail, I trail behind, glancing up at the sky above me. Some ravens circle overhead, and I can’t help but smile — my favorite bird.

Finally, we make it to the first lookout point, and my breath stops.

The falls roar and tumble over the orange-yellow rocks into the cold turquoise river below, topped with churning white foam. There’s a sense of awe, terror and beauty laid out before me, with the dark green trees above the canyon walls and the setting sun reflecting on the clouds above us.

None of us say anything for a few moments. I don’t know if it’s because we’re tired, or dumbfounded at the sight before us.

For the first time in months, I feel something tugging at my soul. The smells, the sound, the colors… it’s that reset button I’ve been looking for. As I watch the water in its graceful cascade into the canyon below, something inside of me relaxes, and that rock I’ve been carrying falls away. I feel normal, whole, at peace. And I know, that the best thing I have ever done, was call the Human Resources office and accept the job offer.

Finally, Trace lets out a low whistle and shakes his head.

“Man, it’s fucking beautiful, isn’t it?”

Yeah, I think, digging out my camera to snap a few pictures, it really is.

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