by Dennis Augustine
Not every charge begins with anger.
Sometimes it begins with exhaustion.
Every summer, humans return, chasing the perfect photo, the perfect video, the perfect viral moment. “Just a little closer…”
I did not ask for roads through the meadow, or campfires beneath the stars that once belonged only to wolves, wind, and the Milky Way. You call this Yellowstone National Park.
I simply call it home.
I watched another summer arrive—cars lined like grazing metal beasts, laughter echoing through the valleys, and the smell of food drifting where sage and pine once ruled.
Then came the circle. A honk. A step closer.
Then another. No one saw what I saw.
A family behind me.
A thousand years of instinct beating in my chest.
So I ran.
A grandfather was lifted eight feet into the air—a terrifying moment no one wanted.
Least of all me.
I am not the villain of your vacation photos.
I am a father.
A guardian.
A wild heartbeat still trying to survive in a world growing louder each summer. So when you come here, come with wonder—but also with humility.
Admire from a distance.
Leave room for wildness.
Because Yellowstone does not belong to us.
We are merely guests… walking softly through someone else’s home.
