By a guy who once nearly lost his eyebrows to a campfire and still thinks a Montana burger could feed Belgium.

The last Airbnb move we did was to the west of Yellowstone National Park, but still in Idaho. Forty-five minutes to the gate. And that’s American forty-five minutes too— meaning it’s actually forty-five minutes, not the sort of British “ten minutes” that mysteriously becomes an hour and a half. The house we moved into was impressive. A full-sized wooden house. And I don’t just mean a little bit of timber cladding on the front. No. The whole thing was wood. Walls, beams, probably even the toilet seat. Right at the back, a lake. An actual lake. And, because Airbnb owners are either saints or lunatics, the owner had left us binoculars, kayaks and fishing gear. Unfortunately, we never used them because, well, Yellowstone. When you’ve got a supervolcano belching Sulphur twenty miles away, sitting in a kayak with a fishing rod feels a bit… provincial.

We did, however, use the firepit outside, just in time for the sunset. And what a sight. It was like looking at a postcard—only real, and without the dog-eared corners. But starting that fire? A proper ordeal. You see, it had rained all day. Not Virginia rain, where the heavens split open and you’re instantly soaked. No, this was Idaho rain: the mild, pathetic drizzle of an English summer. Still wet. Still annoying. But not quite enough to justify staying indoors. Which meant the firewood outside was useless.

Spongewood, basically. So I raided the fireplace indoors, where there was a neat little stack of the good stuff. The sort of firewood you almost don’t want to burn because it looks like it should be in a magazine called Aspen Lifestyle. But there was a note saying, “It’s okay to use outside.” Fine. Quarter of a log, shaved into thin slivers. Firestarter kit. I was Gandalf the Grey, conjuring sparks from thin air. At least, until the fire promptly died because the air was damper than Georgie the dog’s nose.

That’s when I found the liquid charcoal firestarter. And, like any desperate man faced with imminent failure in front of his girlfriend, I drenched the lot. Not sprinkled. Drenched. Let it soak through until it was practically weeping accelerant. Then I lit it. What happened next was less “romantic campfire” and more “Viking funeral pyre.” With a noise like VVVVVLUUUUGGGGHHH, the flames shot up, and I tumbled backwards in sheer survival instinct. I’m fairly sure I burned off half an eyebrow, but never mind—because it worked. My girlfriend cheered, the fire raged, and suddenly, she had the perfect backdrop for her “restart your photographic journey” nonsense. I call it: Man 1, Nature 0.

The next day, geysers. And honestly, nothing prepares you for them. Not people’s stories. Not books. Not even David Attenborough whispering over slow-motion steam in a National Geographic documentary. No. Yellowstone is a place you smell, hear, and slightly fear. The air reeks of sulphur, like a thousand boiled eggs left in a gym locker. The ground hisses and bubbles, reminding you every second that the whole park is a giant volcano, just waiting to lose its temper. It doesn’t feel like Earth. It feels like Mordor—except, instead of orcs, it’s coach-loads of tourists in matching hats and retirees arguing over camera angles.

The geysers themselves? Each with its own personality. Some happily bubble like a kettle. Some just hiss menacingly. Some are basically open sewers, farting endlessly into the air. At one point, a dad was explaining the science behind it all to his kids. Everyone listened politely. Then he asked his children what they thought. His daughter, all sweet and clever, said: “They’re kettles.” Lovely. Then the boy—stone-faced—said: “They’re giant assholes of people who ate too many beans.” And you know what? He was absolutely right. Brilliant.

And then there’s Old Faithful. The granddaddy. It erupts every ninety minutes. Well, “around” ninety minutes. Because, frankly, it’s old. Probably running on an analogue wristwatch. And when it erupts, it lives up to its hype. For two glorious minutes it spews steam and water an average of 145 feet in the air. People yelp. Kids laugh and point. Old people smile. TikTok wannabes contort themselves into absurd poses. Well, most people take pictures anyway. And everyone brightens up. It’s like watching people open their presents on Christmas morning—complete with gasps, giggles, and the occasional disappointed sigh when it stops too soon.

But while you wait for it, there’s a long, winding series of boardwalks—three or four miles—that let you wander around the other geothermal freak shows. And here’s the genius: they actually thought about the non-hikers. The non–Bear Grylls brigade. Wheelchair accessible, safe wooden walkways. Useful engineering for all.

We spent three days around the west side, and it wasn’t nearly enough. In fact, it might be worth coming back in winter, when the whole place is buried in snow and the geysers look like nature’s kettles on overdrive. On the way back, we stopped at a Montana town that served burritos alongside burgers roughly the size of the Teton mountains. And by size, I don’t mean “big.” I mean one burger could’ve fed the entire population of Belgium for a week. A perfectly ridiculous, eyebrow-singeing, Sulphur-stinking, flame-spewing vacation. And I loved every second of it.

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