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There’s something about eating dinner off the tailgate of an old truck, halfway up the side of a mountain in late September, that makes a meal taste better or at least as good as any other, though what exactly? I believe this is the first meditation I’ve written deep inside a national park. Definitely the first I’ve typed inside a semi-crowded, mid-century cafeteria, with a monster cappuccino perched next to my laptop because I stayed up past midnight, crisscrossing the mountains while dodging elk. I’ve been in Yellowstone for the week interviewing experts—scientists, physicists, astronomers—for an upcoming magazine article. And all the wonders of volcanic Wyoming at this time of year are on show: spouting geysers, herds of bison, elk bulls strutting around, high on hormones and bugling in the dark, sounding like a cross between whale song and human screaming. It’s really an unnerving sound. But the truck dinner is one of the things that stands out most. Probably because I love a picnic, love a two-hour piazza coffee. One of my favorite ways to lunch in France is to grab-bag a Monoprix and take a picnic to the nearest park. Wednesday night, at about 7,500 feet, having driven us halfway up a mountain, an ornithologist was generous enough to offer to prepare dinner while his colleague showed me how to use a microphone to track bats. He broke out a Coleman stove, a cooler full of ingredients. The meal wasn’t fancy: hamburgers with cheddar cheese, onion, BBQ sauce. But with the view in front of us and the care he put into his cooking, it was fantastic. Also, he made French fries from scratch, and that put the meal over the top.
Maybe outdoor dining is a way to feel rooted in both the wild and the mundane. At home, I have a portable setup I take into Griffith Park to make fresh coffee for friends. (I wrote about it in a round-up of gear used during last year’s big trek in Japan.) With the moment exposed to the elements, in a place it doesn’t seem to belong, the ritual is further ritualized—in both the connection with the other person and the conversation that ensues. Context impacts flavor, nature lowers stress; just looking at a fire relaxes me. A favorite memory from a couple years ago, my friend G. and I went cowboy-camping and he packed in tortillas, avocados and some marinated tri-tip, and we enjoyed campfire tacos that remain some of the best I know. After tracking bats, the scientists and I slowly drove down the mountain. We stopped at one point to check on a hunter in his sixties, who seemed like he might be in trouble—he was fine, simply exhausted from a day of tracking elk. “What were y’all doing up there?” he asked. “Smoking a doobie?” “Just having dinner,” I wanted to say, but the guy had already turned away, chuckling to himself. ð“€ In tomorrow’s supplement, three-plus “cool” “things” for “members”
Join the club and enjoy great culture, fashion picks, travel gear, and good stuff generally. ❀ Hey, if you’re a writer looking for help—editing, coaching, brainstorm magic—I recommend collaborating with editor Rachel Knowles. Rachel has helped me a lot, not to mention plenty of other writers—novelists, screenwriters, Substack-ers, the gamut. Lots more info at her website. What the what“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus a monthly travel-lust ballyhoo. Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice. For magazine articles, bio, contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com. Disclaimer: if you buy something using a link from one of these meditations, I may receive a commission from Bezos Farms.
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