The Breath of the Earth

The smell of sulfur always brings me back to the edge of a hot spring, that sharp, metallic sting that tickles the back of the throat. It is the scent of the earth’s hidden pulse, a reminder that beneath the cool, solid ground we walk upon, there is a restless, boiling hunger. I remember the feeling of steam against my skin—not the gentle mist of a morning shower, but a thick, humid weight that clings to the pores, turning the air into something you have to push through just to breathe. It is a heavy, ancient warmth, the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there, long after you have stepped back into the cold. We are so small against the scale of these deep, subterranean exhales. Does the earth ever grow tired of releasing its pressure, or is this constant, rising ghost of heat the only way it knows how to keep from breaking apart?

Mickey Strider has captured this visceral sense of release in the image titled Geothermal Plant. The way the clouds and steam merge feels like a heavy, humid blanket draped over the landscape. Can you feel the heat rising from the ground as you look at it?