By Michael Lanza
I step off the grassy riverbank into the slow-moving Bechler River, in the backcountry of Yellowstone National Park, and the shock of the cold, calf-deep water makes me gasp unconsciously. After a few careful steps forward—with the mucky, silted river bottom threatening to either make me slip or suck a sandal off my foot—the river rises above my knees and feels really cold. At midstream on this ford that spans 60 feet or more, the frigid water reaches the tops of my thighs and not even the warm sun and lack of wind keep me from feeling the chill cut to my bones.