OVER THE YEARS I’ve done interviews about the Yellowstone Wolf Project with reporters from around the world. More often than not, after wading through chewy matters of science and wildlife management and even politics, there comes a request to recount my most memorable experience with wolves. I understand well the need for such a question, the eagerness to catch a glimpse of the drama that comes from working in magnificent settings with one of the most captivating predators on Earth. So even though for me there’s no such thing as a favorite experience, I do my best to oblige. But when a journalist for the BBC asked me this question, what came to mind were different strings of images—ones less dramatic than modest, less filled with adrenaline than awe: a wolf coming to within a few feet of my tent, pausing there before wandering back through the tall grass into the dark of night; being in a canoe in the Arctic, watching a wolf flee on first catching sight of me only to return moments later to the riverbank to watch as I drifted past; out in the chill of early morning, when a big male strode out of the fog and looked right through me, then turned and disappeared into the mist.
For whatever reason, during that BBC interview it dawned on me that individual dramas—battles with grizzlies, interpack struggles over territory, even the stirring beauty offered by any of the more than two dozen wolves I touch with my own hands every year—were less important than the simple sense of wonder that had been kindled by even the most fleeting encounters. Held within a wolf’s gaze has been everything I’ve needed to keep alive my sense of connection to the earth. The fact that I live in a time when these sorts of opportunities are increasingly rare has on one hand left me with a profound feeling of gratitude for being able to do the work I do. On the other hand, that very same rarity—the fact that it’s become unusual for people to have any sort of regular dose of nature, let alone trading stares with wolves—leaves me acutely aware of how much the culture has lost. Gone from most people’s lives are the simple, wondrous prompts of nature, triggers that once sparked in us not just a sense of beauty but also the pleasures of place. Therein sits the weight, the burden of these times. And it lies heavy as a stone in the heart of even the richest life.
November 1, 2004. Once again drifting high above Yellowstone, Roger Stradley and I look down onto the same lands that just twelve weeks ago were drunk with green, finding them today hunkered under a heavy layer of snow. The same animals that in August seemed not to have a care in the world appear edgy, anxious. The elk are moving, large groups of a hundred, two hundred amassing on Geode Bench and on the slopes of Hellroaring, others drifting toward winter range in the Lamar Valley.
As elk begin to travel, so do the wolves. Given that it’s been a couple weeks since I’ve flown, it takes me awhile to figure out where everyone is. The Leopold Pack—now the big cheese of the northern range, after a decade of that honor belonging either to Rose Creek or Druid Peak—are throwing their weight around, pushing eastward into new territory. Today we find twenty-two out of a pack of at least twenty-four animals. Though our view is blocked by a weave of timber, given all the birds milling about they’re probably on a kill. Geode, meanwhile, is pressing the park boundary, while Rose Creek has vanished altogether.
We fly on to the Slough Creek Pack and spot eight of them testing the waters with a couple of bull elk. As the wolves approach, the elk merely stand erect, casting a proud, even daring look, at which point the Slough Creek Pack thinks better of it and simply walks away. Thirty minutes later we see the pack again, this time pressing down on a herd of twenty cow elk and calves—running right at them, predators and prey flying downhill in a high-speed chase lasting for a good mile and a half. One wolf in particular seems intensely driven to grab a certain cow elk, but in the end never gets close. The last we see he’s all by his lonesome on a snow-covered hill, the breath from his panting rising in the frozen air. We find Agate Creek on the backside of Specimen Ridge, and after that a few animals from Druid Peak scattered across the Lamar Valley. Having recently lost both of their alphas, the once large and glorious Druids are now in a state of disarray.
I’m freezing. As we slide over Mirror Plateau, heading for Pelican Valley, I ask Roger for some warm air, only to learn that the airplane’s heater is on the fritz. Far below us, the Pelican Valley is frozen to stillness, as if it were already the dead of winter. Mollie’s wolves are down there, gathered around a fallen bull bison. Shadows on the ground, though, make it impossible to see whether there’s blood on the snow, leaving us unsure if the animal was taken by the pack or merely died from some other cause. Either way, it’s the first time in years we’ve found a kill in this valley without a grizzly on it. It seems much too early, but maybe the big bears are already tucked in, curled out of sight somewhere in rocky dens, dreaming away the slow roll of winter.
Finally comes the long, sweet cruise down the east side of Yellowstone Lake, searching for the Delta wolves. We never do manage to find them, which is a little strange given that the elk haven’t yet completely pulled out of the Thorofare. Gone too are the elk hunters, most having been able to yet again fill their tags. From this great meandering valley we drift west across Two Ocean Plateau, finding the branches of the trees at these higher elevations utterly whitewashed in snow. Nearby the Snake River is sluggish, choked by a thousand chunks of ice. By now the cold has crept not just into my body, but my mind. At one point I catch myself feeling around in my pocket for the keys that would let us into a backcountry cabin on the ground below—thinking that if our plane goes down, our only chance will be to get inside and start a fire.
As it happens the Nez Perce wolves elude us, too, probably off on a foray outside the park looking for elk. The eleven-member Cougar Creek Pack, meanwhile, is in its usual spot, while the Gibbon Meadows wolves have a bull elk down—a cloud of ravens and magpies flitting around the kill. As we make our way back toward Gardiner, I listen for the radio signals of a few other missing wolves, hear not a single one. Strangely, back at the airport—situated at lower elevation—it’s autumn again, brown and dry. Yet the winter we’ve been flying through lingers in my bones, the hours spent in the back of the plane having left me cold and numb and with a touch of shiver. Roger sympathizes, says he’ll get the heater fixed before the next flight. No matter. I’m thinking that being cold is a small price of admission for this feast of nature—the wolves and the elk, the snow and ice and the frozen mountains, the beautiful emptiness that is Yellowstone at the brink of winter.