yellowstone wolf

From within the circle of weakening light from the benevolent fire I peered out into the enveloping black of a late and inert hour. The damp chilled air was still, the calm before the storm of winter, and the eerie silence encouraged me to throw another log on the fire; to entice the flames to a roaring mass of orange and yellow that would dance with shadows. The pack was out there, somewhere, for this was their territory, and to them I was the intruder. I gathered myself closer to the flames. Snow had already whipped across the surrounding peaks and settled into the crags and fissures for the forthcoming season. It would soon turn and sweep along the Lamar Valley and soon this eastern highway into Yellowstone Park would close to the public.

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During winter Yellowstone returns to its true wilderness. Without the throngs of tourism the recent reintroduced wolves would roam again as rulers in this barren landscape.

Next morning we rose early, Abby and I, and ventured from our camp to the head of a track delving deep into the hunting grounds of wolf, across a wilting stretch of open meadow. This was the final week of our fifth month of exploration, travelling and trekking the remote regions of the North Western states of America. We had been in search of wolves and the trail had brought us here.

Beyond the timberline on the horizon, lay a fresh powdering of snow; a terrain now covered with further dangers for the distant traveller. Today though, we would steer clear of danger and opt for an easier route. It was our intention to explore the banks of the Lamar River; lair of the Druid Peak Pack – the most notable of the 16 plus packs that presently occupy this National Park.

We pass a copse of diminished aspen, stripped of their resonant gold leaf. A scrape of hollows in the soil of the hill indicates we are on the right scent. Wolves had walked here and made shelter. At the crest of the rise we could see the periphery of our path ahead, down to the river as it slithers along its way, carving its course. On the far bank virgin pines mingled with the burnt remains of the forest fire in 1988. Disaster then had resulted in re-growth now, nature’s own twist of irony. We lumbered down the slope at a steady pace our spirits high and hopeful.

Where the river flows shallow across a band of eroded shale, and a barrier wall of granite redirects its course, a beach of soft sand has formed. Here we came across evidence of wolf occupation, the remains of a meal, indications of play, prints to the water’s edge. Here the pack had rested awhile, content to laze by the rippling current. Though tempted to hang in the memory of wolves I was urged to step on, alerted to a rising breeze by an alarming quiver through the leafy remnants that clasped a neighbouring tree. Above a white-legged hawk soared on the air currents, watchful. The picnic was over, and I averted my thoughts away from my moment of tranquillity.

Our inspirations had headed upstream. We climbed out of the riverside canyon and decided to follow in their pawsteps. Ahead, on the far side of a thicket of new forest, we saw the ancient runs of a sulphur deposit lying white against the sage-coloured rake; an interesting theatre for a wolf to perform. Inquisitive, we turned tail and followed our noses.

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