At four p.m. I'm alone at the Park's West Entrance gate. Showing my season permit, I tell the ranger that a van full of Idaho State University students will be along later with an "educational" entrance permit - free. "Oh, they were here a hour or so ago, but they didn't have their permit. We let them through, but tell them they should make sure of these things." I puzzle how they left later and yet arrived ahead of me. How fast did they drive?
I want to take my time because late season in Yellowstone allows a traveler to see the Park like it was many years ago -- very uncrowded. The scenery seems to steam -- hot springs, cold air, and dissipating clouds from a snow storm earlier that day. I enjoy the beauty almost alone. The few cars miss the action -- perhaps a hundred elk file along the base of Electric Peak on Swan Lake Flat at sunset.. Their bugling and squealing fills the rapidly chilling air, and they eventually cross the road, dark shapes marching atavistically off towards their 21st century fate.
As I'm about to head down the grade to Mammoth, I hit a very slick spot. I hope the road is not like that ahead in Golden Gate Canyon. Sliding off would be a long drop. Glad the students made it through, and uneventfully, so do I.
There are no students to meet me at nearly empty Mammoth campground. It's really cold. Maybe they drove out the north entrance at Gardiner to avoid supper in the cold. I race to Gardiner and, a van of students is unloading in front of a restaurant. The great seal of the State of Utah decorates the side of the van. I ask them if they had an entrance permit problem at the West Entrance. "Yes."
Students from the wrong state. I'd better get back to Mammoth.
Back in the campground I sit in the dark in my pickup, trying to keep
warm by eating corn chips and hot salsa. I wonder when they'll come. It's
9:30 p.m. Must be 10 degrees and there's a wind. It would be easier to
get in back, into my bag, covered with layers and layers of high tech,
body heat-collecting synthetic fiber.
As I am growing sleepy they arrive. There are two undergraduate students, Jason and Marty, a grad student studying public health, Sarah, and her husband Luther, a math instructor driving the van. Two Taiwanese climb out - "Hans" and "Esther."
Cold air settles in Mammoth, sinking from Sepulcher Mountain, coming
in gusts as they erect their tents. The tents go up quickly.
Morning gloom, but it's already 7a.m. We need to get up to the Lamar,
get a campsite, and look for wolves. A few breakfast bars and I'm ready
to go - a typical outdoor breakfast for me. Is there any reason to fumble
with stoves and cooking in temperatures near zero? Everyone else thinks
so.
As pancakes cook, golden sunlight illuminates the clouds and a squealing herd of elk strolls across the road for their breakfast twenty feet away. They watch us from the corners of their eyes, but find the dry grass much more compelling. I think about this -- the non-human viewpoint - we're not as interesting as dry grass.
We're on our way to Lamar, climbing the grade up Lava Creek canyon. Suddenly my brand new radial, studded snow tires began to lose traction on some glare ice. Slow down to a crawl; don't brake! I don't want to fishtail here. My God! the guardrail is missing, and the icy roadbed slopes downward toward the abyss. Is it 200 or 300 feet straight down to the bottom of the canyon? I hug the cliff on the other side of the road finally finding traction. In the rear view mirror I see the van slip, but just a little. We proceed slowly, deliberately, to Tower Junction and then to Slough Creek campground. I know from experience you've got to get a campsite early before it fills up, but that's during summer. We are the only folks there except a ranger, a nice guy who wants to chat.
Our tents up, where do we go? We came last year, but the students have it made clear, no road-side gazing this year. It's into the backcountry for a day trek. Hopefully we will see wolves, but walking is the important thing. Will we hike in the vicinity of the Druids or go for the Rose Creek Pack? Rose Creek has been seldom seen since last June when they ascended the Buffalo Plateau to the north and northwest of Slough Creek. I suggest the Lamar Valley as the best bet - the Druid Peak Pack has been visible almost every day. Just past the Lamar Ranger Station, where President Clinton had made history meeting with conservationists and deciding to save Yellowstone from the New World Mine, we see our first sign of wolves. Like many Park visitors its Ranger Rick McIntyre with his telemetry gear. He's on top of a knoll with the crowd of Utah State University students. Joining the crowed we see the Druids. Three wolves are visible about two miles away on a bench above the Lamar River trail. The three Druids are just dots through our binoculars. They don't look like the "baddest wolves in the Park."
Bored, we soon decide it's time for the backcountry -- up the Lamar River trail. At the trailhead I pass out cans of pepper spray and warn that grizzlies are still out and have been frequently seen right near the trail trying snatch kills from the Druids, and probably in bad humor when they have failed. But wait, suddenly here's Ranger Rick. Are we going to get a personal wolf interpretation? No. He thinks it might be good if we didn't go up the trail, although I can see other hikers already up there. These hikers are not cognizant of the wolves on the bench just above them.
Rick says the wolves have a kill out in the meadow, and we'd be between them and their kill. We might drive them off. He sets up his spotting scope to show us the carcass. I look and see nothing, but nod knowingly. I think we'd better not go up that trail. Of course, I know he can't prevent us because dirt bike and 4-wheeler vehicle groups like the Blue Ribbon Coalition back in Pocatello, "wise users", U.S. Senators, and others of their kind, are determined that no country will be closed to entry just because there are wolves. The political situation aside, I know Rick's dead right and he has my esteem. I would never offend him.
Rick suggests we take a trip to Trout Lake instead. It's a good idea.. I've always liked this lake in glade situated on the edge of big Douglas fir just below the cliffs of Druid Peak and Mt. Hornaday. The rest approve of going there. I tell them the trail is very scenic and the remaining eight of the Druids might be up there.
We hike up the steep grade to the lake through a couple of inches of snow, lunch at the lake, and then wander through the woods, taking in the sight of the towering peaks of the Absaroka around us, but seeing no wildlife except a vole, to which Hans calls our attention. There are elk tracks, bison tracks, fox tracks, rodent tracks, but no Druid Peak wolves beneath the flanks of its namesake. The going is slow, but pleasant. Our polartec jackets pick up lots of grass seed as we hike through the tall snow-covered grass. Where is Dr. Charles Kay to tell us how natural regulation on the Park's northern range is a failure? The deep grass here belies his thesis, and I launch into a lecture about natural regulation of wildlife and the northern range. By mid afternoon, we're back to the van. What now? Most have never been to Cooke City, just twelve miles up the NE entrance road. They want to go.
The roadside scenery is dramatic. This is a good time for me to tell the story of the New World mine, planned for the tops of these mountains, and how the President probably has stopped it, but how Montana politicians are trying to undermine the deal even as we drive. I talk about the sociology and politics of Cooke City and the mine, and suggest there are places to patronize there and those not, although any person could tell the environmental orientation of a business with just a quick drive down main street.
We stop for snacks and gasoline at a station with a poster outside telling snowmobilers it is illegal to enter the Beartooth Wilderness. Inside are copies of Wolf Tracker. The proprietor is a new arrival from Kansas. He more than supplements his gas station making custom bows for hunters. We came to the right place. Across the street a brand name gas station sports lots of idle snowmobiles and no customers. In a good mood we head back toward Slough Creek and the cold night ahead.
Although, it is said that the wolves have halved the coyote population in Yellowstone, we spot two coyotes right at Rose Creek carefully pouncing on rodents in the same place I see them almost every time I go there. Last winter three of them descended the hill and approached my truck at this same spot. The leader calmly raised his leg and marked my front tire, claiming my truck, before they moved out into the vast snowy openness of the Lamar Valley.
. . . .Slough Creek campground, cold, isolated, summer long gone, but we have a good bonfire and talk. The next morning I wake up and my feet are numb. Jumping in the front of my truck I warm the cab until my feet feel the pain of the cold. Good. I've got to be careful. Seventeen years ago I was trapped by freak May snowstorm in the Idaho/Montana border backcountry. It snowed for six days and dumped some that accumulated as deep as four feet on the level.. When I finally trudged out, I had a bit of frostbite. I almost got some more.
Today we are going to climb Specimen Ridge, named after the buried and partially exhumed forests of fossilized trees. Maybe there will be wolves there, maybe even the Rose Creek pack. Even if we don't find wolves, there will be plenty of elk, maybe bears, a great view, and the ridge's standing petrified trees.
At the Crystal Creek trailhead, we see about a hundred elk ahead, uphill, just below the treeline. The primeval noises of the herd fill our ears. I tell them about grizzly bears and give an extra can of pepper spray to Jason who leads off at a good pace. As we head up across Crystal Creek Bench on the frozen trail, the elk drift slowly off to either side.
Across the bench, just before we enter the timber, we take a breather and look about a quarter mile to the east near where the Crystal Creek wolf enclosure once stood. Both the Crystal Creek Pack, and, a year later, the Chief Joseph Pack was held here for three months. The Chief Joseph Pack was not released at Crystal Creek, however, because the Rose Creek pack had visited frequently that winter, worrying the penned wolves.
A nice herd of elk are standing near the site of the old enclosure. We can hear them bugling, squealing, whistling in the silent Yellowstone air. They begin to run. Soon they are uphill, in the timber, out of sight on the lower slope of Specimen Ridge. We can still hear them, but a new sound mixes in- howls. Some say there are coyotes or something on the bench where the elk had stood. A quick look through the binoculars shows the animals are black, and coyotes are never black.
It's them. It's the Rose Creek Pack. What a find. We will see them off and on the rest of the day.
They trot slowly across Crystal Creek bench. We try to count them. There are eleven we think. One small gray wolf hangs back, yipping like a pup - because he is a pup. He retreats back into the timber. Are there more pups in the timber, perhaps with an adult wolf? It is hard to tell which wolves we see are the adults, with a few exceptions. Looking closely we see a big gray wolf in the lead. It must be the alpha male, number 8. (Later, looking at my photos, I see a second big gray wolf -- probably number 51). Which black wolf is famous number 9? I look for the sign of her status, the raised tail, but most of them keep their tails high as they run up into the timber after the elk.
Jason has gotten far ahead, out of sight. I wonder if he saw the wolves. Then, I notice that in our excitement, we have lost the trail. Never mind, I know the way. We just go through the patch of timber and there will be an open slope the rest of the way, I tell them. The going is a bit slow, though. The slope is steep and it is just warm enough to make the inch of snow slippery.
As were emerge into the sunlight we see the elk on the other side of this small drainage. The elk have moved to the top of the ridge on the east side of Crystal Creek. Suddenly five wolves emerge below them.. I speculate that the rest of the pack may be circling the elk from the east, out of sight. The elk move slowly, however. There seems to be no panic. Wolves like to get a herd to run so they can spot any animals that are slow or show some infirmity. A group of four large bulls, big racks, leave the rest and slowly move upward toward the top of Specimen Ridge. Finally, all the wolves top the ridge, out of sight.
Turns out, Jason did not see the wolves. He didn't see us stop. Maybe he'll get a second chance. Will they reappear? We struggle up the steep sidehill, aiming for the top of the ridge that is the west side of Crystal Creek. The trail is up on top, and I know there are standing petrified trees up there too. I want to show them, but I come up last, puffing hard. Jason is again far ahead of the rest, and out of sight. I take solace that I'm twenty years older than the oldest.
On the top of the ridge, we stop to rest and lunch. I say there are petrified trees just over the sleep slope to the west. "Careful, it's a drop-off." The snow is slippery.
While Luther and Marty are carefully edging toward the edge for a look, the rest of us are eating and adjusting our gear. Silently a few wolves come back over the top of the ridge on the other side of the drainage. We watch as more come. Now it is obvious that some of them are pups, but some are hard to tell; and they all look black on the snowy slope, dazzling under the noon sun.
Suddenly, an indescribable sound fills the canyon. The entire pack is
howling. I have heard a howl or two in the past, and individual wolves
were howling off and on earlier as they chased the elk; but I have never
heard a group of eleven (or are there more?) howl. Their voices seem to
come from all over the east side of Crystal Creek. Some are high, young-sounding;
some deeper; all are in perfect harmony. We instantly stop what we are
doing and listen. The edges of my eyes feel a bit wet.
After a few minutes they stop. Feeling ecstatic, I begin the push to
the top of Specimen Ridge. Jason is still far ahead but I gain. It worries
me that he is always out there alone, but I like that too -- always trying
to get a little closer to the wilderness. The ridge grows steeper. It's
best to watch where you place your feet. With every step we cover wolf
tracks. I imagine the biggest dog I have ever seen. Its tracks would
be small by comparison. In the distance to our east, we hear the pack howl
again off and on.
Now full of energy, I gain altitude quickly, moving close to the lead.
Just below the top of Specimen Ridge, Luther motions "quiet" and points.
I step beside him and look. Fifty yards away is the profile of a sitting
gray wolf on top of Specimen Ridge. The wolf turns its head and looks at
us, then it looks the other way, seemingly ignoring us. As all of us gain
the top, the wolf gets up and trots off along the top heading east. We
move to the highest spot and see another pup, this one black, trotting
in front of the gray pup. Then we look to the south. Scattered groups of
elk are visible on the rolling back side of Specimen Ridge as far as we
can see - by the hundreds. The pups were watching the elk. There is also
a herd of about twenty bison among them. Last October there were many more.
I think of Governor Racicot. Briefly, I feel slightly sick.
Rose Creek pup on top of Specimen Ridge.
Photo
by Ralph Maughan.
After photos and rest, we decide to walk along Specimen Ridge around the top of Crystal Creek to descend its east side, making a loop, avoiding the same scenery. The wolves are gone as we saunter along the top. I am as happy as I ever remember.
We are an odd group - students and faculty from many places. I grew
up in suburban northern Utah - a true westerner. Luther and Sarah are from
Maryland, having decided to live where they vacation. Jason is from Louisiana.
Esther and Hans, who has taken the name of my grandfather, Hans Christian
Hansen, are from Taiwan. What will Hans tell of this outing as he begins
his career in the Taiwan Foreign Service?
Maughan on top of Specimen
Ridge. Late October 1997.
Photo by Sarah Leeds
All of a sudden, the wolves come running over the ridgetop on the side of Crystal Creek we are approaching. How quickly they descend the steep snowy slope. I notice that, oddly, a black pup is in the lead. What are up to? I guess we'll find out.
We begin to descend slowly in their general direction, trying to find a good path, one that avoids downfall from the big 1988 fires. Jason, who is uncharacteristically way behind Luther and me, comes running up and asks where we plan to go. I say "down there." Jason suggests maybe we should respect the wolves because this is their home and we are visitors. I know he's right, and I begin to question my assuption that the wolves will just move aside as we descend. The wolves seem to stopped in grove of fir a hundred or so yards below us. They are howling, not a group howl, but individually, with two strong voices barking and howling the most. They sound defensive. Where are we going, anyway? Do I think there will be a mystical union when we reach the grove?
Acknowledging Jason's wisdom, we turn around and descend, returning the general way we came. We come down Crystal Creek fast. I warn as always, "watch out for griz." We can almost glissade, but not quite. The wolves soon stop howling.
Back at our vehicles after I this, one of my hundreds of trips to Yellowstone, I know I have had my best one.