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Last September, work took me to
Jackson Hole to teach at Teton Science School. Richard and I decided to
extend the trip and come home via Yellowstone National Park for the
experience of wildlife and wildness.
In Jackson Hole, I took a group of middle-school students out to analyze
a sagebrush-grassland in Grand Teton National Park. They were busy
cataloguing the plants in their data plots when we heard a bull elk bugle
nearby.
A few minutes later, the wheezing, reedy call sounded again,
followed by a not-very-expert human imitation. Suddenly, 25 cow elk trotted
through the sagebrush past us, with a huge herd bull following, impressive
antlers high: annoyed by the human bugling, he apparently decided to
relocate his harem.
Two days later, we headed north into Yellowstone. As we drove away from
Teton Science School, we stopped for a herd of sixteen bison blocking the
road.
I looked in my side view mirror just in time to see a big black dog
nose—our Great Dane, Isis—poke out through the sliding window in the topper.
Then out came her black-and-white head, triangular ears alert.
Fortunately, the bison ambled off the road just then, and we drove
quickly away before she could decide to run with the herd!
The next morning, I woke to the patter of rain on the roof of our cabin
near Yellowstone Lake. While we were eating breakfast, a herd of bison
wandered through between the cabins.
One of the calves lingered, munching the grass by our cabin door, and
when its mother disappeared around the corner it began uttering piteous
whines and grunts. Isis stood on her hind legs to look out the window,
fascinated at the noisy and smelly creature.
That day we drove through the park, stopping here and there and counting
the wildlife we spotted. Along with several hundred bison, we also saw
pronghorn and mule deer and elk and golden eagles and Canada geese and
sandhill cranes.
The most poignant sighting of the day, however, was the big cinnamon
black bear curled up and snoozing beneath a huge ponderosa pine tree just
above the road. Someone had spotted the peacefully sleeping bear and stopped
their car in the middle of the road.
Soon cars littered the side of the road with people
rushing up the slope. A harassed Park
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Ranger was fully occupied attempting to
direct traffic and prevent gawkers from injuring themselves or provoking the
snoozing bear.
That night a winter storm warning sent us to a motel at the north
entrance of Yellowstone instead of to the remote campground where we’d
planned to stay. The temperature plummeted and by morning, wet snow
blanketed the landscape.
When Isis and I went out walking at dawn, we heard wolves howling in the
hills across the valley, “oooooo-oooooo-oooooo-ooooooo-oooooooowwwwwww.”
Their voices had the wavering tremolo of coyotes, but with deeper and
more resonant tones, and the howls longer and somehow wilder. The hair on
the back of my neck prickled and Isis stopped, her big ears swiveling to
track the howls.
Later that day, we headed for a spot in the Lamar Valley that park
rangers had suggested for sighting wolves. On a knoll above the road stood
several people bundled up against the wind and snow flurries, peering
through telescopes.
We trotted up the hill and the group offered us views through their
scopes. I adjusted the focus and six furry forms, tails curled over noses,
popped into view: The Druid pack of wolves, fast asleep after their early
morning hunt.
Two had blackish fur, one was icy gray, and three were coyote-colored. I
watched them as they snoozed out the storm and snow drifted down around us
all.
As we drove away, I remembered Henry David Thoreau’s words from his essay
“Walking”: “In wildness is the preservation of the world.” And I blessed the
wolves—and the other wild creatures—for reminding me.
© 2002 Susan J. Tweit
Visit Susan’s website:
www.salidamillwork.com/sjtweit
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