Dancing with Wolves, Running with Bison

Winter returned to Yellowstone today.

We woke at dawn to discover a fresh layer of snow at Mammoth. Temps had fallen to the teens and a stiff wind was blowing. We boarded a van, with our guide Rick at the wheel, and drove to Lamar Valley, in search of wolves. All eyes were on the landscape, combing ridges and valleys for any signs of movement. As time went on, the mood became pensive. We had all come to Yellowstone in hopes of seeing wolves, and this was our best chance.

Then, as we made our third pass through the valley, Rick cried out “Wolves on top of the ridge!” And there they were: one black, one gray, silhouetted against the sky. We whooped in excitement, and Rick pulled over so we could all tumble out of the van, binoculars and cameras in hand. And as we watched, one wolf after another popped up over the ridge, until there were eight. Six blacks and two grays: the Lamar Canyon Pack. 

No spotting scopes were needed; the wolves were easy to watch with binoculars, and what a sight! As they crested the ridge, they began loping downhill. The lead black wolf — likely the alpha female — had something in her mouth, possibly a fresh kill, and she tossed it in the air. Then a gray wolf picked it up and they played a game of keep-away, jumping and running, leaping and rolling in the snow. The Lamar Canyon pack includes a mating pair and six yearling pups. No wonder they were so playful — most of them are juveniles! Wolves don’t have easy lives — their average life span here in the park is only five years. Most die from fights protecting their territory, some from disease. But this morning they were clearly enjoying life, and watching them was pure joy. As I took it all in, I couldn’t help but think of my sister-in-law Stella, who passed away last year. She was passionate about wolves, studying them and supporting their recovery. If she were here, I knew she’d be dancing right along beside me.

The Lamar Canyon Pack 

They finally disappeared over the ridge, and we clambered back in the van, frozen but euphoric. We knew we were lucky to see an entire pack, especially at such close range. We talked of little else as we headed back to Mammoth for a quick lunch before climbing back on our snowmobiles. We had an 80-mile ride ahead of us, and hoped to arrive back at the Old Faithful Snow Lodge before dark.

But our animal encounters were far from over. As we came around a bend on a narrow stretch of road, a herd of about 20 bison were camped out, blocking our way. We slowed to a stop and Rick gathered us together for a quick powwow. We would proceed slowly forward in tight formation, and hope that the herd would move down the bank to our right. Under no circumstance were we to fall back and let the bison get between our sleds. He didn’t see any bulls in the herd, so thought they’d be fairly placid. 

The video shows what happened next. As we moved forward, the bison got agitated and started running. Soon we were amongst a bolting, bucking herd of thousand-pound animals (with horns). Rick motioned us to stop, and the bison ran ahead of us.  Once they stopped, we approached again, and they bolted again. After repeating this scenario four or five times, I was pretty much terrified.  When you get the stink eye from a bison standing at arm’s length, you know your life is no longer in your own hands. 

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But there was no turning back now, and we finally pulled through the herd. I watched Rick anxiously count snowmobiles as we got clear. For the next half hour my teeth chattered uncontrollably, and not from the cold. I guess it wasn’t my day to become a statistic (more people die from getting too close to bison than from bear attacks in Yellowstone). We may not have harmed the bison, but we clearly violated their personal space and I was grateful they chose not to turn on us. 

The rest of our ride was uneventful, and I spent the last half hour debating between a warm brandy and a single-malt scotch upon arrival. As we pulled in to the Snow Lodge at sunset, our numb but triumphant badass gang was more than ready to turn in our gear and return to our creature-comfort zones. But I can guaranty that none of us will ever forget our winter experience in Yellowstone.