Where the Wild Things Are
One man rethinks his relationship with Yellowstone.
The wild lands around Bozeman in the early 1980s were lightly trodden. Vast wilderness abounded in every direction. The possibilities seemed limitless. My buddies and I began exploring it, as Hannibal Lecter astutely noted, by “coveting what we see every day,”: the Bridgers, the Gallatin Range, the Spanish Peaks. Next, our outings took us east into the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness. Then, in late spring of 1983, we finally turned south and made a trip into Yellowstone Park. As experienced wilderness travelers by that point, we weren’t expecting our explorations in the Park to be any different than in the areas near Bozeman. We were wrong.
My wife Terry and I squeezed into Huck’s van along with Huck’s then-wife, Shiela, her younger brothers Joe and Ed, and headed for the Fawn Pass trailhead. Early season be damned, the plan was to spend a long weekend hiking to Fawn Pass, then bagging a peak in the southern Gallatins.
The sign sent a shiver through the group. We all looked at each other, counting in our heads as each made certain that our number was in fact six.
The large metal sign that greeted us less than a mile up the trail was our first indication that the Yellowstone backcountry was different. It read: “Warning: backcountry travel only recommended with groups of five or larger,” or something to that effect. It sent a shiver through the group. We all looked at each other, counting in our heads as each made certain that our number was in fact six. We continued up the trail. A blast of rain and sleet hit a short time later, so I set up the tent right off the trail and the six of us huddled inside to wait it out.
Once the storm abated, we packed up the tent and continued our hike. That’s when we began noticing bear tracks everywhere. It was muddy, and many of the tracks were deep and filled with water—as though the bears had walked through during the storm. Other bear sign included scratches and fur on nearby trees. We proceeded with caution, and as we did, we started running into snow patches that grew steadily larger. By the time we reached the trail connecting Fawn Pass with Bighorn Pass, one drainage to the south, the snow proved too deep to continue our objective. We turned onto the connector and camped in a small meadow on the ridge between the two watersheds. That’s when things got freaky. We could hear the bears. They stayed out of sight, but they were nearby. We kept the fire going well into the (thankfully short) spring night. None of us slept much. In the morning, we packed up, headed to Bighorn Pass trail, and turned back toward the road.
As we approached the Bighorn Pass trailhead, there was another connector trail that ran along the forest-meadow interface not far off the highway. I volunteered to hike the trail back to retrieve Huk’s van. Moving cautiously, I walked past some moose that were busy enjoying the greening willow tips. Shortly after passing them, I decided to cut a diagonal across a meadow where the headwaters of the Gallatin River formed.
The creek braids were nestled in chest-high brush, and I had to pick my way through. I turned down a promising avenue only to find it blocked by a rather large bird–a fully-grown sandhill crane—standing more than three feet tall. “Oops, sorry for the intrusion,” I said, as I backed away and headed to the next gap in the brush. But the bird flew over the brush, blocking my path and squawking with a menacing, “You shall not pass,” sort of vibe. I tried again, it followed again, and the “You shall not pass!” squawk was now crystal-clear. Trying once more, I bolted right, hoping to do an end run around the bird. Enjoying the advantage of flight, however, it flew over the brush and stood in my path. I stopped. “You shall not pass!” Okay birdie, this is your home, you win. I started a retreat back to the forest. It followed, flying over me, squawking its annoyance. Each time it passed, I sucked my neck down into my shoulders, hoping to put my head out of reach of its talons. When I finally reached the safety of the woods, I turned around, raised my fist, and vented my frustrations. Argh! The bird flew off, and the moose looked up for a moment, then settled back onto the tasty willows—only five months to fatten up before the next winter. I followed the trail back to the van.
Trying once more, I bolted right, hoping to do an end run around the bird. Enjoying the advantage of flight, however, it flew over the brush and stood in my path.
The experiences on that trip soured me on the Yellowstone backcountry for the next few decades. The belief that there were scary birds and bears hiding behind every bush did not quickly fade. I moved away in the fall of 1984, but made regular pilgrimages back, continuing to backpack in the Rockies and Pacific Northwest, but never planning another trip into Yellowstone. I found plenty of other national parks and Wilderness areas where we spotted the occasional bear, but never felt threatened.
Nearing retirement, I moved back to town in 2020. My wife Terry and I started taking regular trips to Yellowstone, and I found myself increasingly drawn to the backcountry. I began by trail running beyond the geyser basins up onto the caldera rim. In July 2023, I swallowed my fears, said “screw it,” and solo-bagged Electric Peak. The following Memorial Day, I backpacked into the Park with a small group of fellow enthusiasts—all without issue from the resident wildlife.
Now I’m finding that I love being out there. Yellowstone is beautiful, and the variety of animals in the backcountry give it a special feel. It helps that I haven’t run into any bears, and all the sandhill cranes I’ve seen have been at a distance. I’ve heard their trills, but none have squawked me into retreat. Nowadays, the Park seems less threatening—though bear spray still helps.
