Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  Amid that landscape, part Hell, part Eden, lived as great a diversity of wildlife. Sprawling herds of elk and bison roamed the countryside along with moose, mule deer, antelope, bighorn sheep, mountain goat, and lesser creatures too numerable to count. There were also predators: the wolves, mountain lion, black bear, and the great grizzly. Mankind rounded out the massive Yellowstone community. Tucked away in the far northwest corner of Wyoming, Yellowstone was more than a national park. It was a multinational city encompassing some of the most rugged, beautiful, and awe-inspiring natural wonders of the North American continent. The complexity of the place, and his position in it, filled Glenn's thoughts as he drove toward Mary Bay on Yellowstone Lake.

  A shakeup in the Park Service two years earlier had created many administrative changes in Yellowstone. Now, nearly everyone in authority, including him, was of a younger, more aggressive breed. Glenn was proud of his position as chief ranger, but the adjustment from being out on the streets to jockeying a desk had not been an easy one to make. On the day of his promotion, a retiring ranger had told Glenn, “The Niagara River is just as calm below the falls as above… but the transition can kill you.”

  “That it can,” Glenn said, remembering those wise words. He realized he was talking to himself and laughed. “Just don't start answering.” He drove past the substation next to Roosevelt Lodge and waved at the ranger just starting his morning shift. At times Glenn missed patrol work, particularly when administrative paper shuffling got heavy. Then he would take a reality check in his patrol vehicle. But not today. Today would be no joy ride.

  Glenn thought of the dead bear awaiting him near Mary Bay. His staff had already been scrambled in response and he knew they were capable of doing their jobs effectively. Franklin, one of his best rangers, would be in charge of the initial investigation. Still, Glenn wanted to be there. Grizzly bear was on the Endangered Species list and that might draw a lot of bad press. Besides, capturing poachers was one of Chief Merrill's personal priorities. He fed the carburetor extra juice.

  In nine years with the Park Service, Glenn had seen all there was of human decadence, but he hated poaching most of all. His job was handling humans in a predatory world. But poachers were a different animal altogether; a detestable species. There were four lower classifications; those who poached animals for meat, those who poached for the heads and hides as trophies, those who killed for commerce, and the despicable fourth variety that merely relished death. The first two were simple criminals; too lazy and self-important to secure their meat and trophies through legal channels. The fourth was completely beyond his understanding. How anyone could kill a creature as majestic and beautiful as the grizzly simply to watch it die was, to Glenn, unforgivable and insane. The third type of poacher, the man who killed for money, the human animal empowered by need and greed, was in a sad way understandable. An Asiatic market for natural aphrodisiacs made elk and black bear an especially common target. Antlers and gall bladders, too, drew big dollars from overseas. The men meeting these wants were vicious and cold-hearted, but rational; they were the most dangerous poachers of all.

  A bear had been poached at Mary Bay, but what kind of a poacher was responsible? That question churned in Glenn's head and heart as he rounded the curve at Tower Falls and started south on the long pitched climb toward Dunraven Pass.

  *

  Ranger Franklin was a young go-getter who always started his patrol shift early. He was on the road and ready to respond when he received the call. Within fifteen minutes he had crossed Fishing Bridge and was looking for the site of the bear kill. It was not hard to find. Six cars and two trucks with campers had already converged on the spot. The anxious tourists mingled, taking photographs and chatting about how such a thing could happen. Morbid situations attracted people like flies to putrid meat, a fact that burned Franklin to no end. Why didn't they just go see Old Faithful, he wondered.

  He parked his white Blazer on the shoulder of the road, called dispatch for help with traffic control, and began dispersing the crowd. Although it was still early in the morning, the traffic from Cody through the east gate made it clear it was going to be another busy day in Yellowstone.

  *

  A young couple at the trailhead on Dunraven Pass flagged Glenn down. They were planning a day-hike around the upper elevations of Mount Washburn and wanted information on the conditions on top.

  “There is always the chance for unexpected storms this late in the year,” Glenn told them. “It's been a good year so far, but lightning can be a hazard up high. Watch the weather.”

  Dunraven had been opened late that spring, owing to a heavy winter snow that the cool summer had melted very slowly. Though it was the end of summer in the valleys, it was pushing toward winter again in the high country. He gave them the customary advice on rock slide dangers and unstable soils during rainstorms, told them to stick to designated trails, then wished them good luck and a good day.

  Starting down the opposite slope, south toward Mary Bay, Glenn noted the abnormal temperature. A cold spell was settling into the area. He made a mental note to give notice to the troops at roll call; they'd need to keep a special eye on the rivers and creeks. The waterways were another dynamic of the wild that tourists were unable to comprehend; as inviting as the wildlife and just as dangerous. They were running high that fall throughout the park, and any heavy rains could mean his troops spending time fishing for drowning victims.

  Glenn decided to make what he could of the poaching situation by breaking in one of the park's new staff members. They had yet to meet, but he understood the new biologist did good work. He grabbed the radio mic. “Dispatch, One-oh-one.”

  “One-oh-one,” came the metallic voice from beneath the dash. “Go ahead.”

  “That new biologist,” Glenn said. “I think they call him J.D., is he on today?”

  “Ten-four,” dispatched answered.

  Glenn could have sworn he heard laughter in the background. “Send him down to Mary Bay. It should be good experience. I'll meet him there.”

  “Ten-four, chief.”

  Again the laughter. He would have to talk to them about screwing around on the radio. A lot of visitors carried scanners and it didn't sound good. Glenn parked his white Suburban behind Franklin's Blazer and stepped out into a cold wind coming off the wide expanse of Yellowstone Lake. Fall was beautiful, Glenn thought as he buttoned his jacket, but the first breath of winter already had a bite.

  Franklin seemed to have things well in hand. The poaching site had already been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape and two rangers were carefully scouring the interior for evidence. Patrol vehicles were stationed on the road, both east and west of the site, directing the bottle-necked traffic. As each visitor's car passed the site, they slowed to a crawl and strained for a glimpse of whatever had caused the excitement. Glenn felt like stopping each and every one. It would do them good to see how some people treated the park's resources.

  Franklin was bent over the grizzly's carcass taking notes, as Glenn stepped up. The bear lay sprawled, a dark mass of lifeless fur and muscle. The light colored tips of its hairs proclaimed that the bruin had paid his dues and survived a lot of tough years. The coat was still damp, apparently from a recent bath in the lake, though it could have been a nearby river or a creek. Having rolled on the ground while fighting for his life, the wet fur had been coated in a thick layer of dirt and mud. Blood permeated the fur of one shoulder, coloring the mud a dull maroon. Part of the skull was missing, leaving a large stain in a halo around what was left of his scarred and time-worn face.

  “Morning, Frankie,” Glenn said. “What's the scoop?”

  “Morning, chief,” Franklin said, standing. “This is Bear #113; a real old patriarch. It looks from the surrounding sign like he'd been scrounging for a meal across the road and along the lake shore. He was making a break for the tree line when someone plugged him. More than likely they drove up to watch the bear, he dashed, and they shot him from the
window of their vehicle.”

  Glenn grimaced as if he'd been jabbed in the gut.

  “That isn't the worst, chief,” Franklin said. “It looks like the bear wasn't killed with the first shot. I'd guess it broke his shoulder. You see how the vegetation is torn up around the body? He fell and was rolling around when the trigger man stepped out of the vehicle, walked over to about there, and put a second bullet into old #113's brain. We found remnants of the slug buried in the dirt under the bear's head. It must have made a nasty mess on the inside because there isn't much left of it.”

  “Anything to go on?” Glenn asked, disgusted at the picture Franklin had drawn.

  “Well, yeah,” Franklin said. “When the poacher chambered his second round, he did it right there. The first casing was left behind. They apparently spent some time admiring their work, too, because we found two empty beer cans. I've got that stuff bagged and ready to send off for analysis.”

  “Good work,” Glenn said, shaking his head. “I'm going to nose around a little. Keep at it and see what else you can find.”

  Glenn crossed the road to the edge of Yellowstone Lake. Bear tracks decorated the shoreline. He stared off toward Stevenson Island, as if the lonely clump of lodgepole pines in the middle of the slate blue water held answers to his questions. The chief was thankful people like Franklin kept coming into the ranks. Once you'd been in the business awhile, you lost faith in your ability to make a difference. New blood always helped. Glenn remembered the early days when he, like Franklin, had been ten foot tall and bulletproof. He'd come out of college with all the answers, and then from the academy with all the weapons, ready to save the world. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. Franklin would soon learn you solved a lot fewer of these cases than you'd care to remember, but it was a lesson he'd have to learn on his own. Glenn's job was to keep the rangers motivated and working.

  He lifted a rounded stone and threw it far out into the lake. Maybe we'll get lucky this time, Glenn thought. Looking out across the great expanse of water, he noticed the thunderheads building over West Thumb; a storm brewing and headed their way. He thought of the couple on Dunraven Pass and hoped they heeded his advice about watching the weather.

  He turned toward the road as another Park Service rig pulled up behind his own. Glenn came out of his sullen mood as he watched the petite young woman jump down from the government pickup. She was five-foot-four maybe, blonde, and pixie-ish. She couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds, he thought, with rocks filling the pockets of her drab green coveralls. His first impression, that she looked like a child's doll, burst as she slammed her truck door, turned, and strode to the scene of the bear kill like a three hundred pound wrestler crossing the ring. Curious, to say the least, Glenn headed over to meet the new face.

  “Chief Merrill,” Franklin said. “Meet Jennifer Davies, wildlife biologist.”

  “I prefer J.D.,” she said, extending a hand. Glenn looked as if someone had hit him in the head with a ball bat. “Is there a problem, ranger?” J.D. asked in mild irritation.

  Glenn smiled, realizing the joke was on him. “No problem at all. Glenn Merrill. And that's chief ranger, little lady.” His hand swallowed hers.

  J.D. shook it stiffly, but there was no greeting in her greeting. “I am a woman. And small,” she said with controlled menace. “But `little lady' isn't going to cut it, chief.” She added his title at the end as if it was a sneeze.

  Franklin turned, hiding a laugh.

  “No harm intended,” said Glenn. “My apologies.”

  “No blood, no foul,” J.D. said. “Now, can I ask why I'm here? This is a law enforcement problem and I've got a lot of my own work to do.”

  Glenn paused to collect his thoughts. Miss Davies didn't waste any time and that was good, but this first meeting was not going as he'd intended. “I understand your workload,” he said, choosing his words. “But you'll find soon enough that there will always be more work than time in Yellowstone.” He offered a smile that was not returned. As being friendly seemed to be getting him nowhere, Glenn decided instead to just be in charge. “I asked you here,” he said, “because it will help you to better comprehend the big picture. None of us work in a vacuum and, unfortunately, this is a side of wildlife management, too.” He pointed. “That's a bear. You're a bear biologist. Maybe you can teach us a few things. Maybe you'll learn something yourself. At worst you'll get a break from the routine.”

  J.D. nodded curtly then returned her attention to the other ranger. “So what do we have here?”

  Franklin gave J.D. the rundown, almost word for word as he had to Glenn. The chief stood quietly by, sizing up this new biologist and cursing the political correctness that made working relationships so complicated.

  A honking horn diverted Glenn's attention. He turned to the road where the line of gawkers continued passing slowly by. Four vehicles back in line, laying on the horn of his monster travel trailer, sat the obvious malcontent. The heavyset, middle-aged man pounded his steering wheel, gesticulating wildly like a frantic mime behind the huge windshield. The driver's side window soon came down and the man began shouting at the overtaxed ranger directing traffic on the road.

  Glenn sighed, shook his head and, like the sky to the south, clouded over dark. Why did they always have to be in such a hurry? The vehicle, bearing Texas plates and pulling an expensive SUV on a car caddie behind, passed with its horn still splitting the air. It was just another visitor with more dollars than sense.

  J.D. knelt to examine the carcass. “Does this happen here regularly?”

  “Not often with grizzly,” Glenn said, returning his attention to the scene. “But name any animal in the park and I can take you to a spot where we've had one poached. Some years you'd think we were operating a shooting gallery. It's a real problem.”

  “What are the chances of catching this guy?”

  “Unless we come up with a good eye witness,” Glenn answered. “Slim to none.”

  “Why?”

  “For starters,” he said. “Our list of suspects include any one of three million visitors, none of whom live here. Most visit for less than a day and a half. A large percentage of those don't live in the United States. We have locals from as far away as three hundred miles. Then there are seasonal employees, not only for the park, but for the concessionaire; they come from all over the world. On top of that, we've got one rifle casing and two beer cans as evidence. It's hardly an open and shut case.”

  “Welcome to Yellowstone,” Franklin added.

  For the next hour and a half, J.D. watched the rangers work. She was glad the chief had asked for her. She hated the fact a bear had died senselessly, but she was definitely learning a few things. They found two witnesses but their usefulness was questionable. The elderly couple, staying in the Fishing Bridge Campground, thought they saw a suspicious vehicle. Of course, the gentleman added, they lived on a farm outside of a small town in Kansas. Most everybody seemed suspicious to them. They thought they'd heard shots. The old man had wanted to investigate but “mother” wouldn't hear of it. Their statements were taken for the reports and, “Yes, ma'am,” if they needed anything else they'd contact them. The scene of the kill was searched, searched again, photographed, and searched once more for good measure. That finished, it was time to remove the bear.

  Glenn found J.D. sitting on the shore of Yellowstone Lake, with her back to the ant farm activity of the crime scene. “You're going to freeze out here,” he said, approaching the biologist. “It might only be September but the wind off the lake can still make a believer out of you.”

  “The air feels good,” she said. “Believer in what?”

  “The raw power of this country,” Glenn said, remembering yet another reason he loved it there. “You okay?”

  J.D. turned to the chief ranger, failing to hide her mild surprise. He actually sounded like he cared. Maybe he wasn't as big a jerk as she'd first imagined. “I'll be all right,” she said. “I just find it hard to
believe this kind of thing happens.”

  “People will always be people. When it gets to you, just remember: if you take the time to let it, Yellowstone will help you cope.” Though he'd delivered it like reading a fortune cookie, J.D. appreciated the sentiment and nodded her understanding.

  Meanwhile, Glenn dropped his tone to that of somber business. “Say, the boys need your pickup to transport the bear. Can I give you a lift back to Mammoth?”

  “Sure,” J.D. said, rising. “Just let me get my pack from the truck.”

  *

  The bear was unceremoniously hefted into the pickup. It would be packaged and sent to a lab in Oregon to be necropsied. Once the pathologists had finished poking, prodding and examining each minute portion of the bear's body, the animal would probably be stuffed and donated to a museum or put on display in a traveling Stop Poaching exhibit. The great leviathan of the mountains, soon to be reduced to the role of a sideshow freak.

  The rangers in charge of traffic control were the last to leave the scene. Get the vehicles moving, restore the traffic flow, and then off to the next problem. And then there were none. In ten minutes the roadway was clear, save for the usual progression of tourists on their way to Old Faithful and parts beyond. They'd have a big day ahead of them. They would watch the geyser spout, buy a T-shirt for the kids, grab a bite to eat and a bumper sticker for the car as proof they'd gone “back to nature.” Then they would drive like there was no tomorrow toward the closest exit. They were on vacation and there would be no time to waste.

  Bear #113 had simply become another statistic.

  Chapter 3

  The carcass of Bear #113 was in good hands for shipping, and the collected evidence had been properly stored. Glenn and J.D. climbed into the Suburban and drove out of the parking lot of the Lake Village substation. They headed north, with Mary Bay shrinking in the distance behind and silence filling the cab.