“We take what happened at Mary Bay very seriously, I assure you. And we're not talking about a hunter; we're talking about a poacher.”
“Ta-may-toe, ta-mah-toe,” the reporter said with a smirk.
“I'd love to help untwist your perspective, Mr. Lark. Unfortunately, I haven't the time. If you'll excuse me.” Glenn walked away leaving the bemused reporter behind. Already surly, that little interview had not improved his mood and the chief ranger's outlook was positively overcast when he turned the corner and saw his office door ajar. Like the weather outside, he entered ready to blow.
Glenn's office occupied the northeast corner of the administration building. Its two picture windows opened out onto the ridge running from Mammoth down toward the Gardiner River and the steep slopes on the opposite side in the Gallatin National Forest. Glenn loved the view but that morning there was nothing to see but a wall of falling water. He wasn't interested in views, at any rate, and the windows might just as well have been bricked over.
Two men sat in overstuffed chairs by a coffee table inside his office door. One was Pete Lincoln, an old-timer with more years as a Yellowstone ranger than anyone – ever. He'd been offered the chief's position several times and had always turned it down. He was good at what he did and had no interest in office politics or administrative wrangling. Glenn valued his boundless knowledge and, even more, his common sense. Lincoln stood as Glenn came into the room. “Morning, chief.”
“More good news?” Glenn asked, heading for his desk. He plopped into his chair before realizing the man still seated was not on his staff. Definitely not. He was a stranger and looked like a mountain man; shoulder length brown hair and a scraggly beard ripe for nesting in. “I'm sorry,” Glenn said, standing again and rounding the desk. “I'm afraid the day didn't start on solid ground.”
“Dave Lambro,” the stranger said, introducing himself. “I don't imagine we're going to improve your footing any.”
“Chief,” Lincoln said. “Mr. Lambro is the photographer who was on-scene at Black Warrior Lake when the visitor from Texas died.”
“Please, sit down.” Glenn grabbed a third chair and joined them at the coffee table.
“We developed and returned most of Mr. Lambro's roll,” Lincoln said, laying down a manila folder. “But I thought you ought to see these.”
“Let's take a look.” Glenn opened the folder and examined, in detail, the 8x10 color photographs. Halfway through the stack he looked to Lincoln with a befuddled expression. “Where is it?”
“The bear?” Lincoln asked.
“Yes, the bear. Where is it?”
“It's not there, chief.”
“I can see that,” Glenn said. He leafed through the photos again, dropped them to the table, and frowned in Lambro's direction.
“I know what you're thinking,” the photographer said defensively. “But I also know what I saw, Chief Merrill.”
Nuts, Glenn thought. Right back to square one.
“Look,” Lambro said, his voice rising in desperation. “You guys have got to believe me. I shoot images for a living and I make a good living doing it. I've worked in fog, rain, snow, any weather condition you can imagine. I'm no stranger to bear in close situations and I know what I saw.”
“So how do you explain these?” Glenn asked.
“I can't. This isn't possible.” The three men stared silently down at the photograph atop the heap. There in vivid color was the image of Stubby Ewing preserved forever. The Texan was on all fours trying to escape his position on the boardwalk. He was looking over his left shoulder, in utter terror, at… nothing. Lambro tapped the image. “The man was attacked by a bear,” he insisted. “And it was charging from right there when I took this photograph.”
There was nothing under Lambro's finger but a cloud of swirling fog and rolling mist.
Chapter 6
Psychologically speaking, where you were in Yellowstone depended upon where you'd come from. Some folks might have been on Interstate 89, others on US Highway 287, but the tourists aboard that particular bus, out of Jackson, Wyoming (sixty miles to the south), and Rock Springs the day before, to their way of thinking, were on US 191. It was all the same road headed through the park from the south entrance. The driver eased the bus to a stop along the shoulder, just west of the Lewis River.
A uniformed guide stood beside the driver, turned to the back, and looked over the sea of balding heads and beehives of white, silver, and blue hair. He grabbed a microphone, to be heard over the sound of the slapping windshield wipers, and cleared his throat. “Our schedule allows no time for detours and little time to stop,” he told his charges. “But we will pause here for just a moment. To the right of the bus is the Lewis River and, beautiful as it is, that tends to grab everyone's' attention. But, just now, if you look out the left side of the bus, onto the slope above… I know it's a little hard with the rain but it's worth the eye strain. You'll see a sight even more beautiful, I think; one of the herd of elk that graze throughout Yellowstone. I envy those of you with binoculars because this is a rare sight for most citizens of the United States.”
The passengers, some with field glasses, crowded the windows for a glimpse. Two hundred yards from the roadway and on the edge of a clearing on the timbered slope rising above them grazed thirty-five cow elk, yearlings and calves of the year. Though beyond the tourists' hearing, the elk mewed and chirped to one another, conversing as they milled about, too preoccupied with filling themselves on the last meals of fall to be concerned with the rain that soaked the ground beneath their hooves.
Three bull elk, carrying small sets of antlers and little experience, circled the herd. While the intent was passing their hereditary seed to any cow coming into the breeding cycle, they were too intimidated by the mature bull that patrolled his harem's perimeter to chance an encounter. Like moons orbiting a planet, they remained just far enough away to avoid confrontation while waiting on a young lass to escape through a bedroom window. As a simple reminder of the butt-whooping that awaited brave upstarts, the herd bull periodically uttered a loud, piercing bugle and guttural grunts – the male elk version of `I dare you to step across this line.'
Sadly, there were other magnifying optics trained on the elk. From the thick timber on that same slope and a hundred yards further from the road, a single lens found its mark. The soft focus of the searching rifle scope settled in on the master of the herd; shoulders set, neck-muscles bulging as he sparred with a small pine, the massive dark antlers stripping bark and breaking branches in a display of fighting acumen. The focus hardened and became crystal clear as Bass Donnelly's eyes adjusted to the magnification. The image cleared and a well-defined set of black crosshairs settled over the sweet-spot on the regal animal.
The air brakes on the tour bus were released. The engine revved. The tour group was on its way. First, a picnic lunch at Lewis Lake. Then souvenir gathering at the Grant Village shops. Of course, the elk were a topic of conversation aboard the bus, and would be for another three or four minutes.
From within the timber, now disappearing behind the exhaust fumes of the bus, echoed a single report from the rifle. None would recognize the abrupt percussion beneath the patter of the rain and the rumble and belch of the laboring bus's engine. The body of the herd briefly scattered, kicking up divots in their momentary panic, but the majestic bull remained in place. His shoulders and back hunched upward as the projectile found its mark. His front legs kicked as his heart exploded and his lungs ruptured. The wapiti king dropped to the ground. A single involuntary kick was the last movement and the words deadly silence had optimum meaning.
“Well, looky there,” Donnelly crowed. He lowered the rifle and looked to his mentor for approval.
Ten yards away, Meeks spit a gob of chaw, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, turned to the boy and winked with pride. That was one fine shot for his first commercial hunt, not counting that gol-darned bear, of course. Yup. That was an impressive shot.
*
> The confluence of Miller Creek and the Lamar River lay in a lush valley to the northwest of Saddle Mountain, deep in the heart of Yellowstone's backcountry. To Glenn, the place represented the closest thing to Heaven on Earth. To Bear #264, it represented the Siberian Steppes. The backcountry was where nuisance grizzlies were sentenced when they got into trouble elsewhere.
Bear #264, as far as the United States Forest Service was concerned, had become a nuisance. A three-year-old male, Bear #264 had turned south when his mother decided he was old enough to fend for himself. The grizzly version of “get out and get a job, you bum.” An inexperienced wilderness vagrant, he wandered throughout an impressive portion of the millions of acres available to him in four National Forests and two National Parks in Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. Finally, Bear #264 ended his search by taking up housekeeping along Pacific Creek in the Bridger-Teton National Forest.
*
Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Grabonski of Ames, Iowa thoroughly enjoyed their day of touring in Jackson, Wyoming. They had visited every shop Stanley could possibly endure; at least a dozen, he swore, were carbon copies of one another. They each had picture postcards of jackalope, toy bows and arrows, rubber tomahawks made in Taiwan, cheap shot glasses made in Japan with elk and deer tattooed on their sides and, of course, sweatshirts and t-shirts with glorious renditions of snowcapped mountains and pristine lakes hand-printed in Mexico.
The galleries were more to Stanley's liking. Such beautiful depictions of the western way of life, and wildlife, he had never before seen. When the Misses found a bronze that was perfect for their living room, Stanley nearly fainted at the ten thousand dollar price tag. “Mother,” he told her. “Corn prices have never been that good.”
They took each other's picture in front of the famous elk antler arches on the Town Square and the Missus asked another passing tourist, an elderly Asian gentleman, to take a picture of them together. Though his English was poor at best, the message was finally conveyed and he gladly snapped their photo. The Grabonskis remained an additional thirty minutes paying back the gesture by taking pictures of the old fellow and half of his tour group.
They watched a delightful wildlife film at the museum. They looked out over the most impressive National Elk Refuge where, too bad, the elk had yet to gather. They headed north again, among the parade of vehicles from every state in the Union, to “Ooohhh” and “Aaahhh” at the magnificent vista afforded them along the drive flanking the Teton Range.
At the Grand Teton National Park Visitor's Center in Moose, Mrs. Grabonski asked a ranger where they might find a less crowded place to park their camper for the evening. Although they had certainly enjoyed the tourist attractions, she explained, they really wanted to commune with nature in a rustic setting. The ranger understood and, wishing more folks would take that approach, offered directions to a location few visitors would find without the inside tip. Pacific Creek, she said, was the perfect place to get a real taste of the wild while still enjoying the comforts of trailer camping.
Mrs. Grabonski was delighted with the helpful lady ranger and repeatedly told her husband so as they made the drive up the unpaved road; first through sagebrush, then beautiful green and white aspen stands and, finally, thick lodgepole pine forests. She was so excited by the trip she forbade Stanley's stopping to read another of those tourist kiosks along the road. At her insistence, he passed the next board without giving it a second look. It was information outlining proper Clean Camp procedures while visiting in bear-country.
As the lodgepole ceded to cottonwood trees, and Pacific Creek's running waters came into view along the right side of their camper, Mrs. Grabonski chose the perfect site for their night's stay. She cooked like a great chef of Europe (one of the reasons Stanley had married her in the first place). After dining on one of her better efforts, Mrs. Grabonski produced a fresh pitcher of lemonade and the happy couple sat and talked of their day's adventure, until both were too tired to bother with the dishes.
“Leave them until morning,” Stanley said. “They'll keep.”
*
Bear #264 was hungry.
It had been a hard day for him, what with trying to earn a decent living in unfamiliar country. While traveling along the west bank of Pacific Creek, just after sundown, his supersensitive nose picked up a most delicious and inviting smell.
Had they discussed it, Bear #264 would have certainly told Stanley his wife was a most amazing cook. As events unfolded, however, there had been little time for a discussion. The Grabonski's night of communing with nature was cut short when Bear #264 entered their camp and scared three years of life out of the Missus. Stanley, still in his boxers, grabbed the little woman, fired up the old camper, and beat a hasty retreat back to Moose. They left the dishes, their camp chairs, and a half pitcher of homemade lemonade behind. Those items, along with their portable folding table, were spread hither and yon by their uninvited guest.
The friendly raid on the Grabonski's camp had been strike one for Bear #264. As in America's favorite pastime, bears were allowed three strikes before they too were called out. Three strikes meant they were dangerous to visitors and when that became the case there was no choice but to either send them to an animal holding facility, like a zoo, or put a bullet into their head. Few zoos were in need of bears.
The unfortunate part about Bear #264's first strike was that he had been rewarded with human food; that wonderful combination of sweetness and salt that can only be found in places people frequent. Such delicacies were not natural in the wild. Having had a taste, Bear #264 would surely return for seconds if not removed from the area. To keep him in the ball game, it was decided he would be relocated away from human contact. It was the Steppes for Bear #264.
*
The torrential rains had ceased for the moment, and the ride arranged for Bear #264 could finally get airborne. The tops of the pine trees bowed respectfully as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife's converted Huey was eased vertically into position over the drop site. Below the helicopter a box trap, and the nuisance bear it held, depended from an umbilical line that slowly swayed with the last winds of the passing storm and the downdraft of the metallic bird.
An anxious trio waited at the side of a temporarily marked target area set up on a level spot along the east bank of the Lamar River. The group shared a great deal of excitement and no small amount of apprehension.
J.D. was there to attach a radio collar to Bear #264. Although many creatures were adorned in a similar manner, nuisance bears in particular wore the bulky jewelry in order to allow wildlife biologists to track their whereabouts and their behavior. It was a procedure J.D. had participated in many times while working her internship in Alaska. This, however, was her first outing as a lead biologist. She held it together on the outside but inside her nerves rolled like spaghetti in a boiling pot.
Nelson Princep, present as the official observer for Yellowstone Forever, did his best just to stand in place. The downdraft from the copter blades threatened to toss his skinny frame, dress jacket and all, into the fast and foamy current of the Lamar. But he held his ground. Regardless of how ill at ease he felt, he had every intention of protecting the rights of the bear during the operation. It was vitally important the animal be treated fairly in its relocation. Yellowstone Forever knew what was best for grizzly bears. He would see they got what they deserved.
Glenn rounded out the trio as the gun bearer; carrying a 12-gauge Remington pump loaded with slugs. The idea of having to shoot a grizzly appalled him but, if for any reason something went wrong, it was preferable to zipping one of his team members into a body bag.
The last time Glenn administered first aid to a mauling victim, he'd had nightmares for two days. And he'd been on vacation. The victim, a Casper, Wyoming elk hunter, had left his party and gone off on his own in the backcountry of the Bridger-Teton National Forest not far from Togwotee Pass. He'd been sneaking through the woods, like the round-headed hunter in the Warner Brothers' cartoons, and had accidenta
lly come upon, and startled, a grizzly. As was its nature, the bear charged the hunter. That was when the guy really screwed up.
Had the hunter stood still, the bear would most likely have recognized he was not being threatened and halted his charge. At the worst, had he played dead when attacked, he'd have probably gotten off with a couple bruises, a few superficial bites, and one heck of a scare. The hunter chose, instead, to try to scare it away. Already threatened, the bear felt no relief in seeing a screaming, contorted creature bounding around in its territory. Consequently, it continued its charge. The animal closed to within eight feet before the hunter decided to shoot.
There was no doubt, the hunter was packing knockdown power. He had a .375 H&H bolt-action, the heavy-duty artillery used by outfitters to kill bears in Alaska. But bears are faster than most would believe. That fellow had left himself a fraction of a second to draw a bead and fire. Whether or not he hit the bear was never determined. He failed to kill it immediately, guaranteeing his being creamed by nearly a half-ton of enraged wildlife.
The animal had been left without a choice. He lunged, taking the hunter by the left arm and driving him into the hard ground. The bear then released him, considered his options and jumped back aboard, sinking his teeth into the hunter's head. Several critical facial bones gave way under the pressure and one of his eyes vacated its socket. When the hunter quit moving, the bear released him.
Amazingly, the guy survived. Following the bruin's departure, he managed to fire his weapon to attract the attention of his hunting buddies. Glenn and a lady friend, with whom he'd been hiking, arrived on the scene shortly after. The elk hunter was evacuated by helicopter and treated to three hours in a surgery theater at the Casper Medical Center to help him remember the backcountry rules.
Now, Glenn and his team waited in silence as the chopper lowered the trap. When the crate was safely on the ground, J.D. disconnected the umbilical line. The flight crew reeled the line back in, gave a thumbs up when it was secured, and lifted their craft vertically. The bird banked right, to the north, and disappeared down the length of the Lamar leaving them in quiet save for the roaring river and the whistling wind.
Apparition Lake Page 6
