Standing at the Teepee Creek Trailhead in dark shadow, everything was cold and still. Including me. It was the kind of clear cold that cuts deep and lets you know that winter is never too far away up here in the high country. I pulled an old sweater up over my head, adding to the four layers that I was already wearing. Then I pulled on my gloves. And, finally, a navy-blue wool cap that my mother’s 90-year-old hands had knit me a long time ago. Some memories never fade.

It only got colder as I walked into a valley of soft shadows. I moved quickly to generate heat. A thin layer of frost sheathed the tall grasses of a now faded summer. Once the sun breached the mountains, she would ignite this ice with one touch and everything would flash into a golden dew. But for now, it was a world of frozen crystal. Sound expands and carries easily over both water and ice. The stream on my right was chattering loudly through the meadow as it twisted and bucked its way towards the Gallatin River. After a mile, first-light finally began to breathe some color into the valley. Far up ahead, the thinnest of rose-colored clouds was being pulled gently across the dark shoulders of the mountains like a wedding shawl. It was the magical hour where everything leans into perfection.

I was slightly intoxicated by the pungent smell of sagebrush and the raw beauty of being surrounded by so much untouched land. There is a wide and supreme joy that fills the soul when surrounded by all that is wild and good. In Montana, this is our birthright.

As I crested a gentle rise, the sun suddenly splintered the air, dazzling all creation. But there was something else too. Movement. A moose and her calf were running down the path directly towards me from 100 yards away. At 50 yards I could hear their hooves striking the hard earth, and I began to wave my arms. I spoke softly to them. At 25 yards they broke off to my left and finally slowed down. Then they edged closer.

Something had “pushed” them towards me. I pulled out my binoculars to look for a grizzly bear. Griz’s are very good at hiding in deep sagebrush. But it was not a grizzly. It was a large black wolf, now moving silently and swiftly up the same path towards me. He was 100 yards out and closing fast. At 35 yards the wolf spots me, and immediately breaks into the sagebrush to my right. I can no longer see him. I stop and pull off my gloves with my teeth to get to the bear spray. The wolf emerges 30 yards out and turns to stare at me from a small mound. He is magnificent in the early morning light. I raise my binoculars towards him and suddenly—incredibly— another large black wolf jumps up directly in front of me, from a gully only 10 or 15 feet away! I drop the binoculars and fumble with the safety on the bear-spray. But this wolf jumps out to stand shoulder to shoulder with his twin. They both stare at me.

They are large and powerful and beautiful. And they are menacing. The moose are behind me and the wolves are in front of me. A stalemate. After a while, the wolves begin to canter at a hard angle up towards the ridgeline, which is also the boundary into Yellowstone. They stop to spy me at precise intervals. They leave nothing to chance. They are masters of efficiency and intent. I watch them as they work the calculus of every angle, every approach, every vector back to that calf. They work together in a perfect, synchronized harmony. They stop one last time before they move into the tree line and out of my sight. I continue up to the fork on this trail and find more moose and a bull elk. This confirms the strategy. The wolves had successfully split up this pack of moose and were in the process of trying to separate the calf from its mother when I arrived.

I climb the right fork, which leads me up along the ridge and into Yellowstone. I know that I am being watched from the woods. There was another large bull elk standing at attention waiting for me at the top of the ridge. There was also a pile of fresh wolf scat sitting in the middle of the trail as a reminder of whose home and territory this is. I do not need to be told twice.

Autumn

Two months have passed. I think about those wolves. Often. Some experiences are so unique and so powerful that, quite naturally, they stay with you for a very long time. They are indelible. The images of a large black wolf running towards me at dawn, with another suddenly springing up just in front of me, played on a continuous loop in my mind’s eye. I see their gait, their power, their intelligence. I perceive their cunning.

In the past, I have had extremely close encounters with grizzlies, near here, at dawn. Those encounters have always induced an instant hard fear with an immediate full dump of adrenalin directly into the bloodstream. Grizzlies, when startled, are volatile and unpredictable. Their reaction is never subtle; not at close range. Fear is primary and always dominant in those encounters.

With these wolves there was certainly an element of fear. They are apex predators. But, almost instantly, I was more aware of their intention to utilize strategy over brute force. That finely-honed element in their nature gave me the time, the seconds, to process their intent. That kept my deepest fear in check. The wolves were less volatile than grizzlies, but more shrewd. Every move they made was calculated and in sync with one another. They possessed identical goals and an identical mindset. In 50 years of back-country hiking, I had never been this close to a wolf in the wild. It was remarkable to observe them up close. They are supremely and openly intelligent.

One morning I wake at 4 a.m. I lie there thinking about those wolves again. So, I get up and return to the same trailhead. It is still dark at 6 a.m. and it is even colder now. Heavy fog covers everything like a thick woolen blanket. The fog swirls and dances around me. Visibility is never more than 20 yards.

The mist creates phantom shapes and provokes my imagination. The silence is deep and muffled and tangible. I am reminded of walking alone through heavy snowfall as a child. Falling snow and this fog seem to sing the same tune.

I move up the trail in a world of muted grays and shifting moods. Then, at almost the exact same location as last time, a large wolf is sitting just off trail to my left. He is waiting. He rises and moves to my left. He observes me and then silently moves back deeper into the mist. It is all so dream-like. I wait a few moments and then continue very slowly forward. A quarter mile later, a wolf begins to whimper and yelp in a small grove of evergreens off to my right. Then suddenly, the wolf on my left returns a full throated, piercing howl that shoots electricity directly into my veins and explodes in my heart. He is so close. It is a high, mournful sound that cuts through the fog like a serrated knife. He is warning the pack.

He moves on a hillside, just above me, always using the drifting fog both to hide in and to amplify his sorrowful cry. A third wolf adds to the chorus from deeper in the valley. It is unsettling, yet hauntingly beautiful. I do not move. I cannot move. It is mesmerizing. Everything is frozen in time except that sound. That cold, primordial sound.

I stand there for a long time as they sing over my head. After about 30 minutes the fog hints at thinning but there is still no image or halo of a sun burning through. The wolves finally cease their dirge. All is still. I continue deeper into this valley. It will be another three miles before I climb up and out of the fog. I traverse along the remote Sky Rim Trail for miles. Up high, I am etched against a cobalt blue sky and hallowed by the yellow sun. I look down on the fog and I know that the wild wolves of Yellowstone are running with both vigilance and intent far below. It is wild and it is perfect.