“How did you get into wolves?”
The question came from the woman in front of me on a fourteen-passenger bus in Yellowstone National Park in the middle of winter. My husband, Richie, and I were on a three-day “Winter Wolf Discovery” excursion, and while everyone on the tour loved animals — the woman in front of me was an avid birder — we discovered that not everyone was as into wolves as we were. When our guide Vanessa began to explain the history of wolf restoration, Richie and I nodded along: the last Yellow wolves were killed by 1926; in 1995-1996, thirty-one Canadian wolves were reintroduced into the park; twenty years later, there were 528 wolves in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem and, as of December 2021, at least 95 wolves in the park. Old news for wolf nerds like us.
How had we gotten into wolves?
For me, wolves smell like the carpet of my fourth-grade classroom. I remember sitting on the rug, in my school in Concord, Massachusetts, while my teacher read Julie of the Wolves. I immediately loved the story of this young indigenous girl and her family-like relationship with wild canines — there was something so human about the wolves. I went on to read sequels Julie and Julie’s Wolf Pack, and other wolf-y titles: Never Cry Wolf, Child of the Wolves, White Fang. As I got older, the books just changed: American Wolf, Once There Were Wolves, Wolfish.
When I fell in love with Richie, of course he also loved wolves. We traded Rick McIntyre’s Alpha Wolves of Yellowstone series, crying together over the death of Wolf 8 and the love between Wolves 21 and 42. Even though scientists avoid anthropomorphizing — thus the Yellowstone wolves having numbers, not names — I found it impossible not to see my feelings and relationships in these wolves.
They were so human, yet otherworldly — at least to me. I grew up in Massachusetts, which hadn’t seen wolves for over a century by the time I was in fourth grade. Reading about their size (the largest member of the Canidae family), speed (they can run up to 40 miles per hour), skills (a howl can travel nine miles), and power (wolves have a bite force of 400 pounds per square inch) — I was in awe. My perception of wolves might have been different if I grew up on a ranch in Montana, but wolves were like dragons and unicorns. Seeing a wolf in the wild would be like catching a glimpse of Nessie in Scotland. Only after reading about how McIntyre helps tourists spot Yellowstone wolves, I realized that this was something possible to do.
McIntyre began working for the National Park Service as a Wolf Interpreter in Yellowstone in 1994, dispelling myths about the animals. Once the wolves were reintroduced in 1995, he helped visitors observe the creatures. He has taken everyone from celebrities to Make a Wish kids to see wolves. McIntyre has recorded over 100,000 wolf sightings, more than any other person in history. He saw a wolf every day for six thousand, one hundred, and seventy-five days. He became famous for his line: “Hello, my name is Rick McIntyre. Would you like to see a wolf?”
“I wish I liked anything as much as Rick McIntyre likes wolves,” Richie said once. I agreed. Even the things I love — writing in my journal, doing yoga — don’t happen every day. “I can’t think of anything I’ve done for six thousand days in a row,” Richie said. “Sleep?” I wasn’t even sure of that.
I was also impressed by the fact that, like me and Richie, McIntyre had grown up in wolf-less Massachusetts, and now he was the person who had seen the most wolves. If it was possible for him, maybe it was possible for us.
So, I Googled “wolves + Yellowstone.” I called Yellowstone Forever and booked two spots on a “Winter Wolf Discovery” tour. I was excited but anxious — the flight to Bozeman would be my first since pre-COVID, and I was nervous about the group aspect. After a year-and-a-half as lone wolves, I was hesitant about a new pack. Richie was nervous about something else.
“They say never meet your heroes, right?” Richie said. “What if they’re… boring?”
I understood. I’d met authors I’d admired, only to discover they were not as kind in person as on the page. It was crushing to learn something you loved turned out to be not as special up close. But I didn’t think that would be the case here.
“Richie, how can they be boring? They’re wolves.”
***
In late December the sun doesn’t rise in Yellowstone until 7:58 a.m. On the first day we left the hotel at Mammoth at 6 a.m. to drive to Lamar Valley, thirty-plus miles away. Our guide, Vanessa, heard about howling near the Tower Ranger Station. Other buses were already there — the National Parks Service estimated wolf-watching tourists bring in $35 million annually — and people were peering at the snowy landscape. As Vanessa set up our scopes, a member of our group spotted a paw print. It was bigger than any I’d seen — larger than the palm of my hand. Vanessa nodded: “A wolf definitely, likely a male.” I tried to hold my breath steady. I peered out onto the snowy mountains sure the wolves were out there — I just had to find them.
What I hadn’t realized is how much standing around is involved in wolf watching — a lot of adjusting scopes, chit-chat with other tourists, snacking, sitting in vehicles to warm up. At one point, I went on the bus to get toe warmers. While lacing my boots, I heard pounding on the window.
“He’s here!” Richie shouted, pointing at a black Honda driving away: “Rick McIntyre!”
I joked we might run into McIntyre, but I didn’t believe it. Watching the SUV, I felt a similar awe to when I’d seen the paw print. I loved wolves, but I also loved reading about wolves. Here was the man who had brought wolves to me.
“There he is!” Vanessa finally shouted, and our group rushed to the scopes. At first glance, all I saw was a furry black rock. But then the rock raised its head. Large black ears swiveled as the enormous snout sniffed the air, before bedding down. Vanessa said it might be the male who left the paw print. I gasped.
I looked out from behind the scope at the landscape. Trees, brush, rocks, snow — and it was still dark. Finding that black form felt like a miracle. I had that fluttery feeling when you ask a famous author to sign your book.
The smell of the carpet in my fourth-grade classroom flooded my nose.
***
“I don’t know if the weather is going to cooperate,” Vanessa warned us the next day. Snow was coming. While winter is the best time to view wolves — easier to spot against the snow, bears are hibernating so the wolves are not in competition — there are other challenges in Yellowstone in December. In Lamar Valley, we pulled onto the shoulder, waiting for the snow to clear. Vanessa handed out photographs to explain the history of the reintroduction wolves, telling the story about Wolf 8 — an alpha male who adopted the puppies of Wolf 9, after her original mate had been shot by a hunter. Richie and I nodded. People asked us for book recommendations.
We had lunch and waited, but visibility was still bad. Vanessa suggested we snowshoe. Plus, she added: “I have something I want to show you. Do you want to see Wolf 9’s den site?” Richie and I hurried to strap on snowshoes.
When we reached the tree line, Vanessa pointed up to a large hole, collapsing from weather and neglect. Still, the group fell silent — even the avid birders were becoming wolf nerds.
There is magic about the parallelism of spaces — to visit the childhood home of a favorite author, to stand in the same rooms, to sit at their desk. You feel closer, and I was walking in the wolves’ footsteps.
***
As we boarded the bus the third and last day, a tense hush fell. This was our last chance to see more wolves.
Near Slough Creek, we pulled over to investigate rumors of a hillside carcass. Nothing. More cars pulled over, including a black SUV. “If we don’t see any more wolves,” I told Richie, “I want to meet the person who has seen more wolves than anyone else.” McIntyre’s books had inspired us to come to Yellowstone; I wanted to thank him.
“Are you,” I began, knowing the answer, “Rick McIntyre?”
After he confirmed his identity, I gushed. Richie said he cried when he finished The Rise of Wolf 8 on a Cape Cod beach. McIntyre smiled, “You’re from Massachusetts?” He asked about our favorite wolves; he pointed out the site of a famous Wolf 8 battle. I thanked him. “We don’t want to bother you,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” McIntyre said. “Any time you see me, feel free to ask questions.” I glowed learning someone I admired turned out to be just as great, maybe better, in real life.
***
By afternoon, we still hadn’t seen more wolves. We started to make our way to Mammoth. I tried not to be disappointed. At least we’d seen that one the first day — after all, the tour was called “Winter Wolf Discovery” and not “Winter Wolves Discovery.”
I was accepting this, when Vanessa turned the bus around.
“I heard Rick on the radio,” she said. “He’s spotted some animals.”
The Slough Creek lot was now full and Vanessa said, “Grab the scopes! I’ll meet you!” As the group gathered equipment and Vanessa tried to park, we saw McIntyre. He waved. “Set up your scopes,” he told us, “and I’ll set them on the wolves.”
I looked at the white snow, brown sagebrush. How could anyone find wolves? Richie set up his scope, and McIntyre peered through. “There you go,” he said. “I’ve counted thirteen.”
Richie looked and fell silent. Then I looked, and there they were. A whole pack, lounging in the snow. Brown, gray, black, fur rippling in the wind. Most of the Junction Butte pack! One wolf moved to sleep next to a different wolf. A couple perked up and looked in the same direction. One wolf stood, dug at the snow, and then lay down.
I handed the scope off to another member of our group; I heard her gasp. McIntyre has said his favorite moment is showing visitors their first wolves and hearing them shout, in all languages, “I see them!” It’s one thing to love something; it’s another to share the thing you love with people who are as excited as you are. It makes you love the thing even more.
We watched for over an hour; the avid birders were smitten. We chatted with other tourists and wolf watchers. Richie and McIntyre looked through scopes side-by-side. I came to Yellowstone expecting to be thrilled by the wolves; I had not anticipated how much I’d enjoy the community coming with it. The wolves and humans were doing the same thing — enjoying being together.
The mythical lone wolf has no need for a pack. McIntyre spent years working at different national parks, moving each season, until he came to Yellowstone. He settled in Silver Gate, Montana, right outside the park; the wolves made him put down roots. Wolves form packs, and humans form packs watching them.
It’s hard to understand why anyone loves anything — a particular animal, a certain book — but what matters is finding people who love it too. “We did not spend our days gazing into each other’s eyes… most of the time our gazes met and entwined as they looked at a third thing,” wrote Donald Hall about his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, after her death. “Third things are essential to marriages… [they] provide a site of joint rapture or contentment.” People can “come together in double attention” on something else. Watching wolves had actually brought me closer to other humans.
Image: photo by Thomas Bonometti on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
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