Yellowstone Standoff
Read Yellowstone Standoff Online
Authors: Scott Graham
This is a work of fiction set in a real place. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Torrey House Press Edition, June 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Scott Graham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written consent of the publisher.
Published by Torrey House Press
Salt Lake City, Utah
E-book ISBN: 978-1-937226-60-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015945496
Cover design by Rick Whipple, Sky Island Studio
Interior design by Russel Davis, Gray Dog Press
Distributed to the trade by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
For Kirsten, Mark, and Anne
,
my respected Torrey House teammates
.
Contents
S
he saw them only as a result of happenstance and thin air.
The most remote place in the lower forty-eight
, the three friends had crowed to one another via email. They would ride in on horses, enter the park from the south, head up Trident Peak from there. A dude-ranch vacation with a day climb tagged on.
They'd planned the trip for July, but busy schedules pushed it back to October. They hadn't understood that the park's grizzlies would be in the midst of their pre-hibernation feeding frenzy by then, on the lookout for anythingâor anyoneâcapable of adding to their monstrous caloric intake. The horse packer pointed out four of the massive creatures during the ride in from the south, all, thankfully, in the distance.
The wrangler dropped them with their gear high above tree line on the Absaroka divide, south of the peak. He departed at the head of his string of horses with the promise to return in two days, muttering to himself about the hunting parties he needed to resupply.
As with the grizzlies, they hadn't realized how thick with elk hunters the area would be this time of year. They'd thought their camp would be in the national park, where hunting was illegal. That's where the peak was located, after all. Actually, they admitted to each other upon consulting their map following the wrangler's departure, the summit of the massif was located across the park boundary a mile north.
A rifle shot cracked beyond a sloping ridge. Two dozen big, blocky elk topped the ridge and galloped across the divide, a pair of antlered bulls in the lead, making for the safety of the park.
After a freeze-dried dinner, they hunkered in their tent atop the divide through the night, blasted by wind and rain and ice pellets. The morning dawned calm and clear. They packed up camp and climbed hard and fast, leaving the grizzlies and elk hunters below.
She took a break a hundred feet below the summit, preparing herself for the final push behind the others. She planted her ice axe in the snow and leaned on it, drawing deep breaths, her boots wedged in the snowfield blanketing the ridge.
Yellowstone Lake spread expansively to the north. The Absaroka Mountain Range rose from the lake's near shore and spilled out of the park to the east, an immensity of granite and tundra skirted by conifers.
Thorofare Creek snaked across a flat, upper basin at the foot of the massif's west face. A grizzly, little more than a brown speck, foraged in a meadow beside the creek a mile below.
A tight drainage climbed east away from the creek between two ridges to the base of the massif. At the head of the drainage, far below where she stood, something unusual caught her eye. Something extraordinary, in fact.
Theyâwhatever
they
wereâstood like soldiers in a straight line, dark spots against bright white, early season snow. From this distance, she could determine with her naked eye only that, based on the uniformity of the line and the consistent shape of the objects, the distant spots were not the product of natural processes.
Someone or something had placed them at the base of the peak, out here in the middle of nowhere, for a reason.
“All my life, I have placed great store in civility and good manners, practices I find scarce among the often hard-edged, badly socialized scientists with whom I associate.”
âEdward O. Wilson,
Pulitzer Prize-Winning Evolutionary Biologist
G
rizzly bears are unpredictable creatures. When they're surprised in the wild, they're as likely to rip somebody to shreds as they are to run the other way.”
Yellowstone Grizzly Initiative junior researcher Justin Pickford, recently of Princeton, didn't really understand what he was saying. But as a brand new member of the park's grizzly research program, he clearly was pleased with the opportunity to say it.
“In the case of the Territory Team,” Justin went on, “it just so happened the bear wanted to rip somebody to shreds.”
Chuck Bender, junior even to Justin as a Yellowstone National Park researcher, looked the young man up and down. Justin wore the requisite park researcher outfitâsturdy hiking boots, Carhartt work jeans, untucked flannel shirt, and bandana headband, with bear-spray canister and all-purpose folding knife sheathed to his belt at his waist. While Justin's clothes and gear looked like those of his fellow scientists in the Canyon Ranger Station meeting room, his scrawny, reed-thin physique did not. During the next weeks in the park's rugged backcountry, Justin would bulk up to match the broad shoulders, trunk-like legs, and concomitant stamina of the three dozen more experienced researchers in the room. If he couldn't cut it, however, he'd be gone, back to the computer-tapping, paper-pushing world of academia on the East Coast.
Justin leaned toward Chuck and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Have you seen the footage?”
Chuck glanced around the log-walled room. Folding chairs lined its scuffed, pine-plank floor. A platter of chocolate chip
cookies and a three-gallon dispenser of lemonade sat on a table in back. The researchers were half Chuck's age, in their mid- to late twenties, roughly two males for each female. They visited with one another in small groups, cookies and plastic cups in hand, waiting to take their seats upon the arrival of Yellowstone National Park Chief Science Ranger Lex Hancock.
Chuck turned to Justin. “From two years ago?”
“Yep. The fall before last.”
The video had been yanked from the internet the instant it appeared.
“Can't say as I have,” Chuck said.
Justin's blue eyes glowed. “Want to?”
Chuck hesitated long enough to convince himself viewing the infamous footage qualified as worthwhile research that would add to his store of knowledge as he pursued the questions awaiting him at the foot of Trident Peak. He nodded. Justin headed for a windowed door leading to the building's side porch.
Reflected in the glass door, Chuck's attire matched the other scientistsâhiking boots, work jeans, flannel shirtâthough his shirttail was tucked and he needed no bandana to keep his short, thinning hair in place. The reflection displayed his lean, weatherbeaten frame and the deep crow's feet cutting from the corners of his blue-gray eyes to his silver-tinged sideburns.
On the porch outside, the chilly air bit through Chuck's cotton shirt. It was eight in the evening, the second week of June, the days long and lingering here in the northern Rockies. The sun, a white disk behind a veil of stratus, hung above a tall stand of Engelmann spruce rising beyond the parking lot to the west. He drew in his shoulders, shivering. Back home, at the edge of the desert in the far southwest corner of Colorado, daytime highs were in the nineties by now, and the nights, while
crisp, weren't anywhere near as frigid as here in Yellowstone, where the last vestiges of winter held sway even as the longest day of the year approached.
“Let's make this quick,” Chuck told Justin, rubbing his palms together. “Hancock will be here any minute.”
Justin fished his phone from his pocket. “The video-frame sequence is every three seconds, but the sound runs in real time. That's what makes it so brutal.”
The young researcher swiped the phone's face with his finger. “Martha forwarded this to me.” Martha Augustine served as logistical coordinator for the park's research teams. “Said I should see it before I decided for sure if I was in.” He tapped at his phone. “It happened in upper Lamar Valley, at the foot of Pyramid Peak.”
“A long way from where we're headed,” Chuck said.
“Thirty miles at least,” Justin said, nodding. “With the lake in between.”
He held up his phone and stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuck. A paused video feed filled the phone's tiny screen. The trunk of a tree framed one side of the shot. A sweep of meadow, brown with autumn, filled the remainder of the frame. Green lodgepole pines blanketed a hillside on the far side of the grassy meadow.
Justin punched play. A rasping noise issued from the phone's small speaker. Chuck frowned.
“That's the griz,” Justin said. “Snoring.”
A sudden grunt broke in. The bear had awakened.
“The Territory Team showed up,” said Justin. “They were just doing their job, comparing carnivore biomass consumption in various pack territories. Blacktail Pack had taken down an elk at the base of Pyramid a week before. The wolfiesâ” he used the informal term for the park's Wolf Initiative team members
“âhiked in and rigged the camera to film the pack's behavior around the carcass. The two of them were coming back to retrieve the camera and find out what they'd managed to record. Little did they know, the griz had chased off the wolves and was sleeping right on top of the kill.”
Chuck flinched when a dark shadow covered the video feed. When the video advanced to its next frame three seconds later, the shadow drew away to become the back of a grizzly bear's broad, brown head.
The bear remained still through the video's next three-second frame, its unmoving head captured from behind by the camera, the fur on its neck standing straight up, its stubby ears erect. A distinctive, V-shaped notch cut to the base of its right earflap.
Over the sound of the bear's gravelly breaths came unintelligible human voices, those of a young man and woman. The tone of their conversation, relaxed and jovial, was of co-workers comfortable in one another's presence.
The young woman laughed, a high-pitched peal, and the bear's head dropped from view. The animal growled deep in its throat, the pitch so low it rattled the phone.
The woman's laughter cut off. “Bear,” she cried out. “There! See it?”
The bear reappeared on the video feed. The grizzly's body, thick and muscular, stretched full out as it sprinted toward the voices.
Chuck's heart tattooed his chest at the sound of the bear's harsh breaths as it charged.
The young man hollered, “Whoa, bear!”
The next screen shot captured half the bear's body as it angled out of the picture, running flat out across the meadow toward the off-screen man and woman.
The grizzly woofed, a dog-like exhalation of warning.
“Stop!” the young man yelled. “I said
stop
!”
Chuck sucked a gulp of air, his throat stiff. The man's exclamation should have given the bear pause. Instead, the bear woofed again, the sound farther away, and the video feed returned to a serene shot of the meadow and forested hillside beyond.
A terrified screech from the young woman came over the speaker, after which her voice and the young man's united in a powerful, “No!”
“Stop!” the man cried out a millisecond later. Then, under his breath, “Get behind me, Rebecca. Back up.”
A savage roar shook the phone's speaker.
