A Walk on Yellowstone's Wild Side
I remember Bergholz’s feelings toward that wolf on my last evening in Yellowstone. I stand under the dome of a winter’s night completely dedicated to the sparkling of stars, the toasty warmth of my cabin just a few crunch-cold steps away. The night bends beneath a broad silence, reminding me that silence once suffused this valley. From 1926—when the last Yellowstone wolf pack was taken out at Soda Butte, not far from where I stand—until 1995 it would have been folly to expect to hear anything at all.
But on this night the silence is different, loaded and expectant. And then I hear it: The howl of a wolf floating from across the valley, piercing the great darkness. The lone, dolorous notes seemed not lonely, but insistent with hope. It seemed a song of knowing—knowing that if it kept being sung, it would be answered. And then it was—another howl drifted beneath the stars.