When the Mormon settlers walked and rode from the Midwest to Utah, they determined the best route into the Salt Lake Valley to be one that the Donner-Reed party had broken in 1846, a path that led from the Wyoming territory south and west through Echo Canyon. The pioneers then traveled up a long, rather gentle grade to a hill called Hogsback—a short, steep climb and descent. Next came a few miles of creek-laced path, until Big Mountain jutted into view. The final trial. The name came from Shoshone who lived nearby, and was uttered with respect. At its base they circled left, choosing the most manageable path up the side of the steep, dramatic ridge. For the next half century, wagon tracks dug deep into the earth were scars traveled by those who followed. Today the hillside is brush-covered, those tracks all but healed, and a paved road climbs a different face of the mountain. At the mountain pass, 7,400 feet above sea level, the original pioneer path and the tarmac meet in a graveled parking lot where cyclists and motorists often pause to absorb the view. Hill after hill fall away, each layered with growth both ancient and new. As far as one can see to the east, the south, the west, statuesque mountains—snowcapped peaks luminous for much of the year—rim the horizon.
At Big Mountain’s crest, the pioneers tied logs to the backs of handcarts and wagons. They descended a steep ravine that wound past rocks and trees, the descent easing after a tense mile. Logs were removed. They could now proceed downhill without fearing gravity’s speed would spill or overturn their carts.
Today’s two-lane road takes a different route down, switching back and forth, hairpin turning a time or two or three. Red dirt hillsides, scrub oak, grasses as tall as my waist. Tightly woven nests hide in branches, creek water trickles over mossy rock. It is this, the western side of Big Mountain, that I cycle up and down most often, that fills me with wonder, that I still consider wild. Half of the year, the top six miles on either side of the pass are gated and closed—no winter maintenance. These months, from late November to mid-May, are the months I find myself most in love with Big Mountain. I am often the only human on the road, surrounded by the intensely un-quiet quiet of this environment that is almost untouched, whether astride a bicycle before snow buries the road, or on snowshoes or skate skies once the asphalt disappears. No, Big Mountain isn’t truly wild, but it’s the closest thing to wild that I’m able to access an hour away, by bicycle, from home.
Mark is driving again, and we’re miles northwest of Yellowstone, far outside park boundaries, traveling through a state that loves, hates, and spends a great deal of time and energy managing wolves. Montana.
Snow-tipped mountains edge the plains, their valleys rocky and steep. The road rises through a pass chiseled into umber rock. Where sheer faces aren’t exposed, where soil has burrowed into cleft and crevasse, the hills sprout green. Grasses, brush, pine, leafy aspen. Soon Hellgate Canyon winds narrow, each larch-covered hillside leaning into us. Sunlight barred, duskiness presses as we drive alongside the tumbling Clark Fork River and cross the Blackfoot River’s crashing core. I suppress my breath. Around the bend light shatters the gloom and Missoula beckons. Rooftops glint. I blink. We cross the Clark Fork again, again, each time whetting my appetite. We hug a brown dust hillside, then exit the freeway and enter a city that borders land inhabited by more than forty packs of wolves.
The next afternoon, Mark, Kirsten, Liz Bradley, and I are in Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks’ tiny Missoula office building, in the conference room because Liz’s office is so packed with desks, chairs, and cabinets that there isn’t room for all of us. We sit in large wheeled chairs around a boat-sized table, the space behind each of our chairs only enough to squeeze through, one hip against chair, the other touching wall. Wolf packs, forty-five of them, are depicted on the large wall map by black stars. Liz is one of six wolf biologists in the state. Her job is partially funded by the federal government, a funding stream that will be phased out in 2015, as dictated by state and federal agreement.
A tall brunette with straight, shoulder-length hair, Liz is athletic and unpretentious. If she’s wearing makeup it’s invisible. However, I’m not sure of her real feelings about anything we discuss. Liz says the bulk of her job consists of outreach and education in an effort to help people adjust to the 2011 law that removed wolves in Montana from the endangered species list. With the delisting came management plans that include hunting and trapping. And a lot of politics. But Liz isn’t worried about the wolves’ overall numbers.
“Wolves have great long term viability—they breed quickly, and travel great distances. They’re going to continue spreading, they’re going to survive.”
“What about the hunters? They are quite vocal in their opposition—do they have a valid argument? Do ranchers?” I ask.
“As for the effect on the total game population, there have been local impacts, for sure. Wolves are a part of that. We’ve added one more mouth to feed out there. However, weather has an even greater impact on game populations, always has. You really have to look at every small area, case by case, before you can label the cause of the population change. We’ve gone through waves of panic, and of depredation—some cattle, sheep—but now things are settling a bit.”
She speaks calmly and her statements are thoughtful, rational. It’s difficult to imagine anyone on either side of the argument taking offense, or even disagreeing with her.
“What do you, though, Liz, think about wolves coming back onto the land?” I ask.
She makes it clear her response is personal, not Montana FW&P’s position. “We’re trying to make a place for wildlife on the landscape. To do that, we need to build tolerance for wolves, which means setting hunting and trapping guidelines, allowing that for hunters. There also has to be some control. Some way for ranchers to feel supported, heard. And we do all of this both for perception, and for real management needs.”
I feel her walking a line, a line every state wildlife agency employee understands. She knows where her agency’s funding comes from: hunting tags. Montana hunting and fishing licenses brought in forty-eight million dollars to the state in 2014. Liz knows it’s hunters who provide the bulk of funding for her miniscule, overcrowded office, this cramped conference room with its exposed brick walls, and the helicopter which takes her out on observation and collaring missions, where she’s able to actually put her hands on those loved, feared, and hated canines. She admits the department is missing input from wildlife lovers and watchers. Almost all of her interactions are with hunters and ranchers. Hunters who pay for her department’s existence and ranchers who side with the hunters, at least as far as wolves are concerned.
I’m curious about the time she spends outside of these walls, away from paperwork and politics.
“I keep learning, all the time,” she says, her eyes brightening. “I do observation flights frequently, counting wolves, counting pups. They really are charismatic—they’re fascinating animals. And they share so many traits with humans—I think that’s why we’re so drawn to them. Collaring wolves is an experience without equal—there’s nothing like it I’ve ever done in my life.”
Doug Smith had described experiencing the same excitement Liz feels. After twenty years in the park, researching, studying, and processing wolves, he’s never lost the thrill, that powerful response to seeing a wolf, let alone touching and working with one.
“What would it be like if wolves were to move into Utah, Oregon, Washington, Colorado, in a significant way?” I ask Liz.
“Going through the public uproar is just part of the process,” Liz replies. “Most Montanans really value their landscape; they love the land and the wildness of it. Take the Bitterroot Valley, as an example. It’s well-populated, diverse. Ranchers, hunters, retirees, people living in trophy homes—they’re there because of the beautiful