Free Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me by Kristen Chandler Page B

aspen means more beaver habitat, which means more streambeds holding together and more fish. When there are more fish and the streams are healthier everything is healthier.”
    “You talk too much, Mom,” says Virgil.
     
    Shortly after the licking episode the entire pack breaks camp. We sit in the turnout, glued to the scopes, hoping they’ll come back, but they don’t. I lose track of time. We go back to the car and eat an early lunch, then wander around to a few other pullouts with no sign of activity. I start looking for other wildlife, watching the water, wondering what the fishing is like today.
    We move up to Dave’s Hill by Slough Creek. I spot a badger in the field below, so Virgil and I leave Eloise and scurry down through the rocks.
    A trumpeter swan circles over our heads. Its thick call echoes in the valley. The swan’s honking is joined by the clickety-clack of a sandhill crane and the trilling of the meadowlarks. In the pond below we can see cinnamon teal and loons circling on the water. All but the swan will be gone in a few days. The trees and grasses are coated in the fall light. The ground has that worn gray look it gets right before it snows. I see fish rising in the pond as the sun starts to set. This would be romantic if Virgil didn’t think of me as a homophobic bumpkin.
    He’s fixated on the badger. “I got a shot of him but it’s no good. He went underground.”
    “Sorry,” I say.
    “Life’s too short,” he says, smiling.
    “I am sorry, Virgil.”
    Virgil puts the cap on his lens. “I’m going to run down and see if I can get a shot of those teal.”
    I find a rock to sit on while Virgil entertains himself. Eloise is nowhere to be seen. I let the slanted sunlight move across as I work on my article. I keep seeing Number Forty-Two licking Number Forty. It makes my skin crawl.
    What is the story here? If the wolf I saw die this summer was killed for backing down, why is Forty-Two allowed to stay with her pack for the same behavior? And if the outnumbered wolf I saw this summer had resisted, would things have been any different?
    We move to a hill near Tower Junction. Virgil gets a great shot of a beaver on the river. The Wolf Mafia is out in full force this evening, along with a few locals. Everybody’s looking for a show.
    We stand on the hill watching a meadow across the road that Eloise says has been popular this fall with the elk. She stands patiently assessing everything in her field of vision. I watch her percolate with understanding. In a weird way, she reminds me of my dad. I shudder.
    After twenty or so minutes, she says “Rose Creek pack, dead ahead.”
    I see five wolves in my scope, but the fading light makes it difficult to see them in detail. Three of the wolves duck into the grass then reappear at the edge of the elk herd. The leader runs at one of the smaller elk and the others follow in a flanking formation. Their running is smooth, connected, and tight. Invisible rhythm.
    The leader lunges at the elk’s hindquarters, and the elk bucks and kicks. The wolf holds on for an instant and then is thrown to the ground. The other wolves jump to replace the alpha, but they’re not fast enough to get their dinner. The injured elk moves to the center of the herd and the herd jogs to safer grazing. It’s all over in a few seconds. The wolves head up into the trees away from the elk with the leader galloping full steam.
    Eloise says, “Did you see that? That alpha got kicked square in the chest and he just popped up like toast. That’s fast food the hard way.”
    “Doesn’t that hurt him?” I ask.
    “Absolutely,” says Eloise. “Most wolves don’t live past their sixth birthday.”
    I fade to the back of the crowd while people in front of me start to put away their scopes. I feel someone watching me from behind so I turn around. There on the ridge above me, less than thirty feet away, are six magnificent wolves standing in a row. They are watching us watch them.
    I