The wild lands around Bozeman in the early 1980s were lightly tread. Vast wilderness abounded in every direction, exploration possibilities were, and still are, abundant. We began, as Hannibal Lecter astutely noted, by “coveting what we see every day:” the Bridgers, the Hyalites, the Spanish Peaks. Our next explorations took us east into the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness. In June 1983, we finally turned south, and made a trip into Yellowstone.
We were by now, experienced wilderness travelers; we didn’t expect our experience in Yellowstone to be any different than it had been in the other areas surrounding Bozeman. We were wrong.
Terry and I squeezed into Huk’s van along with him, his then wife, Shiela, and her younger brothers Joe and Ed, and headed for Fawn Pass Trailhead in the northwest corner of the park. Early season be damned. The plan was to spend a long weekend hiking to Fawn Pass, bagging a peak in the southern Gallatin Range, before hiking back out.
The large orange metal sign that greeted us less than a mile up the trail was our first indication that the Yellowstone backcountry was different. It read: “Warning: Backcountry Travel only Recommended with Groups of 5 or Larger,” or something to that effect. It sent a shiver through the group. We all looked at each other, counting in our heads as each of us made certain that our number was in fact 6; we continued up the trail. A thunderstorm hit a short time later. I set up my North Face Oval Intention tent right off the trail and the 6 of us huddled inside to wait out the storm.
Once the storm abated, we quickly packed up the tent and continued our hike. That’s when we started noticing bear tracks everywhere. It was muddy. Many of the tracks sunk in deep and were filled with water as though the bears had walked through during the storm. Other bear sign included scratches and fur on trees. We moved forward cautiously, and as we did, we started running into snow patches that grew steadily larger. By the time we reached the trail that connects Fawn Pass Trail with Bighorn Pass Trail one valley to the south, the snow filled the basin and proved too deep to continue. We turned onto the connector and camped in a small meadow on the ridge between the valleys. That’s when things got freaky. We could hear bears. They stayed out of sight, but they were nearby. We kept the fire going well into that, thankfully short, June night. None of us slept much. In the morning, we packed up, headed to Bighorn Pass Trail and turned in the direction of the road.
As we approached Bighorn Pass Trailhead, there was another connecting trail to Fawn Pass Trailhead that ran along the forest meadow interface only a hundred meters or so off the road. I volunteered to hike this trail and go get Huk’s van. I walked past some moose that were busy enjoying the greening willow tips. Shortly after passing them, I decided to cut a diagonal across the meadow. I knew that I would have to cut across the braided creek that was the headwaters of the Gallatin River by making this diagonal, but I was anxious to reach the van.
The creek braids were nestled in chest high brush, and I had to find my way through the braids and the brush. I turned down a promising avenue only to find it blocked by a rather large bird. It was full grown Sandhill Crane standing more than 3 feet tall. “Oops, sorry for the intrusion,” I said as I backed away and headed to the next gap in the brush. The bird flew over the brush, blocked my path and squawked with a menacing “You Shall Not Pass!” sort of vibe. I tried again. It followed again, and the “You Shall Not Pass!” squawk was now crystal clear. I had been moving steadily left. This time I bolted right, hoping to find another gap and do an end run around the bird. It though enjoyed the advantage of flight and the straight line of travel that it provides. It once again flew over the brush and stood in my path. I stopped. ‘I’ it seemed, ‘Shall Not Pass!’ “Okay birdie, this is your home, you win,” and I started to beat a retreat back to the forest. It followed, flying over me, at me it seemed, squawking its annoyance at my intrusion into its space. I sucked my neck down into my shoulders each time it passed hoping to put my big round hairy target out of reach of its talons. When I finally reached the safety of the woods, I turned around, raised my fist, and vented my frustrations. “Ahhh!!!” My intrusion, after all, had been unintended. The bird flew off, the moose I had passed, looked up for a moment, then settled back onto those tasty willows—only 5 months to fatten up before next winter sets in. I followed the trail to the van.
The experiences on that trip soured me on the Yellowstone backcountry for the next few decades. The sense that there were bears hiding behind every bush and scary birds did not quickly fade. I moved away in the Fall of 1984, made regular pilgrimages back, continuing to backpack in the Rockies and Pacific Northwest, but never planned another trip into Yellowstone. I found plenty of other national parks and wilderness areas where we spotted the occasional bear, but never felt threatened.
Nearing retirement, we moved back to town in 2020. Terry and I started making regular trips into Yellowstone, and I found myself being drawn into the backcountry. I began by trail running beyond the geyser basins up onto the Caldera Rim; in July 2023 I swallowed my fears, said fuck it, and solo ran/climbed Electric Peak, and on Memorial Day weekend 2024, I backpacked into the park with a small group of fellow enthusiasts. I am finding that I love being out there. Yellowstone is beautiful, and the variety of animals in the backcountry give it a special feel. It helps that I haven’t run into any bears; I’ve seen Sandhill Cranes at a distance and heard their trills, but none have squawked me into retreat. The park seems less threatening, bear spray helps.
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