Shooting wildlife

I stood brushing shoulders with the man in the baseball cap as we stared at the elk carcass through binoculars, maybe 60 feet away at the edge of the woods. Terry had set up the spotting scope in the only other vantage point, just behind us, but most of the others were 30 feet away, some sporting telephoto lenses the length of baseball bats. The black bear had left an hour and a half ago, the crowd told us, but one woman who’d been there all day had some prize shots.
We’ve learned the protocol of wildlife viewing. Everyone’s here to view it and shoot it, if only with a point-and-shoot, like me. Tips on finding wildlife are shared generously, and it’s bad form to be blasé about someone’s first moose, even though they frequently wander through your campground practically within reach.
Volunteers with the park service set up spotting scopes for all to use, and dispense a wealth of information, along with herding viewers off the highway as 18-wheelers fly by. But the photographers with the big expensive telephoto lenses rule the roost. They plant their tripods in the prime spots, taking up a big chunk of real estate for the duration, and even if they’re chatting several feet away from their cameras, one clearly must ask their permission to step into their viewing spot.
So the guy we were with had found the only other vantage point, and being late arrivals we joined him.
Huge flies buzzed over the carcass and a raven landed in a nearby tree.
“So the bear’s gone?”
“Oh no, the bear’s there. She’s just moved and is lying down behind the elk.”
“But they said…” I realized the crowd’s prime viewing spot was prime no longer. Then something moved. A round black ear. The bear.
Of course we didn’t tell the smug ones, but spoke sotto voce among the three of us.
“Is that…?”
“Yes, a foot.”
Then the head appeared. The bear was tagged, and wore a collar. She scratched behind her left ear like a dog. We were enthralled.
A young blond woman joined us, but the bear was out of view. She and her husband had viewed sunrise at the Oxbow, then headed up Two Ocean Road, a prime bear spot. We’d been up there several days ago, realized that was the place where we’d ridden our bikes and seen bear tracks the last time we visited years ago, but saw nothing. They’d arrived at the lake at the end of the road soon after first light, heard a loud roar very nearby, and as they headed for their car, the bloodcurdling screams of “something being torn apart.”
“And I thought I’d wanted to see a bear,” she said as she walked away.
In front of us the bear rolled over. Four paws in the air.
The bull elk had been there two days, probably killed during the rut by a rival, a ranger said. The area was closed off with plastic tape like a crime scene.
Another woman arrived and we all squeezed together so she could get a look. An RV passed slowly and we all smelled it at once: “They’re leaking propane.”
But within minutes we realized there’d been an imperceptible shift in the unfelt breeze and we were smelling the elk. There was a crashing through the underbrush so close we jumped. Then the eerie bugle of an elk – very close. The bear was up instantly, sniffing the wind, big black nose twitching. Then she was on point, staring into the clearing beyond the trees. Within seconds, an enormous bull elk trotted through the clearing, impressive rack held high. Could it have been the victor, checking to see whether his rival had been permanently vanquished?
We all thought it may have been.
…………………

We returned to Gros Ventre campground in the darkness, exhilarated. Driving along the river where we see bison each day, we dimmed our lights at the approach of an oncoming car, lessening our field of vision. Just then, from the corner of my eye, I caught a moving shadow, Terry slammed on the brakes and the herd was upon us, crossing the road within feet of the front bumper, the big bulls, as always, stopping dead in the center of the road and giving you the stink eye.
Now when we come home after dark we drive extra slowly. We’ve decided to call this busy road Gros Gauntlet.
Over 100 large animals are killed yearly by cars in the park, and hitting a 2,000 pound bison would probably kill your car.
Next installment: we see our grizzly.
Photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/happytwo.mcwilliams/TetonScenics#5252205664191238610 and http://picasaweb.google.com/happytwo.mcwilliams/Yellowstone#5252212187166229682