(It occurs to me that this page has many new fans who have not heard the story about how I came to be living outside of the North Entrance to Yellowstone National Park, listening to the wolves howl at every opportunity, so here is a condensed version of the story.)
“Living by ones principles is the harder, more difficult road to travel.” ©debydixon2015
I am not sure if mine is a mind, body and soul connection to wild wolves or if my fascination with the animals and the way they are treated is nothing more than a psychosomatic need for pain and abuse.
In one corner of my mind was my oldest son saying that wolves are evil predators that were forced upon us by the government, while in another corner was a friend suggesting that I spend a winter in Gardiner, MT, right outside of the gates of Yellowstone National Park.
At this point I had been on the road, living in a travel trailer, for more than a year. My goal, when starting out, was to travel to as many national parks as possible on a photographic, educational journey. The plan looked good as it danced in my imagination but the reality of gas prices, camping fees and car repairs – not to mention the many difficulties with the 1977 travel trailer I was trying to live in – caught up to me within the first three weeks of my journey.
Yep, I was sitting in a campground in Grand Teton National Park, which was due to close for the season, with a leaky roof and empty bank account. And, so time for plan B. Extended stays for long-term rates, less travel, volunteer positions in the national parks and a miserable winter spent snow-birding in an RV park that was located on the Colorado River in continuously sunny and windy Southern California.
With my second winter on the road fast approaching, and after volunteering at two national parks and a six week stint of caring for the grandchildren, I wanted weather, not endless blue skies.
I had no answers to my son’s bloodlust temperament against wolves, and no desire to discuss a topic I knew nothing about, that reality combined with the thought of a winter in the wilds of Yellowstone, my next destination was chosen for me. My imagination played tricks on me, I later discovered, with dreams of a peaceful winter spent getting great shots of wildlife – particularly wolves.
Yellowstone called out to me in my dreams, disrupting any practical sense of reality that might have been instilled in me during all of the years before. The more that time had flown by the more afraid I had become of the unknown.
But, I was more afraid of the recliner and the television remote with snacks and Kool Aid at my side. Not to mention the declining enthusiasm for life, right along with the withering of my health. Before my present journey began my body had been in constant pain due to old injuries, my eyesight was dwindling and I was going to die at any second, without ever realizing any of my dreams. A wasted life, pacing my living room, before the large picture window that looked out onto my little spot in the world, totally blocked off from the realities of the city by a gaudy bamboo fence, knowing that I no longer belonged amongst the busy streets of civilization. The worst part was wanting to be released from my useless life by a quick death. The recliner, death or national parks were my only choices…
The first year of travel on the road had not been ideal by any stretch of the imagination. I enjoyed being alone with only the sounds of nature filling my senses. My time volunteering in Yosemite and North Cascades had filled me with a sense of purpose while giving me those quiet solitary moments free of sirens, honking horns, screaming people and drama. Not to mention that my body was no longer filled with pain. I had found a home in the national parks where everyone was welcome, but could I do a winter in the harshest climate of all – in Yellowstone National Park?
The question of Yellowstone dogged me until I watched a winter time, quasi documentary film by Bob Landis. I watched the wolves run across the snowy landscape, playing and hunting and just the memory of those scenes, now, fill my eyes with bright stars. I remember cringing when the wolves killed the coyote dad in the film, the same as I do when watching in real time, and wondered how in the heck he followed that same coyote female down to Hayden Valley, and even further south, to den and have her pups. Later, I learned that it was called “artistic license,” but the point was that I felt alive again. In my mind I saw myself crouched down in the snow as the wolves ran towards me, unaware of my presence, capturing great action shots with tongues dangling, spit flying and white teeth leading the hunt.
It was the wolves that my son hated so vehemently that sealed my fate in the late Fall of 2012 when my SUV left his home and my four amazing grandchildren, and headed south on I-95, destination Yellowstone. The film did not tell me if I would fall in love with the wolves, or if I would end up agreeing with my eldest. But, it did tell me that I would learn and answer the questions for myself, based on my own experience. I had scheduled six months in Gardiner, MT and my goal was to learn everything possible about the wolves, never dreaming that years later I would still be learning during my daily visits to the park.
Deby Dixon
*All written and photographic content on this page is copyrighted and can not be used without my permission. Do not copy, paste or remove watermarks. deby
©debydixon2015
