January 1995
Nez Perce elders Horace Axtell and Allen Pinkham Senior offer prayers for the first wolves to be released in Idaho. Great Falls, Montana. January 11, 1995
Credit: USFWS
Despite his warning that his vehicle would be the first under fire, I was riding shotgun with Steve Magone, a federal wildlife law enforcement agent, in his truck headed into the frozen Idaho backcountry. He was likely the only person in the whole convoy behind us with the means of shooting back if we encountered the armed ambush rumored to be waiting for us on the road ahead. I was also fascinated by his profession -- protecting endangered species through undercover missions, stalking poachers, and bringing these federal criminals to justice. We slowly crawled along the steep icy road above the frozen river below. The road was growing slicker and deepening concerns that a vehicle could slide off the road and into the river. It was too narrow to turn around so orders were passed down the line to remove our seatbelts. We'd survive a slow crash into the hill or ditch on north side of the road but we needed to be prepared to avoid being trapped inside a vehicle if it slid south off the road and into the freezing river below. A snowplow driver broke trail in the sections ahead of us where the snow was too deep to navigate. As we descended to the lower elevations, the driver pulled over and let us pass, our precious cargo still safe in the shipping kennel in the bed of the truck. The wild wolves inside the kennels had already been caged there far too long.
The first four wolves destined for Idaho in 1995 had arrived two days earlier transported inside individual large metal kennels lined up in the back of a commercial moving van. Using a commercial van helped avoid drawing unwanted attention of an unfamiliar federal vehicle in a small town. These four wolves would be the first to be released into the wild as part of the 1995/1996 federal reintroduction of wolves to central Idaho and Yellowstone National Park. The wolves had been captured by wildlife biologists near Hinton, Alberta, Canada and then flown to Montana where federal agents waited to drive them the rest of the way. Eight other wolves in the first shipment were on their way to Yellowstone National Park in the back of a long horse trailer where they would be greeted like celebrities. The Idaho wolves had special visitors waiting to greet them too when they were unloaded from the plane. Two elders from the Nez Perce tribe offered songs of blessing and special prayers for the wolves returning to their homeland in Idaho. After centuries of persecution across the West, the white man's poison, traps and guns had eradicated these creatures, but now they were returning home.
I was in route to Salmon, Idaho where the wolves were being transported. It was closest town to the national forest release site chosen by the US Fish and Wildlife Service, the agency in charge of reintroducing the wolves to Idaho and to Yellowstone National Park. My friends Roy and Sally Farrar were traveling from Boise with me to make sure I "didn’t find my way into any trouble” as Roy put it. I had only been working for wolves for 7 years at that time but had already several dangerous encounters with people who didn't share our love of wolves.
Roy was a western singer with the heart of a poet and Sally, his more practical bride, lovingly kept his feet on the ground. When I told them I was going to Salmon to release the wolves, without hesitation Sally declared they were coming with me. We often found ourselves in unusual situations on our wolf trips and I was grateful for their company. The night before we departed, I had a strange dream that I shared with them on our long drive. A black wolf looked up at me from a few feet away and then snapped and bit my left arm. The bite wasn't painful but it surprised me, I explained. After a few moments of silence, I heard the low rumble of laughter coming from the driver's seat. Amused, Roy looked back at me through the rear view mirror and made his usual snarky comment about me growing a wolf tail someday and Sally just chuckled in agreement under her breath.
The drive from Boise to Salmon weaves through some of the most beautiful scenery in North America as it passes through stunning mountain ranges like the Sawtooths. On the way, we drove by the Forest Service road turn off to Bear Valley, and I thought of the wolves that had been documented there only four years earlier. In 1991, there were no known resident wolves in Idaho but some occasionally dispersed from Canada and northwest Montana. We hoped someday enough wolves would disperse and become the foundation for a new population. During the summer of 1991, we received a cluster of sightings in Bruce Meadows, a popular place where rafters and kayakers passed through on their way to float the wild Salmon river. It's one of the most popular whitewater river running trips in the West. Campers in the area reported hearing wolves though those reports weren't entirely reliable since most people can't tell the difference between a common coyote and the extirpated wolf. But then a short video emerged of what looked like two wolves running through the underbrush in Bruce Meadows.
It was on the trip back home on June 11, 1995 from a wolf meeting in McCall, Idaho where the wolf recovery team had viewed the video with great interest. It was rough footage hastily shot but the two animals captured certainly appeared larger than coyotes with big broad heads, smaller rounded ears and long legs indicative of wolves. Bear Valley was only a few hours detour and I had my tent and sleeping bag with me. After managing a wolf monitoring volunteer field crew for several summers in Bear Valley, I knew the area intimately. We found large tracks in the area that were wolf size just a few weeks earlier so my hopes were high. At dusk, I arrived near the spot where the video was made and watched the meadow for a while. No movement. I checked the road for scat (wolf droppings) before scouting for tracks along the river banks where the mud was still soft. No tracks.
Standing near the bridge over Bear Valley Creek, I tried a new howling technique that my friend Kent Weber had suggested during a school presentation he gave in Idaho. Kent and his wife Tracey Brookes founded Mission:Wolf in Colorado and had brought their ambassador wolves “Shaman” and “Sila” to help teach Idahoans about wolves, a species long shrouded in fairy tales, misinformation and propaganda. It’s one thing to read about wolves in lore and myth but the dark connotations of childhood stories would instantly fade when students met the wolves in person. Everyone was in awe of the beautiful black wolf Shaman but it was silver wolf Sila who stole my heart. Often, Kent would invite me to lead the group of students in a closing howl and Sila would sometimes join in. Howling with her was such a primal, soulful experience. It was during one of those events that Kent explained that while my howl was good, wolves “say something” in their howls. He suggested that I try the same. So, standing on that Bear Valley Creek bridge at twilight surrounded by mountains and trees, I thought “Where are you?” when I howled this time. Once, twice, three times and then listened for a response and waited as a few minutes passed, I howled three more times and then listened again, clutching my tape recorder in my hand to capture any response. There was none. Only an owl hooted and a few other night birds responded but no howls. The full moon was rising when I gave up and walked to my campsite a few hundred feet away.
Twenty minutes later, I was stacking fallen branches for my little campfire when the whole forest suddenly filled with a chorus I had never heard in Idaho. Their howls were aimed at the spot where I had been howling for them. I froze and listened to their first howl fade away. "That's wolves! That's wolves!" was shouting inside my head. As they began their second howl, I found my tape recorder and managed through tears and a few cuss words under my breath to turn it on. I was immediately grateful that my young son Noah had pressed a handful of fresh batteries he had pulled from a favorite toy into my hand before I left on this trip. Without those batteries, I wouldn't have been able to record what happened next.
Again, their chorus filled the woods around me. I stood up and held my recorder toward the howling. The second howl ended and then silence. I waited. A minute or two went by. Nothing more. I felt compelled to respond and without thinking, I howled “Where are you?” again. This time, I was only midway through my howl when the wild chorus responded. As their collective howl began to wane, I howled again. This time only one mature-sounding wolf howled back as my howl waned. Our howls overlapped each other several times in what felt like the world stopping while we sang back and forth to each other, each round lifting my spirit higher. Suddenly, two sharp barks rang out. The wolves fell silent and my next howls were unanswered. I listened again. Wolves use warning barks to alert each other to danger. Did they finally smell me nearby or see me through the shadows? Moments later, I learned the source of their abrupt distress. Headlights appeared in the distance and soon a truck filled with rafts rumbled by heading toward Dagger Falls, its passengers completely unaware of my presence or that of the wolves.
Others also reported seeing or hearing the pack, but the danger to wolves is always present even in the wilderness, and just a week later a beautiful two year old black and silver female wolf with exquisite pale green eyes was found dying nearby. My amazing mentor and supervisor biologist Jay Gore with the US Fish and Wildlife Service tried desperately to help rescue her, even risking taking a helicopter into the wilderness, but it was too late and the poison too severe (and still undetected) for Idaho Department Fish and Game veterinarian Dave Hunter to save her. She died the next day and the pack was never found again. Her death was initially blamed on injury. A few days later though, on a hike in the same area with my dogs, I found piles of mucous and vomit and a cow carcass with the poison still on it. Luckily, I called my dogs away before they could reach the carcass or they would likely have also died. Upon my return home, I reported what I found to the Forest Service supervisor and after months of testing, forensics scientists would identify the illegal poison as a poison used to kill insects but highly toxic to canines. While her rescuers didn't know what caused her condition at the time, she had ingested poisoned meat from a cow carcass that had been illegally laced with a neurotoxin. It would make her movement impossible and eventually stop her breathing.
The first four wolves destined for Idaho in 1995 had arrived two days earlier transported inside individual large metal kennels lined up in the back of a commercial moving van. Using a commercial van helped avoid drawing unwanted attention of an unfamiliar federal vehicle in a small town. These four wolves would be the first to be released into the wild as part of the 1995/1996 federal reintroduction of wolves to central Idaho and Yellowstone National Park. The wolves had been captured by wildlife biologists near Hinton, Alberta, Canada and then flown to Montana where federal agents waited to drive them the rest of the way. Eight other wolves in the first shipment were on their way to Yellowstone National Park in the back of a long horse trailer where they would be greeted like celebrities. The Idaho wolves had special visitors waiting to greet them too when they were unloaded from the plane. Two elders from the Nez Perce tribe offered songs of blessing and special prayers for the wolves returning to their homeland in Idaho. After centuries of persecution across the West, the white man's poison, traps and guns had eradicated these creatures, but now they were returning home.
I was in route to Salmon, Idaho where the wolves were being transported. It was closest town to the national forest release site chosen by the US Fish and Wildlife Service, the agency in charge of reintroducing the wolves to Idaho and to Yellowstone National Park. My friends Roy and Sally Farrar were traveling from Boise with me to make sure I "didn’t find my way into any trouble” as Roy put it. I had only been working for wolves for 7 years at that time but had already several dangerous encounters with people who didn't share our love of wolves.
Roy was a western singer with the heart of a poet and Sally, his more practical bride, lovingly kept his feet on the ground. When I told them I was going to Salmon to release the wolves, without hesitation Sally declared they were coming with me. We often found ourselves in unusual situations on our wolf trips and I was grateful for their company. The night before we departed, I had a strange dream that I shared with them on our long drive. A black wolf looked up at me from a few feet away and then snapped and bit my left arm. The bite wasn't painful but it surprised me, I explained. After a few moments of silence, I heard the low rumble of laughter coming from the driver's seat. Amused, Roy looked back at me through the rear view mirror and made his usual snarky comment about me growing a wolf tail someday and Sally just chuckled in agreement under her breath.
The drive from Boise to Salmon weaves through some of the most beautiful scenery in North America as it passes through stunning mountain ranges like the Sawtooths. On the way, we drove by the Forest Service road turn off to Bear Valley, and I thought of the wolves that had been documented there only four years earlier. In 1991, there were no known resident wolves in Idaho but some occasionally dispersed from Canada and northwest Montana. We hoped someday enough wolves would disperse and become the foundation for a new population. During the summer of 1991, we received a cluster of sightings in Bruce Meadows, a popular place where rafters and kayakers passed through on their way to float the wild Salmon river. It's one of the most popular whitewater river running trips in the West. Campers in the area reported hearing wolves though those reports weren't entirely reliable since most people can't tell the difference between a common coyote and the extirpated wolf. But then a short video emerged of what looked like two wolves running through the underbrush in Bruce Meadows.
It was on the trip back home on June 11, 1995 from a wolf meeting in McCall, Idaho where the wolf recovery team had viewed the video with great interest. It was rough footage hastily shot but the two animals captured certainly appeared larger than coyotes with big broad heads, smaller rounded ears and long legs indicative of wolves. Bear Valley was only a few hours detour and I had my tent and sleeping bag with me. After managing a wolf monitoring volunteer field crew for several summers in Bear Valley, I knew the area intimately. We found large tracks in the area that were wolf size just a few weeks earlier so my hopes were high. At dusk, I arrived near the spot where the video was made and watched the meadow for a while. No movement. I checked the road for scat (wolf droppings) before scouting for tracks along the river banks where the mud was still soft. No tracks.
Standing near the bridge over Bear Valley Creek, I tried a new howling technique that my friend Kent Weber had suggested during a school presentation he gave in Idaho. Kent and his wife Tracey Brookes founded Mission:Wolf in Colorado and had brought their ambassador wolves “Shaman” and “Sila” to help teach Idahoans about wolves, a species long shrouded in fairy tales, misinformation and propaganda. It’s one thing to read about wolves in lore and myth but the dark connotations of childhood stories would instantly fade when students met the wolves in person. Everyone was in awe of the beautiful black wolf Shaman but it was silver wolf Sila who stole my heart. Often, Kent would invite me to lead the group of students in a closing howl and Sila would sometimes join in. Howling with her was such a primal, soulful experience. It was during one of those events that Kent explained that while my howl was good, wolves “say something” in their howls. He suggested that I try the same. So, standing on that Bear Valley Creek bridge at twilight surrounded by mountains and trees, I thought “Where are you?” when I howled this time. Once, twice, three times and then listened for a response and waited as a few minutes passed, I howled three more times and then listened again, clutching my tape recorder in my hand to capture any response. There was none. Only an owl hooted and a few other night birds responded but no howls. The full moon was rising when I gave up and walked to my campsite a few hundred feet away.
Twenty minutes later, I was stacking fallen branches for my little campfire when the whole forest suddenly filled with a chorus I had never heard in Idaho. Their howls were aimed at the spot where I had been howling for them. I froze and listened to their first howl fade away. "That's wolves! That's wolves!" was shouting inside my head. As they began their second howl, I found my tape recorder and managed through tears and a few cuss words under my breath to turn it on. I was immediately grateful that my young son Noah had pressed a handful of fresh batteries he had pulled from a favorite toy into my hand before I left on this trip. Without those batteries, I wouldn't have been able to record what happened next.
Again, their chorus filled the woods around me. I stood up and held my recorder toward the howling. The second howl ended and then silence. I waited. A minute or two went by. Nothing more. I felt compelled to respond and without thinking, I howled “Where are you?” again. This time, I was only midway through my howl when the wild chorus responded. As their collective howl began to wane, I howled again. This time only one mature-sounding wolf howled back as my howl waned. Our howls overlapped each other several times in what felt like the world stopping while we sang back and forth to each other, each round lifting my spirit higher. Suddenly, two sharp barks rang out. The wolves fell silent and my next howls were unanswered. I listened again. Wolves use warning barks to alert each other to danger. Did they finally smell me nearby or see me through the shadows? Moments later, I learned the source of their abrupt distress. Headlights appeared in the distance and soon a truck filled with rafts rumbled by heading toward Dagger Falls, its passengers completely unaware of my presence or that of the wolves.
Others also reported seeing or hearing the pack, but the danger to wolves is always present even in the wilderness, and just a week later a beautiful two year old black and silver female wolf with exquisite pale green eyes was found dying nearby. My amazing mentor and supervisor biologist Jay Gore with the US Fish and Wildlife Service tried desperately to help rescue her, even risking taking a helicopter into the wilderness, but it was too late and the poison too severe (and still undetected) for Idaho Department Fish and Game veterinarian Dave Hunter to save her. She died the next day and the pack was never found again. Her death was initially blamed on injury. A few days later though, on a hike in the same area with my dogs, I found piles of mucous and vomit and a cow carcass with the poison still on it. Luckily, I called my dogs away before they could reach the carcass or they would likely have also died. Upon my return home, I reported what I found to the Forest Service supervisor and after months of testing, forensics scientists would identify the illegal poison as a poison used to kill insects but highly toxic to canines. While her rescuers didn't know what caused her condition at the time, she had ingested poisoned meat from a cow carcass that had been illegally laced with a neurotoxin. It would make her movement impossible and eventually stop her breathing.
Biologist Jay Gore and Veterinarian David Hunter trying to save the Bear Valley pack's young female wolf.
Used with permission. J. Gore 1991.
The discovery of the Bear Valley wolves created more discussion about allowing wolves to return naturally rather than actively reintroducing them to central Idaho. The ultimate goal was to build three subpopulations – one in northwest Montana which had dispersed on its own starting in the late 1970s from southern Canada, another in central Idaho and the third in Yellowstone National Park. Wolf researchers set the target for population recovery at 10 breeding pairs of wolves producing and maintaining at least two pups for three consecutive years in each of the three recovery areas. At the infrequent rate of natural dispersal and the risks to them, as demonstrated with the wolves in Bear Valley, it was decided that the local threat of “shoot, shovel and shut up” (or poison) would continue to cripple any real natural recovery. By taking wolves from Canada to release in Idaho and Yellowstone, biologists would mimic natural dispersal but also help protect them by placing radio collars on each wolf. The collars would allow the biologists to track the wolves. If one was killed, the collar would emit a “mortality signal” that would help the biologists find the wolf and determine the cause of death.
Months before the Idaho wolf reintroduction, we sent the radio collars prepared for the wolves coming to Idaho out to schools around the state. The students were invited to decorate their collar and participate in a “Track a Wolf” program that provided them with updates on the general movements of their wolf. Many had named their wolf in addition to decorating the collars. While the decorations would fade, the names stuck for the lifetime of those wolves.
January 12, 1995
Roy, Sally and I finally arrived in Salmon and settled into the rustic motel near the river. Salmon is a rural town in central Idaho set between the continental divide to the east marking the Montana state boundary and the massive Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness (the Frank) to the West. The Lewis and Clark expedition crossed the divide at Lemhi Pass, 30 miles (48 km) to the southeast of Salmon. Sacagawea, the only woman in their party, was born in the Lemhi valley not far from the town's outskirts.
While unpacking the car, we learned that the American Farm Bureau had filed a temporary legal stay to stop the reintroduction of wolves to Idaho and Yellowstone National Park. Reporters had already gathered at the hotel and were looking for answers. The job of updating the press had fallen to me as all the agency staff were either in transit, in Yellowstone, or uncomfortable with being identified as part of the wolf reintroduction team. Local tensions were mounting, and threats of violence were increasing daily. Roy and Sally remained with me during the two earlier updates to reporters we made in less than 24 hours. We were exhausted, worried about the wolves and their drivers in transport, and concerned for our own safety in Salmon.
As I explained during the third briefing to reporters that day, we didn’t know if the court’s actions would allow the wolves to be released or require them to be euthanized. I shared the only news I had received directly from Mollie Beattie, the national director of the US Fish and Wildlife Service. She had called me to check on our team as concerns grew for our safety. It was kind of her to remember us as the real circus of media attention was on Yellowstone and she had her own full plate dealing with the situation there. I relayed the information to the reporters who looked as frustrated as I felt that we still had no real update to report.
"Yes, " I told the reporters, "the wolves bound for Idaho had arrived in Great Falls, Montana this morning and were being transported to their respective release locations." "No, we don't know what the judge will decide or when." As the handful of reporters scribbled down notes, I noticed the man in black at the back of the room. He was wearing a long trench coat and carrying a leather bible case under his arm. This “bible” seemed a lot heavier than most. Roy was also staring at him from his position standing against a side wall and I could tell he was already on alert.
My initiation into wolf conservation had already been a pretty eventful one. As a college intern, I was given the normal minor tasks like plotting wolf sightings on maps, organizing files, etc. The Service was interested in plotting the sightings that they had collected for years on postcards and phone records to determine if there were any clusters or trends to be found. This was long before GPS and easy computer entry so I had to coordinate each of the sites by township, range, and section by hand. There were so many maps and so many reports that had collected over the years, I spent weeks plotting them all. Jay Gore led the wolf research team in Idaho and supervised my internship. I had studied the maps so long I was starting to see them in my dreams but there was a purpose to his plan. As I worked on those maps, we began to see patterns emerging - clusters where wolves were being sighted or tracked - and I learned how the backcountry was connected through national forests, private and state lands, and tribal lands. And in the center, was the massive the Frank, the largest federal mountain wilderness of its kind in the lower 48 states.
It might have been others in the office expressing their pity for the intern locked up in the map room that finally won out but Jay mercifully allowed me to tag along on a flight over the Frank with Dr. Steve Fritts, head scientist of the US Fish and Wildlife Service northern Rockies wolf program, when he visited our office in 1991. Before coming West to Montana, Dr. Fritts was a wolf biologist from Minnesota where wolves had maintained the last foothold in the lower 48 until the 1970s when they were awarded federal protection. As Idaho's vast wilderness was chosen as a potential subpopulation recovery area for the region, he was there to evaluate it firsthand.
It was my first time on a small aircraft - a four seater Cessna with a single propeller up front- and the experience was nothing like the commercial flying. Riding alone in the rear row of the Cessna, I felt like I had wings of my own as we soared over the vast wilderness below and spiraled down to get closer looks in areas. We flew for hours but never beyond the immense wilderness area below us. Around and over snow-covered peak after peak with lush green valleys, winding wild rivers and deep blue lakes sparkling below us in the sunlight. The maps I had been studying were suddenly springing to life as interconnected forests, valleys and mountain ranges below.
The headphones onboard allowed us to talk to each other over the noise of the engine but we had quickly fallen into silence while taking in the immense unfolding wilderness below. Finally breaking the silence, Dr. Fritts muttered under his breath and the pilot asked him to repeat what he said.
"I said," he enunciated louder, "you could hide a whole city of bigfoots down there and no one would ever know!"
We all laughed and I was happy to hear him wistfully add, "It's a perfect place for wolves..."
After we returned to the tiny airstrip in McCall, we had a quick lunch before starting our journey back to Boise where the US Fish and Wildlife Service's Idaho headquarters was based. But before leaving McCall, we had received a tip from the Forest Service that wolves had been spotted near one of their campgrounds on the Payette National Forest near Warm Lake. It wasn't much of a detour and it was still early in the day so we decided to check out the area on the way home. As we turned up the Warm Lake gravel road, Doc decided it was time that I learned how to properly look for wolves.
"I'm going to teach you how to howl for them," he announced. I swallowed hard. Having practiced howling on my own, I never managed to produce anything better than a yappy dog's pitiful howl. Wolf howls were deep, penetrating and almost like a graceful yodel. Whatever it was, I needed help. We drove several miles down a gravel road until we found the place where a wolf had been sighted. Doc pulled over and we quietly climbed out of the vehicle. We first scanned the road for tracks large enough for a wolf, approximately the size of my extended hand, but only found elk, deer and coyote tracks. He turned toward the woods and, scooping his hands to his face, gave a long low deep howl that sounded like the vowel "U" bellowing out into the forest. It bounced from the hillsides back in an echo that gave me chills at how real it sounded. He howled again and then we listened.
"Wolves will often respond within a few minutes." he whispered. "We just need to wait. We listened and waited. The wind moved through the trees and a few birds called to each other but no wolves responded.
Over the next few stops at half mile intervals, we practiced howling together. I was becoming more confident with my howls as they sounded less and less like my grandmother's terrier and more like a real wolf. The next time we pulled over, Doc asked me to try it solo. I knew his howl was still far superior to mine but it was time to see how I sounded on my own. I took a deep breath, tilted my head back as I scooped my hands to my mouth, and pulled the howl from deep inside my core. I was stunned that it sounded so wolf-like as we heard it echo back to us seconds later. I lifted my hands and started my second howl when I heard the whistle zings above my head. I looked at Doc, puzzled by the sound, and realized his eyes were wide open in disbelief. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the vehicle.
"Was that..?" It was just dawning on me as I had never heard sounds like that before.
"Yes, those were bullets..." he panted as he drove off down the road. About a mile or two later, I heard him start to laugh to himself.
"What's so funny, " I asked, still in shock at having rifle bullets whistle within inches over my head.
"I think I taught you how to howl too well, " he muttered.
We were quiet for a moment and then both started laughing at his witty comment, mostly out of relief that we were still alive. Shooting at a federal agent, even when mistaking that person for wolves, is a serious crime. We learned later, after federal law enforcement agents had investigated, that the shots had come from an outfitters camp a few hundred yards off the road.
It was then that I truly realized that wolves are never safe from humans even in the backcountry. And it was not the last time I would be shot at when mistaken for a wolf howling. Just in the few years since that day, I had received several death threats as wolf opponents began to target me for my role in the pro-wolf movement. Nasty phone calls, vulgar letters, and physical threats of violence and bullying at public meetings had become common occurrences. I put my home residence under a different name, made tight restrictions at my kids' schools concerning who was allowed to pick them up, and taught them how to watch for and respond if they felt threatened by a stranger. I watched cars that followed me, especially in the backcountry, and took extra precautions in parking lots at meetings but thankfully had only lost a windshield and a few tires.
All of this was going through my head in the conference room in Salmon as I measured the distance between the only door in the room and the man in black. As the briefing ended and reporters filed out of the room, I quickly gathered my things to leave. As I walked toward the door, the man in black intercepted me. I held my breath when he stepped into my path and waited for his next move.
“Suzanne, I’m Agent Steve Magone, US Fish and Wildlife law enforcement. I'm here to help."
Mounting waves of panic gave way instantly to relief. Agent Magone told us that the wolves would arrive soon from Great Falls, Montana and he needed a safe place to hold them until the judge issued his decision on the Farm Bureau's litigation to stop their release. We spent the afternoon assessing possible buildings when we found the hangar at the little airport on the outskirts of town. The hangar was well positioned behind a chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top, and once the wolves were secured inside, vehicles approaching the facility were monitored under the watchful eyes of the law enforcement agents. No one lingered outside. We were outsiders and easily marked as such. In January 1995, the town had a forlorn feel about it. Gas stations, a taxidermy, a few smoky bars, and a couple Mom and Pop restaurants dotted the main street. Salmon residents were already angry about an endangered trout shutting down a local mine to protect its spawning grounds. And they were even angrier that the federal government was bringing wolves back that had been eradicated by their ancestors who brought cattle and sheep to graze the region. When the wolves finally arrived, we quickly moved them to the hangar and waited for news of the judge’s decision.
Silent, nearly motionless, the wolves were also on high alert, listening and watching our every move from their small shipping kennels inside the hangar. All except one. He was a large male wolf with almond shaped, green-gold eyes and thick golden and gray fur. His name, "Chat Chaaht", was chosen by Nez Perce tribal school students who wrote the name on the radio collar now around his neck. It means “older brother” in Nez Perce (pronounced "purse"). Instead of cowering at my approach, Chat Chaaht stepped forward cautiously and returned my curious glance with a penetrating gaze of his own. I was instantly struck by the intensity in his eyes. They were bright and deeply intelligent. His gaze felt palpable – with a weight to it that was both intensely powerful and wild. It wasn't like any dog or even a captive wolf or hybrid I had worked with for years prior. Chat Chaaht had a presence that I had never experienced in an animal before. A connection to the universe distinctly separate from modern human experience. I thought of Nez Perce Chairman Pete Hayes' story about his connection to wolves. Pete had served on the Central Idaho Interagency Wolf Committee too and, in this role, had become my mentor and friend. He told me that the spirit of the wolf still lived in the mountains and that by bringing wolves back to the land, it would restore a part of the Nez Perce's own spirit as a people. It was a bittersweet memory as he had passed away a year before the reintroduction but his dream was unfolding in front of me now. Speaking softly to the Chat Chaaht, I reassured him— and myself— that he was going to be free soon. The other three wolves listened and continued to watch us closely but didn’t stir.
Sleep didn’t come easy for any of us again that night. While the federal judge in Wyoming was considering the American Farm Bureau’s litigation, it meant the wolves could not be moved from their kennels or from the hanger where we were holding them. Tensions were growing in town as more menacing signs appeared in the windows of local businesses. One read, “Kill all the Goddam wolves and the people who brought them here!” and another, “Get your Long hair, Subaru Driving, Sandal Wearing, Wolf Hugging Ass out of here.” Back in the hotel, an old television set on wheels with wire “rabbit ears” on top was airing a news video of the truck and trailer transporting the Yellowstone-bound wolves as they entered the historic Roosevelt Arch gate into the Park. Met by cheers of wolf advocates and curious students from the local elementary school who gathered along the route to watch them pass by. Seeing those eight wolves make it safely to their destination was a huge relief. The agents had driven throughout the night to get them to the Park by morning where they could be released safely into the large holding pens rather than being stuck inside shipping kennels at the Great Falls airport. They would spend months in their pens acclimating to the area.
In Idaho, we had another uncertain night to go and no idea what the next day would bring. Under the reintroduction plan, the Idaho wolves would not be held in acclimation pens but instead immediately released to the wild. For now, they were stuck in shipping kennels while the judge decided whether to stop the release of wolves to Idaho or allow us to set them free. The fate of Chat Chaaht and the other three beautiful wolves was entirely in his hands. And while the judge weighed his decision, news came that Phil Batt, the Idaho governor, was calling for the National Guard to stop the wolves. Would this be the final tipping point that led to real violence in Salmon?
Walking to dinner in town that night, Roy, Sally and I passed by the local Farm Bureau office where the occupants were still celebrating their temporary court ordered delay of the release. We stopped and listened for a moment to their party before moving on. As the snow drifted down it built a blanket of shadows over town. The smell of wood-smoke hung in the still air. There was no moon that night. Only gray clouds, deepening snow, and the feeling of a deep breath being held.
January 14, 1995
Early the next morning, after a long snowstorm overnight, the sun emerged through the clouds and the judge lifted the Farm Bureau's stay, giving his clearance to release the wolves. We wasted no time organizing our caravan of heavy-duty trucks to carry them into the Frank. We were carrying Chat Chaaht in his metal kennel in our truck bed so Agent Magone was taking the utmost care with his driving while watching the road carefully for any signs of an ambush along the way. Hours later, we finally arrived at the Corn Creek campground, the end of the road. It was our landmark that we had reached the massive federal wilderness home to tens of thousands of elk and deer, the natural prey for wolves. Unloading the wolves was the next challenge. Just walking on the icy ground was difficult and we held tight to the vehicles to steady ourselves. The four crates each held a wolf weighing 80 to 115 pounds. We slid and slipped but worked together to carefully position each crate in a row with the doors facing toward the heart of the wilderness area. Ed Bangs, the head US Fish and Wildlife Service wolf biologist stepped forward and unceremoniously slid open the first crate door.
The first wolf, her radio collar vividly decorated with the name “MoonStarShadow” by students in Idaho’s Blaine County, was soon bounding away through the snow. “Chat Chaat” was next. He quickly slipped out of the crate and ran about 15 yards before stopping to make his mark on the world. After a brief glance back, he disappeared into the snow-laden pines at the opposite edge of the meadow. In the future, he would defy the odds becoming the longest-lived wolf in Idaho, reigning years beyond the normal age of a pack leader. I was still staring at the spot where he disappeared when I realized my name was being called for a second time.
“Suzanne. Suzanne, this one is yours.”
I stepped over to the next crate. Her name “Akiata” was painted in bright colors on her heavy black leather collar. She was a young black and silver wolf with piercing green eyes that looked at me with deep suspicion. Another federal biologist Mike Jimenez helped me lift open the gate – each of us on opposite sides of the crate granting her freedom – but she didn’t move. I thought that she might be too afraid to make a break for it. We stepped back to give her more space and yet she still refused to budge. Mike picked up a snare pole and walked forward to prod her out of the cage. She snapped at the pole just as I lowered my camera after taking a picture of her. I remembered my vivid dream just days before—a black wolf snapping at the air in defense of herself—just as I lowered my left arm and felt chills seeing the same image again. It was apparent that she wasn’t afraid but would leave the crate on her own terms. Seconds later she bolted and didn’t look back before sprinting gracefully across the snow and disappearing into the woods. The last wolf, named “Kelly” needed no encouragement and leapt from her crate the moment the door slid open. She was the only wolf to disperse toward Canada in the weeks to come.
We stood silent for a few long moments as we watched and listened for any sound to indicate where the wolves were moving. We waited but heard nothing except the sound of snow drifting down from the trees and our own misty exhales, still heavy with excitement. I was still contemplating what had happened. It didn't seem real yet. Wolves were back in Idaho and this time with radio-collars to help protect them. The forests would soon echo with their ancient, soulful song. I thought of Pete Hayes and knew his bright eyes would be smiling. He would be so thrilled by what he always called the "splendid events of the day." As realization swept through us, our solemn tears and hugs led to cheers and champagne to toast the wolves. Sally asked me to howl and I gave a long low one adding my own internal prayer for their safety. History was taking a new turn. And while for some, this was the end of the final chapter of decades working to restore wolves in Yellowstone, I soon learned that it was the beginning of a whole new book for wolves in the West. The tolerance of rural residents toward an unwelcome new neighbor was yet to be tested. Hundreds of thousands of residents and visitors from across the world who came to see the wolves would be altered by their profound experience. A new respect for natural systems and the important role that only the wolf can fill would spread.
But few people knew even then how close it came to never happening.
In loving memory of Charles "Pete" Hayes, Nez Perce elder and chairman and Horace Axtell, Nez Perce elder and Seven Drums spiritual leader; Mollie Beattie, US Fish and Wildlife Service's first woman national director; and the Bear Valley pack that was illegally poisoned.
Podcasts for this story: Listen to a storycorp interview on the first Idaho wolf reintroduction September 11, 2013 here
Listen to an interview recorded on the 25th anniversary of the Idaho wolf reintroduction 1/13/20 on Idaho Public Radio here
A big thanks to Sarah Drinka, James Gore, Rick Lamplugh, Valerie Stephan-Leboeuf, and Scotty Johnson for their contributions to this chapter.
All rights reserved. Copyright 2020 Suzanne Stone. No reproduction allowed without written permission from the author.
Permission is given to distribute this story through social media.
Months before the Idaho wolf reintroduction, we sent the radio collars prepared for the wolves coming to Idaho out to schools around the state. The students were invited to decorate their collar and participate in a “Track a Wolf” program that provided them with updates on the general movements of their wolf. Many had named their wolf in addition to decorating the collars. While the decorations would fade, the names stuck for the lifetime of those wolves.
January 12, 1995
Roy, Sally and I finally arrived in Salmon and settled into the rustic motel near the river. Salmon is a rural town in central Idaho set between the continental divide to the east marking the Montana state boundary and the massive Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness (the Frank) to the West. The Lewis and Clark expedition crossed the divide at Lemhi Pass, 30 miles (48 km) to the southeast of Salmon. Sacagawea, the only woman in their party, was born in the Lemhi valley not far from the town's outskirts.
While unpacking the car, we learned that the American Farm Bureau had filed a temporary legal stay to stop the reintroduction of wolves to Idaho and Yellowstone National Park. Reporters had already gathered at the hotel and were looking for answers. The job of updating the press had fallen to me as all the agency staff were either in transit, in Yellowstone, or uncomfortable with being identified as part of the wolf reintroduction team. Local tensions were mounting, and threats of violence were increasing daily. Roy and Sally remained with me during the two earlier updates to reporters we made in less than 24 hours. We were exhausted, worried about the wolves and their drivers in transport, and concerned for our own safety in Salmon.
As I explained during the third briefing to reporters that day, we didn’t know if the court’s actions would allow the wolves to be released or require them to be euthanized. I shared the only news I had received directly from Mollie Beattie, the national director of the US Fish and Wildlife Service. She had called me to check on our team as concerns grew for our safety. It was kind of her to remember us as the real circus of media attention was on Yellowstone and she had her own full plate dealing with the situation there. I relayed the information to the reporters who looked as frustrated as I felt that we still had no real update to report.
"Yes, " I told the reporters, "the wolves bound for Idaho had arrived in Great Falls, Montana this morning and were being transported to their respective release locations." "No, we don't know what the judge will decide or when." As the handful of reporters scribbled down notes, I noticed the man in black at the back of the room. He was wearing a long trench coat and carrying a leather bible case under his arm. This “bible” seemed a lot heavier than most. Roy was also staring at him from his position standing against a side wall and I could tell he was already on alert.
My initiation into wolf conservation had already been a pretty eventful one. As a college intern, I was given the normal minor tasks like plotting wolf sightings on maps, organizing files, etc. The Service was interested in plotting the sightings that they had collected for years on postcards and phone records to determine if there were any clusters or trends to be found. This was long before GPS and easy computer entry so I had to coordinate each of the sites by township, range, and section by hand. There were so many maps and so many reports that had collected over the years, I spent weeks plotting them all. Jay Gore led the wolf research team in Idaho and supervised my internship. I had studied the maps so long I was starting to see them in my dreams but there was a purpose to his plan. As I worked on those maps, we began to see patterns emerging - clusters where wolves were being sighted or tracked - and I learned how the backcountry was connected through national forests, private and state lands, and tribal lands. And in the center, was the massive the Frank, the largest federal mountain wilderness of its kind in the lower 48 states.
It might have been others in the office expressing their pity for the intern locked up in the map room that finally won out but Jay mercifully allowed me to tag along on a flight over the Frank with Dr. Steve Fritts, head scientist of the US Fish and Wildlife Service northern Rockies wolf program, when he visited our office in 1991. Before coming West to Montana, Dr. Fritts was a wolf biologist from Minnesota where wolves had maintained the last foothold in the lower 48 until the 1970s when they were awarded federal protection. As Idaho's vast wilderness was chosen as a potential subpopulation recovery area for the region, he was there to evaluate it firsthand.
It was my first time on a small aircraft - a four seater Cessna with a single propeller up front- and the experience was nothing like the commercial flying. Riding alone in the rear row of the Cessna, I felt like I had wings of my own as we soared over the vast wilderness below and spiraled down to get closer looks in areas. We flew for hours but never beyond the immense wilderness area below us. Around and over snow-covered peak after peak with lush green valleys, winding wild rivers and deep blue lakes sparkling below us in the sunlight. The maps I had been studying were suddenly springing to life as interconnected forests, valleys and mountain ranges below.
The headphones onboard allowed us to talk to each other over the noise of the engine but we had quickly fallen into silence while taking in the immense unfolding wilderness below. Finally breaking the silence, Dr. Fritts muttered under his breath and the pilot asked him to repeat what he said.
"I said," he enunciated louder, "you could hide a whole city of bigfoots down there and no one would ever know!"
We all laughed and I was happy to hear him wistfully add, "It's a perfect place for wolves..."
After we returned to the tiny airstrip in McCall, we had a quick lunch before starting our journey back to Boise where the US Fish and Wildlife Service's Idaho headquarters was based. But before leaving McCall, we had received a tip from the Forest Service that wolves had been spotted near one of their campgrounds on the Payette National Forest near Warm Lake. It wasn't much of a detour and it was still early in the day so we decided to check out the area on the way home. As we turned up the Warm Lake gravel road, Doc decided it was time that I learned how to properly look for wolves.
"I'm going to teach you how to howl for them," he announced. I swallowed hard. Having practiced howling on my own, I never managed to produce anything better than a yappy dog's pitiful howl. Wolf howls were deep, penetrating and almost like a graceful yodel. Whatever it was, I needed help. We drove several miles down a gravel road until we found the place where a wolf had been sighted. Doc pulled over and we quietly climbed out of the vehicle. We first scanned the road for tracks large enough for a wolf, approximately the size of my extended hand, but only found elk, deer and coyote tracks. He turned toward the woods and, scooping his hands to his face, gave a long low deep howl that sounded like the vowel "U" bellowing out into the forest. It bounced from the hillsides back in an echo that gave me chills at how real it sounded. He howled again and then we listened.
"Wolves will often respond within a few minutes." he whispered. "We just need to wait. We listened and waited. The wind moved through the trees and a few birds called to each other but no wolves responded.
Over the next few stops at half mile intervals, we practiced howling together. I was becoming more confident with my howls as they sounded less and less like my grandmother's terrier and more like a real wolf. The next time we pulled over, Doc asked me to try it solo. I knew his howl was still far superior to mine but it was time to see how I sounded on my own. I took a deep breath, tilted my head back as I scooped my hands to my mouth, and pulled the howl from deep inside my core. I was stunned that it sounded so wolf-like as we heard it echo back to us seconds later. I lifted my hands and started my second howl when I heard the whistle zings above my head. I looked at Doc, puzzled by the sound, and realized his eyes were wide open in disbelief. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the vehicle.
"Was that..?" It was just dawning on me as I had never heard sounds like that before.
"Yes, those were bullets..." he panted as he drove off down the road. About a mile or two later, I heard him start to laugh to himself.
"What's so funny, " I asked, still in shock at having rifle bullets whistle within inches over my head.
"I think I taught you how to howl too well, " he muttered.
We were quiet for a moment and then both started laughing at his witty comment, mostly out of relief that we were still alive. Shooting at a federal agent, even when mistaking that person for wolves, is a serious crime. We learned later, after federal law enforcement agents had investigated, that the shots had come from an outfitters camp a few hundred yards off the road.
It was then that I truly realized that wolves are never safe from humans even in the backcountry. And it was not the last time I would be shot at when mistaken for a wolf howling. Just in the few years since that day, I had received several death threats as wolf opponents began to target me for my role in the pro-wolf movement. Nasty phone calls, vulgar letters, and physical threats of violence and bullying at public meetings had become common occurrences. I put my home residence under a different name, made tight restrictions at my kids' schools concerning who was allowed to pick them up, and taught them how to watch for and respond if they felt threatened by a stranger. I watched cars that followed me, especially in the backcountry, and took extra precautions in parking lots at meetings but thankfully had only lost a windshield and a few tires.
All of this was going through my head in the conference room in Salmon as I measured the distance between the only door in the room and the man in black. As the briefing ended and reporters filed out of the room, I quickly gathered my things to leave. As I walked toward the door, the man in black intercepted me. I held my breath when he stepped into my path and waited for his next move.
“Suzanne, I’m Agent Steve Magone, US Fish and Wildlife law enforcement. I'm here to help."
Mounting waves of panic gave way instantly to relief. Agent Magone told us that the wolves would arrive soon from Great Falls, Montana and he needed a safe place to hold them until the judge issued his decision on the Farm Bureau's litigation to stop their release. We spent the afternoon assessing possible buildings when we found the hangar at the little airport on the outskirts of town. The hangar was well positioned behind a chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top, and once the wolves were secured inside, vehicles approaching the facility were monitored under the watchful eyes of the law enforcement agents. No one lingered outside. We were outsiders and easily marked as such. In January 1995, the town had a forlorn feel about it. Gas stations, a taxidermy, a few smoky bars, and a couple Mom and Pop restaurants dotted the main street. Salmon residents were already angry about an endangered trout shutting down a local mine to protect its spawning grounds. And they were even angrier that the federal government was bringing wolves back that had been eradicated by their ancestors who brought cattle and sheep to graze the region. When the wolves finally arrived, we quickly moved them to the hangar and waited for news of the judge’s decision.
Silent, nearly motionless, the wolves were also on high alert, listening and watching our every move from their small shipping kennels inside the hangar. All except one. He was a large male wolf with almond shaped, green-gold eyes and thick golden and gray fur. His name, "Chat Chaaht", was chosen by Nez Perce tribal school students who wrote the name on the radio collar now around his neck. It means “older brother” in Nez Perce (pronounced "purse"). Instead of cowering at my approach, Chat Chaaht stepped forward cautiously and returned my curious glance with a penetrating gaze of his own. I was instantly struck by the intensity in his eyes. They were bright and deeply intelligent. His gaze felt palpable – with a weight to it that was both intensely powerful and wild. It wasn't like any dog or even a captive wolf or hybrid I had worked with for years prior. Chat Chaaht had a presence that I had never experienced in an animal before. A connection to the universe distinctly separate from modern human experience. I thought of Nez Perce Chairman Pete Hayes' story about his connection to wolves. Pete had served on the Central Idaho Interagency Wolf Committee too and, in this role, had become my mentor and friend. He told me that the spirit of the wolf still lived in the mountains and that by bringing wolves back to the land, it would restore a part of the Nez Perce's own spirit as a people. It was a bittersweet memory as he had passed away a year before the reintroduction but his dream was unfolding in front of me now. Speaking softly to the Chat Chaaht, I reassured him— and myself— that he was going to be free soon. The other three wolves listened and continued to watch us closely but didn’t stir.
Sleep didn’t come easy for any of us again that night. While the federal judge in Wyoming was considering the American Farm Bureau’s litigation, it meant the wolves could not be moved from their kennels or from the hanger where we were holding them. Tensions were growing in town as more menacing signs appeared in the windows of local businesses. One read, “Kill all the Goddam wolves and the people who brought them here!” and another, “Get your Long hair, Subaru Driving, Sandal Wearing, Wolf Hugging Ass out of here.” Back in the hotel, an old television set on wheels with wire “rabbit ears” on top was airing a news video of the truck and trailer transporting the Yellowstone-bound wolves as they entered the historic Roosevelt Arch gate into the Park. Met by cheers of wolf advocates and curious students from the local elementary school who gathered along the route to watch them pass by. Seeing those eight wolves make it safely to their destination was a huge relief. The agents had driven throughout the night to get them to the Park by morning where they could be released safely into the large holding pens rather than being stuck inside shipping kennels at the Great Falls airport. They would spend months in their pens acclimating to the area.
In Idaho, we had another uncertain night to go and no idea what the next day would bring. Under the reintroduction plan, the Idaho wolves would not be held in acclimation pens but instead immediately released to the wild. For now, they were stuck in shipping kennels while the judge decided whether to stop the release of wolves to Idaho or allow us to set them free. The fate of Chat Chaaht and the other three beautiful wolves was entirely in his hands. And while the judge weighed his decision, news came that Phil Batt, the Idaho governor, was calling for the National Guard to stop the wolves. Would this be the final tipping point that led to real violence in Salmon?
Walking to dinner in town that night, Roy, Sally and I passed by the local Farm Bureau office where the occupants were still celebrating their temporary court ordered delay of the release. We stopped and listened for a moment to their party before moving on. As the snow drifted down it built a blanket of shadows over town. The smell of wood-smoke hung in the still air. There was no moon that night. Only gray clouds, deepening snow, and the feeling of a deep breath being held.
January 14, 1995
Early the next morning, after a long snowstorm overnight, the sun emerged through the clouds and the judge lifted the Farm Bureau's stay, giving his clearance to release the wolves. We wasted no time organizing our caravan of heavy-duty trucks to carry them into the Frank. We were carrying Chat Chaaht in his metal kennel in our truck bed so Agent Magone was taking the utmost care with his driving while watching the road carefully for any signs of an ambush along the way. Hours later, we finally arrived at the Corn Creek campground, the end of the road. It was our landmark that we had reached the massive federal wilderness home to tens of thousands of elk and deer, the natural prey for wolves. Unloading the wolves was the next challenge. Just walking on the icy ground was difficult and we held tight to the vehicles to steady ourselves. The four crates each held a wolf weighing 80 to 115 pounds. We slid and slipped but worked together to carefully position each crate in a row with the doors facing toward the heart of the wilderness area. Ed Bangs, the head US Fish and Wildlife Service wolf biologist stepped forward and unceremoniously slid open the first crate door.
The first wolf, her radio collar vividly decorated with the name “MoonStarShadow” by students in Idaho’s Blaine County, was soon bounding away through the snow. “Chat Chaat” was next. He quickly slipped out of the crate and ran about 15 yards before stopping to make his mark on the world. After a brief glance back, he disappeared into the snow-laden pines at the opposite edge of the meadow. In the future, he would defy the odds becoming the longest-lived wolf in Idaho, reigning years beyond the normal age of a pack leader. I was still staring at the spot where he disappeared when I realized my name was being called for a second time.
“Suzanne. Suzanne, this one is yours.”
I stepped over to the next crate. Her name “Akiata” was painted in bright colors on her heavy black leather collar. She was a young black and silver wolf with piercing green eyes that looked at me with deep suspicion. Another federal biologist Mike Jimenez helped me lift open the gate – each of us on opposite sides of the crate granting her freedom – but she didn’t move. I thought that she might be too afraid to make a break for it. We stepped back to give her more space and yet she still refused to budge. Mike picked up a snare pole and walked forward to prod her out of the cage. She snapped at the pole just as I lowered my camera after taking a picture of her. I remembered my vivid dream just days before—a black wolf snapping at the air in defense of herself—just as I lowered my left arm and felt chills seeing the same image again. It was apparent that she wasn’t afraid but would leave the crate on her own terms. Seconds later she bolted and didn’t look back before sprinting gracefully across the snow and disappearing into the woods. The last wolf, named “Kelly” needed no encouragement and leapt from her crate the moment the door slid open. She was the only wolf to disperse toward Canada in the weeks to come.
We stood silent for a few long moments as we watched and listened for any sound to indicate where the wolves were moving. We waited but heard nothing except the sound of snow drifting down from the trees and our own misty exhales, still heavy with excitement. I was still contemplating what had happened. It didn't seem real yet. Wolves were back in Idaho and this time with radio-collars to help protect them. The forests would soon echo with their ancient, soulful song. I thought of Pete Hayes and knew his bright eyes would be smiling. He would be so thrilled by what he always called the "splendid events of the day." As realization swept through us, our solemn tears and hugs led to cheers and champagne to toast the wolves. Sally asked me to howl and I gave a long low one adding my own internal prayer for their safety. History was taking a new turn. And while for some, this was the end of the final chapter of decades working to restore wolves in Yellowstone, I soon learned that it was the beginning of a whole new book for wolves in the West. The tolerance of rural residents toward an unwelcome new neighbor was yet to be tested. Hundreds of thousands of residents and visitors from across the world who came to see the wolves would be altered by their profound experience. A new respect for natural systems and the important role that only the wolf can fill would spread.
But few people knew even then how close it came to never happening.
In loving memory of Charles "Pete" Hayes, Nez Perce elder and chairman and Horace Axtell, Nez Perce elder and Seven Drums spiritual leader; Mollie Beattie, US Fish and Wildlife Service's first woman national director; and the Bear Valley pack that was illegally poisoned.
Podcasts for this story: Listen to a storycorp interview on the first Idaho wolf reintroduction September 11, 2013 here
Listen to an interview recorded on the 25th anniversary of the Idaho wolf reintroduction 1/13/20 on Idaho Public Radio here
A big thanks to Sarah Drinka, James Gore, Rick Lamplugh, Valerie Stephan-Leboeuf, and Scotty Johnson for their contributions to this chapter.
All rights reserved. Copyright 2020 Suzanne Stone. No reproduction allowed without written permission from the author.
Permission is given to distribute this story through social media.
Local students watch the first wolves entering Yellowstone National Park: Photo credit: Yellowstone National Park
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Mike Phillips, Mollie Beattie and Bruce Babbitt lead in the first wolf to a holding pen in Yellowstone. Photo credit: Yellowstone National Park
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Radio collars designed by Idaho students. "Chat Chaaht" means "older brother" in Nez Perce. Photo credit: USFWS
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Akiata heads to freedom January 14, 1995.
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