Winter in Yellowstone by Cameron Wilson

“Is that what I think it is?” My buddy Campbell had slid to a halt on his skis and was peering down at something in the snow. It was a classic paw-shaped print, with a large heel and three smaller toe indentations, much like that of a cat. But this was too big even for a mountain lion, and besides, cats have retractable claws that don’t mark the ground when they walk. This paw had made three perfect, parallel scythes downwards through the snow, each about seven inches long. I beamed at Campbell, who was now glancing nervously at the trees on either side of the faint trail we’d been following. “Yep, it looks to me like there’s a bear about in these here woods”.

It was our second day on cross-country skis in Yellowstone National Park, and having spent Day One with a group and a guide, there was a chance that in striking out alone we might be getting in over our heads. The previous day’s excursion had allowed us access to some fantastically scenic ski trails an hour’s drive from our digs at Old Faithful Snow Lodge, but Yellowstone is the sort of place that demands a little time spent in contemplative awe – a much easier proposition for two than with a group. Already we had found the park’s animals were inclined to ignore two humans on skis, as we shusshhed past small herds of buffalo and elk feeding on the sparse vegetation exposed around geothermal areas where the snow never quite takes hold. At one point, I was lining up a photo of a handsome pair of elk when a coyote trotted brazenly onto the wooden bridge I had crossed just moments before. He watched without alarm as I fiddled with my camera and then all but posed for a photo in perfect profile. Now it seemed we might have a bear nearby, and all I could think was that it too might feel enough at ease to show itself.

Campbell was not so keen. “Man, these tracks are everywhere, and they look pretty fresh to me” he said, his eyes still darting about. He was right too – we’d had regular snow flurries overnight so any tracks more than a day old would by now have been covered. For someone with no personal experience of bears, however, I felt oddly confident. “If the bear is still somewhere close by, it’s probably found a spot where it can keep an eye on us”. There was little we could do anyway besides keep our eyes peeled, so we struck off through the woods once more, towards where several snaky tendrils of steam marked the location of some hillside hot springs.

We were now breaking trail through knee-deep snow, both of us delighted to be properly ‘cross-country’ skiing at last. Campbell took the lead as the stronger skier, weaving a path between rocks and around fallen branches and trees. The long, skinny skis were so light and flexible that we barely paused at a shallow creek before tramping straight across. A second creek, wider and deeper than the first, required that we shoulder skis and slosh through the ankle deep water. We were now well and truly out on our own, but despite our status as backcountry novices, there was little chance of becoming lost; Yellowstone’s geysers are capable of blowing super-heated water hundreds of feet into the air, and the steady columns of steam rising from Old Faithful Geyser Basin meant we could at all times approximate the location of the park’s main road and our accommodation.

We reached the hillside with nary a bear in sight, ditched our skis at the bottom and clambered up to where a log lay across a tiny creek fed by the thermal springs. Soaking our frozen toes in the steamy water was pure bliss, and Campbell was all for hopping right in, except there was no place in the creek quite deep enough. I pointed out too that if a bear did suddenly appear, it would almost certainly be better to greet it with trousers on.

From our elevated position, we now had a full view of the woods we had skied through and it was easy to pick out the three main geyser basins along the loop road. Few animals were bothering to graze this far from the geothermal areas, but we were treated to the sight of a lone hardy buffalo, its beard matted with ice, using its great forehead like a snow-shovel to reach the greenery buried beneath.

With feet nicely thawed, we clipped into our skis and plotted a route back to the Snow Lodge. Taking turns at the front to establish a trail, we were still seeing plenty of prints, but sadly no bears. A final water hazard between us and the road was the Firehole River – a waterway too deep and wide to cross without some sort of bridge. We skied along its banks until we found a fallen tree that reached almost to the other side and after throwing our skis across, slithered onto the tree and half straddled, half crawled along it before leaping the last few feet to safety. On reaching the road, we were able to really stretch out, the skis covering three or four metres with each long, rhythmic glide. Two female rangers had parked their snowmobiles at the roadside, and Campbell took the opportunity to stop and draw them a facsimile of the prints we’d found. They looked at each other, then somewhat incredulously back at Campbell. “That belongs to a big grizzly, most likely a female looking for food. You fellas might easily have had an interesting encounter out there”.

In hindsight, we were happy to concede that the paw-prints were as close as either of us needed to get to a big hungry bear. But we did feel grateful for the chance we’d had to get so close to so much of the park’s wildlife. And as the rangers’ snowmobiles roared away scattering startled elk in their wake, we were left in no doubt at all that the way to really experience Yellowstone in winter is to do it quietly, under your own steam.