I worked fall season in Grand Teton National Park long enough to know the rhythm of the valley.

In September the days stayed cold in the mornings, the air thin and clean, and the sound that defined the month carried easily through the canyons, the high rising call of bull elk bugling for cows and for rank.

Visitors often thought it sounded like something human in distress. We explained that it was

normal, that the rut made all kinds of noises. I had given that talk dozens of times at trailheads

and pull-outs.

I knew the timing of when the herds moved between meadows, where they crossed Teeton

Park Road after dusk, and which drainage drew the biggest bulls.

I trusted that knowledge, and I trusted the species that shared the valley with us, elk,

moose, black bears, the few grizzlies that

travel down from the north, wolves in small packs, and the cougars that kept to timbered slopes

and moved mostly at night. I also understood how we wrote reports. When the cause of death was unclear,

we found a place to file it that would not confuse the public.

You do that long enough, and you begin to believe it is always enough.

Then a call comes in that unsettles what you think you know.

Dispatch radioed me just after nine on a clear night in late September.

The message was short.

Group of hikers reporting unusual animal noises

near String Lake, possibly an injured elk in the water. I keyed my mic, confirmed I was 10

minutes out, and turned up the road. I remember the drive because it was one of those nights when the

sky looked hard and the mountains cut a perfect outline against it.

The parking lot at String Lake was almost empty. Just a rental SUV and a compact car with a

university sticker in the back window. Four hikers waited by the bear box. They were young,

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