My husband and I are a team of wildlife biologists specializing in large predator tracking

and population studies. We often find ourselves camping in remote areas for days at a time while

collecting data and setting up trail cameras. A few months ago, we were assigned to a project in Yellowstone National Park.

The goal was to gather information on Wolfpack movements and their impact on the local ecosystem.

It was supposed to be a routine trip. We had done this countless times before. But what happened

during those three days in Yellowstone still haunts me. We arrived at our designated campsite on a Tuesday afternoon.

The weather was perfect, with clear skies, a light breeze, and the promise of a starry night

ahead.

As we set up our tent and equipment, I remember feeling excited about the work we'd be doing.

My husband, whom I'll call Tom here, was in high spirits too,

cracking jokes about how we should open up a five-star wilderness resort

with our expert tent pitching skills.

After a simple dinner of dehydrated camping meals,

which Tom insists are getting better, though I'm not convinced.

We sat by the fire going over our plans for the next few days. By then the sun had set,

and the forest around us came alive with the sounds of owls hooting, and small animals moving

in the underbrush. It was very peaceful, very familiar, but that didn't last long.

We were sleeping in the tent when suddenly, around midnight, Tom sat up alert, causing me to wake up too.

Did you hear that? he whispered. I hadn't, but the look on his face made me strain my ears.

There it was, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving through the trees near our campsite. Tom grabbed his flashlight and stepped out of the tent.

I watched as his beam of light cut through the darkness, sweeping through the tree line, nothing,

and the footsteps had stopped. Probably just a deer, Tom said as he crawled back into the tent,

...