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 pullouts.

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 traveled 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 ten minutes out, and turned up the road.

I remember the drive because it was one of those nights when the sky looked hard,

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