Gray Dominion

By Pamelia Barratt

Sylvia and Kath, two active, gray-haired women, one a widowed artist, and the other a mildly autistic intellectual, put down their paint brush, binoculars, and guidebook projects to investigate mysterious happenings in Yellowstone Park. Along the way, they encounter the deep conflict that exists in the park between preservation and public access, since humans have supplanted the gray wolf as top predator of the domain. They, their friends and family, become embroiled in the local controversies between individual liberty and balancing the ecosystem, while the overlapping dominions of state, federal, and local agencies further complicate matters, forcing them to contend with the authority of young park rangers, the local sheriff, and the FBI to solve a murder conspiracy that leads all the way to the governor’s mansion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plowshare Media
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986042843

Pamelia Barratt

Pamelia Barratt has lived on both the east and west coasts of the United States. She grew up in Chicago, summered in Wisconsin, lived for extended periods of time in Switzerland and Britain, and volunteered for ten years with a development nonprofit that works in the high Andes of Bolivia. After a career as a high school chemistry teacher, she became a journalist in San Diego, and then discovered the thrill of writing fiction. Her first novel, "Blood: the Color of Cranberries", was published in 2009. It was followed by "An Ostentation" two years later. "Gray Dominion" is her third mystery.“My hodgepodge background has offered a great source of characters and situations to draw on for storytelling. Birds and nature continually renew my spirits,” Pamelia says. It’s no wonder that creatures of the wild assume important roles in her stories.

Book preview

Gray Dominion

a novel by

Pamelia Barratt

with illustrations by

Anne Curo

What people are saying:

Among skullduggery, murder, and romance, I learned a great deal about many birds, elk, fish, and most importantly, about the gray wolves of Yellowstone.

—Susan Allen Toth, author of Blooming, Ivy Days, England For All Seasons, and other memoirs.

...Barratt has written a story combining a fascinating blend of the history, animals, and natural wonders of Yellowstone Park with a frightening tale of poaching, murder, and the ruthless political world of the Northwestern states surrounding the park. You will be both entertained and educated!

—Carol Galante, San Diego Mystery Club

...reading Gray Dominion made me feel like I was back in Yellowstone. The story is filled with the characters, places, and wildness that makes it such a special place.

—Ed Bangs, former coordinator of wolf recovery, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Those who love Yellowstone and are concerned about the fate of the wolves there will find this book full of interesting information, detailed descriptions of the place, and a mystery that brings to life the problems the wildlife face there.

—Claudia Dixon, author

Plowshare Media

la jolla, california

Copyright © 2014 by Pamelia Barratt

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012936105

ISBN: 978-0-9821145-2-0 (trade paperback edition)

ISBN: 978-0-9860428-4-3 (Smashwords electronic edition)

Cover photograph: Gray Wolf, Gary Kramer, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Interior illustrations by Anne Curo

Published on Smashwords by:

Plowshare Media

P.O. Box 278

La Jolla, CA 92038

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. No reference to any real person is intended, except for the obvious, recognizable, public figures.

All Rights Reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without written permission from the author, except for review purposes.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For more information, visit:

PLOWSHAREMEDIA.COM

or

pameliabarratt.com

Dedicated To my children, Clara and Charlie

Whitetailed Deer

Table of Contents

Prologue

Elk

Loon

Waxwings

Trout

Bobcat

Eagle

Beaver

Black Bear

Big Horn Sheep

Gray Wolf

Trumpeter Swan

Pronghorn

Osprey

River Otter

Dipper

Owl

Crossbills

Bison

Grizzly

Squirrel

Pelican

Pika

Fox

Moose

Coyote

Marmot

About the author

Prologue

In early spring, two hikers in Yellowstone Park stop to have lunch. They have walked only three miles but the grade has been steadily uphill. Where the snow has melted, leaving it bare, the path is rough with boulders and heavily rutted from spring runoff. In other places the winter’s wind has blown the snow into drifts obliterating the trail altogether. Losing their way has been a constant worry. If not for the high bluff of Observation Peak visible ahead, their destination, they could have easily become lost.

The sparse vegetation suggests a dry terrain in spite of the snow. The altitude limits growth—where the land is bare the soil is more pebbles than dirt. Such remnants of erosion can prove more treacherous than wet snow going downhill. In spite of these difficulties, they know the promontory ahead will reward them with panoramic views limited only by distant mountains, and there is the added satisfaction of knowing that they are the first to make this hike after winter.

They finally reach the point where the trail makes its last steep ascent to the summit. Originally they had planned to eat their sandwiches on top of the mountain, but the hike has proven to be more strenuous than anticipated. Tired, they decide to take a short detour to the base of the cliff the trail is skirting. It offers a back rest and shelter from the cold wind while they eat.

Halfway through their ham-and-cheeses they spot a dead animal under a nearby bush. Too tired to move closer, they use binoculars to get a closer look. Shreds of clothing partially cover the mauled body of a man.

Lodgepole Pine

Elk

Just outside of Yellowstone Park’s north entrance is the town of Gardiner, Montana, where eight hundred people live year round. With the spring thaw, park visitors and employees begin flooding in to take up temporary residence. During Gardiner’s money-making season, lodgings can be over-booked and services stretched thin. The Antler Pub and Grill might have standing room only, and to get a pizza from Outlaws can take half an hour.

Tightly squeezed by park land on its south and a precipitous escarpment on its north, Gardiner is also cut lengthwise by the Yellowstone River, like a line of mustard on a hotdog. Over the years, the available space has not changed, so when the town grew in population, businesses and homes were crowded together against and around Pleistocene boulders. The structures themselves represent a hodgepodge of styles. Apparently there was no preconceived notion as to how the town should grow. Streets are rarely straight and often come to an unexpected dead end. Restaurants, motels, bars, and tourist shops predominate near the river. Sprinkled among them are outfitters, two schools, a library, and two gas stations. Land outside the town is unsuitable for farming.

The source of the Yellowstone River is the huge Lake Yellowstone in the southern half of the park. The river flows north out of the lake, turns east through Gardiner, and continues along, running east of the Continental Divide. Its waters join the Missouri River, pass into the Mississippi, and eventually reach the Atlantic Ocean via the Gulf of Mexico. Running through Gardiner, it cuts a ravine 80 feet wide and 150 feet deep. There is one bridge in town which spans this crevasse—a steel-arch bridge of alarming height. In spring, the run-off from snowmelt may raise the water level ten feet. The region undergoes dramatic changes in the course of a year.

Sylvia and Kath live separately in town, but go together into the park almost weekly. Most of their excursions are day jaunts to look at birds and sketch, but one year, early in November, they took a longer camping trip just before the winter weather set in. Their destination was a sunken meadow on park land deep in the Shoshone Forest. They left their homes in Gardiner early in the morning. Kath drove her van and Sylvia sat in the passenger seat giving directions. Coco, Kath’s llama, stood in the cargo space, taking the bumps and abrupt turns with some alarm. More than once Sylvia felt spittle land on the back of her neck.

Unknowingly, Sylvia had chosen the wrong dirt road when she told Kath where to turn off from the main highway. Kath drove to its end, parked her van, and the two women started walking to the meadow, with Coco toting their heavy gear. The forecast had predicted rain for just that day, although the cold wind was expected to persist beyond that. To be safe, they covered Coco’s laden back with a tarp. The trail led them into a lodgepole pine forest. Kath was pleased to see some Douglas firs, junipers, and black hawthorn, too. A mixed forest is better for birding.

Sylvia was prepared to put up with her friend’s obsession with birds, but after spending fifteen minutes looking for a Lewis’s Woodpecker, her patience was wearing thin. Often Kath stopped to find the bird whose call they heard. This delayed their progress. Sylvia couldn’t start sketching until they got to the meadow.

After close to two hours of hiking, with mist-dampened faces, they found to their surprise that the trail was rising rather than descending. Sylvia’s suspicions that something was wrong were borne out when they came to the edge of a precipitous cliff. The mistake was undeniable. They must have turned on the wrong dirt road off the highway. All was not lost, however, for when they peered over the edge they could see the meadow far below. It was just as beautiful as Sylvia remembered it from when her family brought her here as a child.

Encouraged by the sight below, Sylvia suggested that they back-track until they could find an animal trail that descended from the bluff. The path they chose wound its way down. In some places it cut a tunnel through the understory big enough for elk. Towards the bottom, willows, aspens, and cottonwoods began taking the place of lodgepole pines. The riparian valley floor was decidedly warmer and the piercing easterly wind that felt so sharp at the top was milder now, almost pleasant. It carried a strong musk odor. An elk herd must be nearby.

But what had been a mist at the top had become a steady rain. When they reached the bottom, with the meadow a short distance away, it began to pour. Fortunately, Kath spotted a rock shelter that could keep them out of the drencher. It was like a shallow cave in a stone outcropping. Once inside, they unloaded Coco and started to dry out.

Elk spook easily. Not wishing to disturb the herd, they kept very quiet. Would the animals continue their migration tomorrow, and leave them the meadow for camping? They would have to wait and see. At least for now they were out of the rain, and when the daylight started to fade, they got their sleeping bags ready so they wouldn’t have to light the lantern once night fell.

The rutting season had passed so they didn’t expect to hear bugling, but when the sound of snorts and grunts picked up they knew something was happening. The elk are moving, Kath whispered. They’re probably coming out of the woods and going onto the meadow to graze.

Yes, now that it’s dark, they can safely come out in the open. Isn’t it amazing that they haven’t picked up our scent? After some thought, the women concluded that the strong wind had not changed direction. It was still out of the east and they were west of the herd.

The rain continued throughout the night. Cozy and dry in their sleeping bags, they found the gentle patter soothing. It was probably snowing on the top of the bluff. Sylvia knew elk migrated down from the mountains when winter approached. This was an ideal location for them. Here they were safely cocooned. The cliff wrapped around the meadow on three sides, protecting their food and water supply, and the woods provided a safe place to sleep during the day.

Sometime that night, Sylvia woke up. It was still windy but the rain had stopped for awhile. Kath was not in her sleeping bag. Their rock shelter faced the woods, but Sylvia could still hear sounds of elk grazing on the meadow. When Kath came back, Sylvia assessed her own need to pee and decided she would remain snuggled in her sleeping bag.

I’d love to take some photos tomorrow, Kath whispered. I think I’ll try putting up my spotting scope as soon as it’s light enough to see, providing the wind hasn’t changed direction. At daybreak I expect the elk will move into the dense thickets to ruminate and then sleep. If some linger in the meadow I may be able to digi-scope.

Um-hum…, Sylvia mumbled unenthusiastically, drifting back to sleep.

When Sylvia woke the next time, it was almost dawn. She must have slept for nearly twelve hours. Uh-oh, I should have gone out when Kath did in the middle of the night, she thought. She couldn’t wait any longer. She got out of her warm bag and quickly put on most of her clothes, trying not to wake Kath. It was cold. Coco raised his head, but he didn’t move from his crouch. As Sylvia stepped outside the cave, a pungent odor hit her. Coco must have relieved himself in the middle of the night, too. At least he had tried to get as far away from the cave as his tether allowed.

The elk were still grazing, so Sylvia stayed in the woods, skirting the meadow as she looked for a good place to squat. The sky was getting lighter. Is that a plane she was hearing? No, no—a helicopter. She had gone no more than seventy feet when she heard rifle shots. One shot after another came from the edge of the woods. The helicopter zoomed directly over her head. A spotlight lit up the field as it circled the edge of the meadow. What are they doing? Not able to wait she lowered her trousers and crouched down, hoping that she wouldn’t be seen as she relieved herself. Rifles were going off in the woods. Through the bush that she was behind she could see beautiful brown coats and white rumps wildly flashing by in the meadow. At first the elk didn’t know where to go. Hysterical wails and screeches were punctuated by rifle shots. Several bulls were killed outright. Others, both bulls and cows, ran frantically in all directions. Many were wounded and fell to the ground, writhing helplessly. Soon the herd realized that their only escape was to get into the woods, but the helicopter flew back and forth at its edge to frighten them away.

By the time Sylvia zipped up her trousers, the chopper had landed in the meadow. She had to crouch again so the men wouldn’t see her. How many of these despicable hunters were there? She thought she heard shots coming from four distinct areas.

A man jumped down from the helicopter and hurried towards her. Sylvia feared she had been spotted so she ducked down as low as possible behind the bush. The man didn’t carry a rifle, but, oh my God—he was definitely heading straight towards her! He stopped at the edge of the woods, unzipped, and aimed his flow in her direction. He was only fifteen feet away, but fortunately his attention was drawn to the other men. Sylvia couldn’t help but notice that his beard was different from any she had ever seen. Later she would learn that it was called a chinstrap beard. His nose was even more distinctive. It was large and came to a downward point. When he was finished, he turned around and rushed back to the helicopter. It was then that she noticed a number on the side of the aircraft similar to her husband’s birthday. Maybe that man is the pilot, not a poacher, Sylvia thought. He has no gun, and he seems nervous, even scared.

By this time, fewer elk were in the meadow. Most of those still alive had reached the relative safety of the woods, or so Sylvia thought, until the hunters turned their fire towards the woods! Terrified, she curled up into a ball, to minimize herself as a target. Then she felt an impact that jarred her whole body. She knew she had been shot, but for the first few seconds there was no pain. The bullet had torn into her left leg. It must have been a ricochet, she reasoned later, for the men never shot in her direction. Then a wave of pain made her scream. Fortunately, there was so much other noise that the men didn’t hear her cry. Doubled up in agony, she couldn’t rationally consider her options for several minutes. There really were none. She couldn’t make it back to the cave.

She lost consciousness for a few minutes. When she woke up, the shooting had stopped—now she really had to be quiet. Wet with sweat and hyperventilating, she could only watch as the poachers took chain saws out of the helicopter and started sawing off the heads of bull elks. This was so appalling she became nauseated and dizzy. One bull must have still been alive because his leg started twitching as the saw ripped through his neck. Some men dragged the heads to the helicopter and piled them up outside its door. Fortunately, none of the poachers came near where she was hiding. The elk they wanted were scattered elsewhere. That was Sylvia’s last conscious thought before she passed out again.

When she woke up, Sylvia had no idea how long she had been out. All she could think of was the excruciating pain in her leg. Opening her eyes, she was amazed to find that she was back in the cave and in her sleeping bag. How did she get here?... Kath must have brought her back, but how? Certainly the men wouldn’t have done that. If they had found her, she would be dead.

Her agony was overwhelming—even worse now than when she was first hit by the bullet. Something was wrapped around her leg. She tried to sit up to take a look, but collapsed. She had no strength. Kath must have tried to bandage her. She raised her head to look around. All the equipment was gone. Kath probably took it and went for help. Thank God! All Sylvia could do was wait. Ow, oh, she exclaimed out loud. Realizing that she could die here, she prayed that she might at least live until Kath returned.

She thought of her husband Jeremy. Did he die quickly? She would never know. Her mind was taken back almost forty years to when she and Jeremy fell in love. She had just graduated from high school and taken a part-time job cleaning at Rest Easy—Gardiner’s only nursing home. Back then she had long, wavy blond hair, parted on the left. She used a barrette to hold back the bulky right side to keep it from falling in her face while she cleaned. She was short, only 5'3", but not shy. In those days she was also slim and good-looking enough to catch the attention of Jeremy Schultz.

She remembered Jeremy had finished a day of construction work remodeling Betty’s Café in town and had rushed over to Rest Easy to get there during visiting hours. Overestimating the stiffness of the door to his father’s room, Jeremy pushed it harder than necessary. The door flew open and knocked Sylvia’s bucket out of her hand. Dirty, soapy water spread over the floor that she had just cleaned. The old man seated in a chair shouted Yahoo! and kicked the bucket to Jeremy, probably recalling a sporting event of his youth.

It took Jeremy and Sylvia a good twenty minutes to clean up the mess. In the process they recalled meeting each other in school, although Jeremy had been six grades ahead of Sylvia. He explained that his father had advanced dementia. Sylvia didn’t need to be told that. The first time she cleaned his room, Mr. Shultz had asked her for an apple. She had already noticed a Macintosh sitting on the windowsill and a Red Delicious on his bedside table. She picked up the Red Delicious and handed it to him. She remembered thinking what a lovely grin the old man had. When she turned around to continue mopping the floor, he threw it at her, yelling: Yahoo!

Once married, Jeremy stretched his resources to buy a house in Gardiner for his new wife. He found one which was located on the lowest terrace of the north bank of the Yellowstone River. It had a wonderful view. Jeremy excused the purchase of more room than they needed by claiming to intend to have his father live with them. Three months after the couple moved in, Jeremy was drafted into the Army. Within another two months, after basic training, he was sent to Vietnam. To Sylvia’s relief, he abandoned the thought of moving his father from the nursing home, where good care and a steady supply of apples (and nurses to throw them at) kept the man happy.

No sooner had Jeremy been placed in the distant steamy jungles of Vietnam than Sylvia’s parents moved to northern Montana. Sylvia was quite alone. She wrote Jeremy regularly, but her life was uneventful. She reported her weekly visits to his father, whose condition didn’t change much. It was embarrassing that she had so little to tell him, save local gossip. To keep from boring him, she started drawing small scenes in and around their home. Jeremy always loved the juniper shrubs at the front of their house, so she drew those. Then she sent him drawings of other familiar trees, the river, and even of shops in town.

He wrote of his longing to return home and raise a family together. He wanted to plant some aspen so they could have more privacy from the neighbors, but also, just because I love aspens.

A year later, in early November, two soldiers in dress uniforms knocked on Sylvia’s door. She knew immediately what they would tell her. The speech they recited she had heard in a movie. Jeremy had been killed in an ambush in the jungle less than 24 hours ago. She remembered that the day before being notified, she had become so engrossed in her painting that she hadn’t once thought of him the entire morning. For years she blamed herself for those hours of neglect. Had she kept him in her mind, he might still be alive.

Before, when she had been alone for Christmas, she had looked forward to Jeremy’s return home, but now Sylvia was devastated. Kind friends had asked her to come over for Christmas dinner. Walking home, she passed the juniper shrubs on the way to her front door. When she heard wispy chortles coming from the bushes, she paused to investigate and noticed a flock of birds eating the berries. She couldn’t help but feel that they were emissaries of love from Jeremy. She wasn’t alone, she thought, and managed a smile.

The house was the only thing she had left of Jeremy and she was determined to keep it. The army pension was generous enough if she didn’t have to pay the nursing home bill each month, but she was determined to afford that as well. She never shared Jeremy’s guilt about keeping his father there. These two expenses meant she didn’t have the luxury of spending the daylight hours mourning. She had to find a job immediately. So after Christmas, she started walking to several town businesses offering her services. Her lack of experience worked against her, as did the fluctuation of the number of