The Fragile Existence of A Yellowstone Elk Calf…

We’ve been waiting with bated breath for our first elk calf sighting of the year; they usually start to appear around the third week of May. Just three days ago we’d heard from a friend that they’d spotted one, so we knew it was only a matter of time before we had our own glimpse of the precious, rusty-red-wobbly-legged-spotted babies. Unfortunately, we weren’t exactly anticipating that our first elk calf encounter would be a near-death experience (for the elk).

Little George and I were touring Hayden Valley in the early evening during a mother-son camping trip to Bridge Bay. I had taken a few landscape photos, but mostly things seemed quiet. Of course things are never “quiet” in Yellowstone. As we reached our turnaround point, I decided to take a look at a collection of ducks in a little slough along the Yellowstone River. I kept hearing a high pitched cry, and thought to myself “what kind of duck sounds like an elk calf?” (Duh…).  I spotted something swimming across the river in the distance beyond the ducks and sure enough, what climbed awkwardly ashore was a relatively new elk calf, obviously distressed and separated from its mother.

Coincidentally, there happened to be a coyote mousing unawares in the sage just uphill from where the calf emerged from the water. It didn’t take long for them to become aware of each other, and a standoff ensued. For maybe 15 minutes they stood still–the coyote crouched in the deep cover, only his sun-white ears peeking above the bush; elk calf frozen, it’s too-new legs perched awkwardly beneath it. The onlookers at the nearby pullout stood equally transfixed, waiting for the next move.

 

For some inexplicable reason, the calf eventually ventured a few steps towards the hidden predator. Curiosity? Ignorance? The coyote pounced, and the calf bolted, zig-zag across the meadow.

I’m not sure whether the coyote got a bite or not; though I never saw actual contact, there was a bit of blood on the calf’s hindquarter. For reasons unknown to those of us watching and holding our breaths, the coyote veered off and trotted away. Too close to the road? The calf stood next to the water’s edge panting, glancing back and forth between the road and the water, seemingly pondering the idea of jumping back in. The onlookers at the pullout shared a collective exhale.

It was all too much for young George to handle, even though he waited out most of the encounter in the truck. “Please mommy!” he cried “I want to leave NOW,” tears streaming down his cheeks. And it was just as well- I didn’t really want to watch any more either. The margin of life in Yellowstone is so slim – and so difficult to come to terms with. Where was the calf’s mother? What on earth possessed the calf to leave the safety of its hiding spot? How on earth did it ford the swollen Yellowstone River when its legs are still wobbly beneath it? What would happen to this poor calf now that it is separated from it’s mother? I could too well imagine. I could also too well imagine the distraught mother, frantically searching through the sage, bleating desperately for the little one she left concealed hours ago.

Sometimes, Yellowstone is almost too tough to bear. The same thing that makes us race to the side of the road with binoculars and scopes and cameras also tears our hearts into a thousand tiny pieces. Why do we do it? This push-pull of vigor and frailty, hope and loss, life and death is almost gruesomely captivating. Just as we love bears, and coyotes and wolves, we also love elk and elk calves, and feel a deep sadness when a grizzly’s methodical search in the grass turns up a hidden elk calf. It’s painful to watch, yet we can’t seem to avert our eyes even if we desperately desire to. This isn’t reality TV, this is wilderness. Perhaps we simply feel compelled to bear witness to the lives (and deaths) of the remarkable creatures that live wild and free in Yellowstone.