on top of the slippery layer of ice. The top, heavier layers of snow must have slid, triggering the white freight train to come barreling down the mountain creating a killing field in the upper Kintla valley. Two days earlier, mist rising off the river wets our faces as Mike and I ford the North Fork of the Flathead, just north of Polebridge, Montana, as chunks of ice and slush bounce off our waders. We struggle through the current, trying to find purchase on slimy river cobblestones, with ski poles stabbing the river floor. Skis strapped to our packs, boots, tied and dangling around our necks, as we cross over the imaginary boundary into Glacier National Park. Tied to the top of our packs is a deer’s hind quarter weighing us down. We’re stripped to a minimum living out of a backpack for the next three days. Approaching the riverbank, piled high with snow, we unstrap our packs and pull out our skis. We sit on them, pull off our waders and step into ski boots, placing heavy waders on a tree branch to pick up on return. . We kick-step up the bench overlooking the river, post-holing three feet deep before reaching the Inside North Fork Road, which is a one-lane gravel road buried in snow. We ski toward the foot of Lower Kintla Lake for a wolverine study. But also, and even more so, because I am drawn here by the wildness, like a long lost lover, wanting to experience all of her many moods and seasons. Slowly, we ski the undulating landscape through mosaic forest of burnt black lodgepole pine, Douglas fir, and still-alive needleless larch trees. The Wedge Creek Fire raged through here nine years ago, charring much of the forest. Many larch survived because of thick fire resistant bark and high branches that prevent flames from climbing its branches. Elk, deer, moose, and wolf tracks temporarily tattoo the snow. A pine marten scampers behind a tree before curiosity gets the better of it. It peeks out again, then crawls back into a burrow below an upturned root wad. As we ski I look over at Mike and notice his ski gait is a little off. “Everything alright?” I ask. “Yeah, for the most part. Abrei didn’t want me to go on this trip. We fought about it last night. She thought something could happen back here and there’s just the two of us going. Also, she’s been pushing me to find a more serious, stable job – as in a career with benefits so we can raise a family.” While we ski the four miles to the foot of lower Kintla Lake. Mike’s words resonate with me more than I expect. A part of me is tired of being restless and following one seasonal job to the next. That element in me wants to settle down and quit being a contemporary nomad migrating with the sun. Once we get to the lake we pull out binoculars and glass the frozen lake looking for wildlife. Nothing stirring, just tracks on the snow, like ghosts of the animals. Beyond the lake, toward the Continental Divide, the summits are socked in with clouds, making me feel small. I realize seasonal work has its limitations and I want to contribute more to the world, take some kind of leap, leave a mark – whatever that may be. Two hours later we arrive at the boat dock and find a ten-foot post, standing erect against the gray sky. Bronze colored wire-
mesh brushes are attached to the sides of the post to snag hair samples. Brown and black eagle and raven down feathers are caught in the tiny, wire fingers of the mesh brushes. But, no wolverine hair and still no answers to life’s gnawing questions. The brushes, the same used for cleaning guns, are used to snag wolverine hair, when they climb the post to get to the bait lagbolted on top. The deer’s hind quarter strapped to our packs will be the new bait. The hair is collected and mailed to a DNA lab to identify individual wolverines to help answer questions about this elusive creature. Researchers and biologists used to lure wolverines into live traps using dead beavers, jabbing the wolverines with a tranquilizer then a veterinarian would surgically implant GPS units inside their bellies. It was invasive, but worked better than collars because wolverine’s necks are as thick as their heads and radio collars slip right off. The study has been going on for several years and biologists are trying to get a population estimate of wolverines who call Glacier Park home. The post has plenty of flesh attached to the deer leg we’d hung two weeks ago. Unscrewing the cap off the bottle of animal lure that consists of beaver castor oil and skunk glands, I gag at the smell. Replacing the brushes. “They figure over forty wolverines live here,” I say. As far as the rest of the state is concerned they have no idea. The state allows five wolverines to be trapped a year. Biologists want to find out if the allowance of five wolverines taken a year is feasible or whether wolverines should be placed on the Endangered Species List. The viability of this species is in question. Another looming plight facing wolverines is a warming planet. They live and den in high elevations and need average annual temperatures around seventy-two degrees. If their habitat warms a couple of degrees it changes as subalpine firs encroach further up into the alpine. Mountain goats, their preferred prey, will therefore also be affected as their food source, lichens, diminishes. After inspecting the brushes and re-baiting the post, we get ready to ski or hike, depending on which is necessary, to the head of the lake, where there is a small ranger station cabin where we’ll stay for two nights. “Do you think the lake is frozen enough to hold our weight?” I ask. Intimidated by the expanse we look out over the lake one more time. Mike shrugs his shoulders, “Hope so.” The lake has a thin veneer of snow, covering whatever depth of ice that lies below it. “I heard from a previous researcher that the lake was ice-free two weeks ago,” I say. How frozen could it be in that amount of time? Little pools of water line the edges of the frozen mass revealing the fragility and impermanence of the ice, while a muskrat hunkers near an opening, gnawing on twigs. Skiing deeper into the wildness of Glacier’s Kintla Valley, the ground looks like autumn, a product of Kintla’s rain/snow shadow. The dried brown tawny grasses of winter are not blanketed by deep snow as they are in other drainages. The grasses stand erect like they do in the late fall before snow flies and the forest is laid to rest for the season. We start skiing down trail before we notice wolf tracks in a 51