An excerpt from the forthcoming memoir, Amongst the Eyes and Sage:

“I’ve seen a timberwolf before. I’ve seen one in the woods out by my house.” The boy talking is loud, speaking over his friend. He’s about my age. Probably a little older, maybe ten. But he has already seen a wolf in the wild, something I have always dreamed of.

I take the last bite of my burger, leaning over the picnic table. Pine trees surround us. Wyoming looks a lot like Colorado. But wolves live here.

            “It was all black and huge,” he says. 

            “We better get going,” My dad says, noticing we are all about finished eating. He and my brother, Jeff, are anxious to meet their guide. They’re climbing the Grand Teton this week. They’ve been training all summer for it. The climb is my brother’s fourteenth birthday present. I am eight, too young to go with them. I don’t care though. I am excited for Yellowstone. I am excited for the Lamar Valley. I have read about the wolves living there. 

            We finish our meal and start towards the car. I can still hear the boy speaking. His voice is the loudest in the picnic table area. “No, no. I’m not lying! It was this big.” His hand is hovering above his head. He is taller than me. 

A river runs along the side of the road, separating us from the Hayden Valley. I am not quite the recommended 75 pounds, but I have begged and bartered my way, and for the first time I’m sitting in the front seat of our white minivan.

            Herds of buffalo cover the rolling hills. It’s been three days of driving through Yellowstone. Three days of my sister, Jessica, asking where we are going. Three days of my two-year-old brother, Ryan, asleep in his car seat. When he is really out, his head gets too heavy for his neck and moves with each curve of the road. Mom and I laugh about that.

            Today is the final day though. Jeff and Dad will come off of the Grand Teton tomorrow and we will leave Yellowstone.

            I can see the mouths of some of the closer buffalo bobbing as they graze. Nothing is wrong for them today. No wolves sit hidden in the swaying grass.

The yellow line breaks into dashes on our side of the road. We’re playing a CD my dad burned, titled “70’s Classics” and I bob my head to the bass line of Sugarloaf’s “Green Eyed Lady.” The car ahead of us is slow and the music makes me feel sly, like a spy. We have only seen buffalo all week. I have no time for more buffalo.

“Ma, break in the line. Pass ’em.”  I’ve just learned the simple traffic rule.

            My mother laughs and swings out. The car accelerates. I pull my wooden gun up to my chest and take aim as we pass.

            “Stephen, you can’t point guns at other people.”

            “It’s a toy, mom.”

            “They may not think it is. And it’s rude.”

            “But this song sounds like James Bond.”

            She laughs and agrees. “But please don’t point your gun at other cars.”

          I promise not to and replay the song. My imagination runs with the bass line. I point and shoot at buffalo. I point and shoot at the sky. My mom loves watching me dance, wooden gun in hand. I like making her smile as much as I like the music. I like knowing she likes having me sit next to her despite not weighing enough.

            We reach the top of Dunraven Pass and descend towards valleys leading to the Lamar. I hope the wolf people have better news for us today. They haven’t been able to tell us anything for the past two days. From their lawn chairs, they’ve only shrugged, their scopes aimed towards nothing in particular in the valley. “No carcass, no wolves. And wolves don’t love the heat.”

            We turn right at Tower Junction. Around the first curve, I turn off the stereo. A big canine trots next to the road. It pants hard. We slow down. Gold, white, and black fur hangs from its rib cage. Its tail dangles between its legs. Sharp pointy ears tuck back against its head. It is in tatters, looking lost and anxious.

            “I don’t think that’s a wolf,” I say to my mom.

            “I don’t think so either. That’s a big coyote though.”

            Our van coasts alongside the poor coyote as we decide what he is. His bare hide is exposed in splotches along his body. I feel terrible. Not only is it not a wolf, it is falling apart in the August sun.

“He doesn’t look like he’s doing very well,” she says and pulls forward, leaving the coyote to its wanderings. The valley hills grow from soft rises and drops in the land, to sharp rock walls falling sheer and reaching abruptly. The Lamar River finds its way through canyon walls. A big osprey nest sits in the largest tree of the canyon.

            We round a corner and the valley opens into a mile-wide splay of grassland. Sage and rock cover the hillsides. A river splits the middle, willows and cottonwood along its side. At the far end mountains rise to grey cuts in the blue sky.  

            I roll down the window and keep my eyes on the grassland. Big groups of buffalo stand still, bored. Not a good sign. I look up the hillside on the other side of the car. No movement, just more sage.

            We continue into the valley. Cars are pulled over and people sit behind unmanned scopes. They don’t look very excited. Mom pulls over and we get out to hear the news. They have been scanning the grasslands for a carcass, a bear, a wolf, anything interesting. But, like yesterday and the day before, there is nothing. Hopefully something will die soon.

I don’t have soon. I only have today.

Mom tells me we should move on. I think it’s a good idea. These people sitting behind scopes have no connection to the wolves. They simply sit and wait for luck. I can feel the wolf. It wants to witness me, as I do it. I belong to it. If we drive farther through the valley and away from the cars, maybe the wolves will come.

            We get back into the van and continue the search. Ten minutes later trees and hills close in, the valley swallowed up. Pine grows dense and I ask mom to pull over.

            She brakes, pulls onto the dirt, and eases to a stop. I open my door and step out of the car and start into the forest.

            The woods are still. Douglas fir, lodgepole pine, and aspens tangle together. I step carefully, scanning the ground for prints. I listen for the padding of big paws on sticks and dead leaves. I imagine them weaving through the trees, their pups, finally old enough to emerge from the den, behind them. I think about how big they could be. Taller than me. Long pink tongue hanging from sharp teeth, green eyes, black, grey thick fur. They are out there. But, there’s no evidence of that.

            “Steve, let’s go back, hon,” My mother calls to me. She is worried about Ryan and Jessica. They are restless, but not like I am. This means everything to me. I stick my tongue through my gap teeth, still scanning the forest. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound.

            I turn around and walk back.

I look at the asphalt between us. A thick forest surrounds the parking lot. The Virginia air is dense with humidity. August sun hanging high. Virginia Wesleyan College banners hang lifelessly from the lampposts, no touch of wind to rouse them. Moss eats at the brick of the dorm. The rental car runs, packed with their luggage. I can tell my mom wants to cry.

“Well, Steve, you gonna be alright?” My dad asks.

“Yeah, should be.” I can’t read his expression through his sunglasses. I wonder if he is glad to be rid of me.

“Seems like a nice campus and place,” he says. He’s ready to get out of the Virginia humidity and catch their flight back to Colorado.

“So long as they stop treating us like kids with all this orientation bullshit.”

I look over to my mom. Her gold hair is frizzled from damp air. She’s still holding back tears.

“Call me at the end of the week and let me know how you’re doing.”

I feel my eyes soften when she says that.

“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me. “This is exciting.”

“Yeah, I’m just ready for lacrosse to start.”

“You’re here for school, too,” my dad tries to remind me.

I’m not sure why he even takes the time to say that. He has never seen a report card or a homework assignment of mine. He only gets news from my mom, if she lets him know. What he does know is I am not the golden one. We both know that. That title belongs to one of my brothers, Jeff or Ryan. He probably thinks of me as the budding fuck up of the family. I probably am.

“I know,” I say.

He steps forward, “Love ya, bud. Have fun and study hard.” He embraces me. His chest pushes into my skinnier frame. I wrap my arms around his, pat him on the back twice, and pull away.

My mom finally gives up, tears flowing. “I’m excited for you, Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be fine.” I reel her in with my arms and give her a big hug. “I love you, Ma.”

“You have everything you need for the semester?”

“Guess we’ll see,” I say, as we pull away from each other.

My dad steps back towards the rental car. “We better go, Becky.”

            I can’t help but look my crying mother in the eyes. I want to get into the car with them.

“You’re gonna be just fine, Steve,” mom says again.

I know,” I say, again looking down at the asphalt.