Since moving here I have seen members of my wolf pack four times. I have heard them out crying in the night countless times but I have never been able to capture one on film. Until this morning. Behind the house is a hill that leads up into a vast forest. The wolf made his way down the hill today and stood outside my bedroom window listening as Nova, Valerie’s dog, barked her head off here inside the house. He didn’t stay long. Only a moment. But long enough for me to grab my camera bag, change from my wide-angle to the telephoto and snap a few frames.
This one is my favorite. It’s not the closest that he was to the house, but I like the scene.

A wolf. A wild wolf. Not safe within a zoo or a sanctuary. A real wolf. Right outside. And finally, finally, finally, just when I am about to end my time here in rural Olney I have a photograph of him. This is a member of my pack. The pack of wolves that I will think of as “mine” for as long as I live in Montana.

I’m going to miss them. With all the wildlife that I have been able to see since moving here, nothing has filled me with such awe as the wolves. And now, I have a tangible memory to take away with me. Such is the joy of photographs — with captured images moments live longer than their allotted sixty seconds.