Back in Cody, I located an outdoor supply store, the type with mounted elk heads decorating the walls and racks of camouflage gear displayed under fluorescent lighting. The camera section occupied space between hunting equipment and basic home security systems.
“Looking for wildlife cameras,” I told the clerk. “Want to monitor bear activity near my property.”
He demonstrated two models featuring motion activation, night vision capabilities, and cellular connectivity. “These will serve you well. We get numerous folks wanting to monitor their land.”
“Two of these,” I said.
“Three hundred forty dollars,” he replied, processing the transaction.
I paid with cash.
Wednesday afternoon at the cabin, I installed both cameras methodically. One covered the driveway approach. The other angled toward the front porch and clearing beyond. I tested the motion sensors, verified signal strength, adjusted positions repeatedly until coverage was optimal.
The engineering component of my brain, honed through forty years of solving structural problems, found deep satisfaction in the precision work. Conceal the cameras sufficiently to remain unobtrusive. Position them for maximum capture effectiveness. Test, adjust, verify results.
Both cameras successfully connected to my phone despite only one bar of cellular service. Weak signal, but functional.
Thursday morning, I drove back to Cody once more. The butcher shop occupied a side street off the main commercial district, the kind of establishment serving ranchers and local restaurants, featuring a hand-painted sign and a faded American flag in the front window.
“Need twenty pounds of beef scraps,” I said. “Organ meat, fat trimmings. For dogs.”
The butcher didn’t react with surprise or curiosity. “You got it.”
Forty-five dollars later, I walked out carrying meat wrapped in thick white paper and loaded into coolers I’d brought in the truck bed. The smell manifested immediately and powerfully. Blood, fat, raw flesh.
Thursday afternoon, I stood in the clearing behind my cabin with the coolers open before me. Wind originated from the west. I verified direction the old-fashioned way, wetting my finger and holding it aloft.
I walked thirty yards from the structure, positioning myself upwind. Then I distributed the meat in three separate piles, spreading them to maximize scent dispersion through the forest. Not random placement, but calculated. Close enough to draw predators to the general area, distant enough that they’d focus on the meat piles rather than the building itself.
I wasn’t attempting to endanger anyone.
I was attempting to educate them about reality.
Back inside the cabin, I moved through each room systematically. Locked windows. Disabled unnecessary electrical systems. Set the thermostat to minimal heat, protecting my investment while simultaneously establishing my trap.
I paused at the door, took one final look at the space I’d inhabited for less than three complete days, and departed without hesitation.
The drive back to Denver consumed approximately five hours, carrying me down from high country back into suburban sprawl, fast-food chains, endless traffic lanes. I arrived at my old house just before midnight. I still owned it, hadn’t sold it yet, so it sat partially furnished but hollow, echoing.
I unloaded my truck, established my laptop in the living room, positioned my phone where I could monitor the camera feeds continuously. Then I waited.
Friday morning at ten o’clock, a sedan materialized on my phone screen, rolling up my Wyoming driveway in crisp morning light. Leonard and Grace emerged, dressed for what they’d clearly conceptualized as rustic inconvenience rather than genuine wilderness.
They surveyed their surroundings with expressions I recognized even on the small display screen. Displeasure. Judgment. A quiet calculation of how much discomfort they’d be forced to tolerate.
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