Back in Cody, I found an outdoor gear store, the kind with stuffed elk heads and antlers on the walls and displays of camouflage clothing under fluorescent lights. The camera section was located between the hunting equipment and the basic home security systems.
“I’m looking for wildlife surveillance cameras,” I told the salesperson. “I want to monitor bear activity near my property.”
He showed me two models with motion detection, night vision, and cellular connectivity. “These will be perfect for you. Many people want to monitor their land.”
“Two of these,” I said.
“Three forty,” he replied, cashing them in.
I paid in cash.
On Wednesday afternoon, at the cottage, I methodically installed the cameras. One covered the driveway, the other was pointed towards the porch and the clearing. I tested the motion detectors, checked the signal strength, and adjusted the positions until I achieved optimal coverage.
My engineering mind, honed by forty years of experience in solving structural problems, found satisfaction in precision. Concealing the cameras to make them discreet. Positioning them for optimal capture. Testing, adjusting, verifying.
Both cameras connected to my phone with only one bar of network signal. Weak, but functional.
Thursday morning, I drove back to Cody. The butcher shop was on a side street off the main thoroughfare, the kind of place that supplied local ranchers and restaurants, with a hand-painted sign and a faded American flag in the window.
“I need ten kilos of beef scraps,” I said. “Offal, trimmings of fat. For the dogs.”
The butcher didn’t flinch. “It’s fine.”
Forty-five dollars later, I left with meat wrapped in thick white paper and placed in coolers that I had transported in the back of the truck. The smell was immediate and powerful: blood, fat, raw flesh.
Thursday afternoon, I stood in the clearing behind my cabin, the iceboxes open. The wind was coming from the west. I checked it the old-fashioned way, by wetting my finger and lifting it.
I moved about thirty meters away from the building, into the wind. I then arranged the meat in three piles, spreading it out to maximize the dispersal of the scent. This wasn’t by chance, but a calculated move. Close enough to attract predators, far enough away so they would focus on the piles and not the building.
I wasn’t trying to put anyone in danger.
I was trying to educate them.
Back in the cabin, I went through each room, locked the windows, turned off unnecessary electricity, set the thermostat to the minimum – thus protecting my investment while setting my trap.
I stopped on the threshold, took one last look at the space I had occupied for less than three days, and left without hesitation.
The drive back to Denver took about five hours, bringing me from the hills back to urban sprawl, fast-food chains, and endless traffic jams. I arrived at my old house just before midnight. It was still mine—I hadn’t sold it yet—and was therefore partially furnished, but empty.
I unloaded my truck, set up my laptop in the living room, and placed my phone so I could watch the camera feeds. Then I waited.
On Friday morning at 10 a.m., a sedan appeared on my phone screen, driving up my driveway in Wyoming in the cool morning light. Leonard and Grace got out, dressed for what they must have considered a mere rustic inconvenience, not a real wilderness excursion.
They glanced around with expressions I recognized even on the small screen: discontent, judgment, a silent calculation of what they were about to have to endure.
The camera’s microphone picked up their voices.
“Is this where he lives now?” Grace wrinkled her nose. “It smells of pine and earth.”
“At least it’s free,” said Leonard, heading towards the cabin. “We’ll stay for a few months. Let Cornelius decide what happens next. I don’t see why we had to come all the way here…”
Grace stopped. Frozen.
“Leonard,” she murmured. “Wolves.”
Three shapes emerged from the northwestern edge of the forest. Gray and brown bodies moved cautiously toward the piles of meat. Neither aggressive nor interested in humans: they were simply hungry.
Leonardo saw them and turned as white as a sheet.
“Get in the car. Get in the car now.”
They started running. Grace tripped, then caught herself. The doors slammed. The engine started and gravel sprayed as they reversed hastily, then accelerated down the driveway, toward the road and their immaculate lawns, somewhere far away in Wyoming.
The wolves, unperturbed, continued on their way to the meat.
I closed my laptop and picked up my cup of coffee. I took a slow sip.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
“What have you done?” Cornelius’s voice had lost its professional tone. It was now pure fury. “My parents were almost attacked.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said calmly. “I warned you that this property was in the middle of nature. You’re the one who orchestrated everything.”
“You lured these animals.”
