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Cowboy State Daily is Wyoming’s largest newspaper with Wyoming’s most experienced journalists. 

<title>You Still Here? Sunday, December 8, 2024 | Cowboy State Daily</title>

You Still Here? Sunday, December 8, 2024

 It clearly says, "Let It Snow." There's just a problem with the spacing....

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's Feature Reporter, Andrew Rossi.

Andrew Rossi

Outdoors

Public Lands

Almost a week after a semitruck carrying 

 flipped over in Yellowstone National Park and destroyed hundreds of hives, bees are still swarming around the area.

Thousands of bees are still homeless and visibly trying to survive in large groups on “bee trees” along U.S. Highway 191. 

Jim Holstein with Yellowstone Tour Guides has been passing through the area where the accident occurred. He took a photograph of one of the bee trees, where thousands of bees had completely covered a small lodgepole in a vast, buzzing swarm.

“They were still there on Monday,” Holstein told Cowboy State Daily. “It’s in the park between Big Sky and West Yellowstone. All the hives have been cleaned up, but there are quite a few bees left.”

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Bee Trees"}]

Cheyenne beekeeper Michael Jordan is familiar with bee trees. They’re an indication that a colony of bees is actively house-hunting.

“It’s what's called a swarming mechanism,” he said. “The queen leaves and takes about half or more of the colony and moves to a new safe location.”

Jordan said this is common behavior for honeybees when a hive gets overpopulated. The existing queen will take nurse bees and guard bees to sustain herself in a temporary location while scouts search for a permanent 

“The scouts will search until they find a permanent location,” he said. “In the meantime, you'll have groups and colonies hanging in the trees as they regroup.”

A new permanent home could be a hole in a tree, a cave, or “anywhere that’s out of the water and elements,” said Jordan. 

Bee trees are meant to be staging locations so the scouts can lead the hive to their new home.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Sugar High"}]

When the scout bees find a suitable location for a permanent hive, their next priority is

“Right now, they’re looking for a sugar source,” Jordan said. “Bees need sugar to produce wax from their glands. Once they produce the wax and form it, they'll actively engineer foam in what we call a pendulum manner to make honeycombs.”

Bees instinctively know how to build hives, and their goal is to start propagating as soon as possible after a hive-destroying incident.

Once they find a suitable spot with plenty of sugar in the vicinity, maybe a rock formation or building near a flower-filled meadow, the queen will follow the scouts to the new hive. Instinctively, all the bees on the bee tree will follow her.

Jordan didn't think there would be any bee trees for tourists to see by Wednesday.

“Those clusters will be gone within 24 to 48 hours if they find a good location,” he said. “After that, there’s nothing you can do to recover them, because tracking them is very hard.

The fact that bee trees can still be seen along U.S. Highway 191 six days after the June 16 crash might indicate the bees are having trouble finding an ideal place for a new home. But it definitely means the colonies can be safely recovered.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Get Those Bees, Please"}]

Within 24 hours of the semitruck incident, people were at the scene removing the damaged honey boxes and trying to recover whatever remained of the bee colonies that had been residing in them.

Jordan said the first 48 hours are crucial in a bee recovery situation like that.

“If you can’t get new hives set up in 48 hours, the queens will migrate and leave a pheromone trail that the bees accommodating her in that hive will follow,” he said. “That’s what the bee trees are: thousands of bees accumulating around the queen.”

That means there’s a small window to safely save these bees before they become permanent Yellowstone residents.

Jordan’s strategy would be to place a mobile swarm trap. It’s basically a column of PVC pipes with buckets attached to either end. The height can be adjusted to get as close as possible to the colony clusters.

“If the bees accumulate in the buckets as a temporary hive, you can relocate them to an apiary and manage them there,” he said. “You can even hold a bucket up to the colony and shake them inside. That’s how you can naturally collect and remove a colony.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"No Bears — Yet"}]

Commercial vehicles like semitrucks are banned in Yellowstone, but U.S. Highway 191 is an exception. It hugs the western boundary of the park and is an important 55-mile thoroughfare between West Yellowstone and Big Sky, 

"They've enacted a temporary 35 mph speed limit on the section where the bees are," Holstein said. "People have to keep their windows up, and there's no stopping until crews can get the remaining bees rounded up."

When the bee trees disappear, it means the bees have found a suitable spot to rebuild their hive. Finding and removing the colony would be difficult, if not impossible, especially in the dangerous wilderness of Yellowstone.

[{"type":"text","text":"After all, who loves honey more than bears?"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"“I haven’t seen any bears,” Holstein said. “Yet.”"}]

Jordan was more concerned about the people who lost their honey boxes and bee colonies. He knew how much money they had lost and must have spent trying to salvage whatever they could from the accident.

“From the way it looks. I’d think about 40-50% of what’s there is salvageable, maybe,” he said. “Each honey box can cost around $500 and generate around $2,000 in honey. 

"There could be two or three owners who lost their livelihood in that accident. That’s at least one whole company that has to rebuild.”

Bee tree swarm 6 22 26

<title>Millions Of Bees Swarm On Trees In Yellowstone After Hives Smashed In Semi Crash | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Almost a week after a semitruck carrying millions of bees flipped over in Yellowstone National Park and destroyed hundreds of hives, bees are still swarming on trees in the area. “It’s what's called a swarming mechanism,” said a Wyoming beekeeper.

Millions Of Bees Swarm On Trees In Yellowstone After Hives Smashed In Semi Crash

Kolby fedore

Kolby Fedore

Wyoming Life

Sports

Somewhere around mile 80, strange things start happening in the mountains. 

[{"type":"text","text":"Trees become people."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Shadows turn into horses."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Voices seem to drift through the darkness."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"One runner spent miles convinced mice were scurrying across her feet."}]

Another knows that if he's awake long enough, he'll start hearing conversations that aren't really there.

That's before the stomach problems, swollen feet and the little voice that starts begging runners to quit.

This weekend, hundreds of runners descended on Sheridan for the annual Bighorn Trail Run, one of the West's most respected ultramarathons. 

Some tackle 18 miles. Others run 32 or 52. A smaller group attempts the full 100-mile course — a physical and mental journey that keeps many of them moving through Wyoming's backcountry for more than 24 hours.

For people who have never run farther than a half or even full marathon — or perhaps never wanted to — the obvious question for these ultrarunners remains: 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"The Drive"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Ask 40-year-old Daniel Orr and he'll tell you every runner has one."}]

The Wyoming native grew up in Cody and Powell before eventually settling in Maine, where he now works as a freelance photojournalist for The Wall Street Journal.

This year, he returned to the West to take on the Bighorn 100, an ultrarunning event that starts near Dayton in northern Wyoming and travels over the Bighorn mountains. It’s considered one of the most challenging ultramarathons in the United States.

Orr's answer to why anyone would want to run extreme distances in extreme conditions isn't about competition.

[{"type":"text","text":"It's about grief."}]

"A lot of it is dealing with childhood stuff," Orr said. "I lost my mom in 2023, and that was a huge jump start to me seeking out endurance sports."

The races, he said, provided something unexpected for such an individual sport: community. Spending a day and a night suffering alongside strangers has a way of creating connections.

"This isn't my story, but there's a lot of people who come from addiction recovery and stuff," Orr said. "The community aspect is a really unexpected but very tangible thing you find in these races."

[{"type":"text","text":"For Anne Hinman, the answer is different."}]

A former University of Wyoming soccer player who now works as a marketing director and recently moved from Wyoming to Montana, Hinman ran her first ultramarathon at Bighorn in 2021. She's now completed the race five times.

[{"type":"text","text":"Her motivation is overcoming fear."}]

Hinman describes herself as naturally cautious and anxious. Moving to Wyoming forced her outside her comfort zone.

"There are moose and bear in Wyoming," she said with a laugh. "I was so afraid. So, the only reason I'm able to do what I do is because I push past my fear."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Digestive Mutiny"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Running 100 miles requires a shocking amount of fuel."}]

Forget energy bars. Ultrarunners often survive on all the things that would raise a mother's eyebrows.

Hinman's race menu includes Nerds Gummy Clusters, Rice Krispies Treats, potato chips and liquid sugar.

"Pretty much any junk food that you can think of is something that someone would eat during ultramarathons," she said.

[{"type":"text","text":"Orr has his own nutritional strategy."}]

The goal is consuming at least 80 grams of carbohydrates every hour while taking in fluids consistently throughout the race.

[{"type":"text","text":"At aid stations, however, dignity often disappears."}]

"You'll mix quesadilla with some Sour Patch Kids or something," Orr said. "Just kind of muscle through it."

The digestive system doesn't always cooperate. Both runners described stomach issues as one of the most common challenges in ultrarunning.

Another offered perhaps the most concise summary of the sport ever recorded: "Never trust a fart."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Hallucinations"}]

The strangest part of ultrarunning often arrives after dark. By then, runners have been awake for nearly a full day.

They're exhausted, alone and deep in the mountains. Sleep deprivation begins to distort reality.

[{"type":"text","text":"For Orr, the hallucinations are subtle."}]

"You'll think you're seeing a human figure, or hearing voices," he said.

[{"type":"text","text":"For Hinman, they're harder to ignore."}]

During one nighttime section of a race, she became convinced mice were running across the trail and over her feet for nearly two miles.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"All of the trees became people,\" she said. \"Or horses.\""}]

Orr says the experience of how your mind deals with those ultimate challenges can be unsettling at first.

When he completed an overnight crossing of California's Joshua Tree National Park, he said the isolation became overwhelming.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"It's truly terrifying when you realize how alone you are,\" he said."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Eventually, however, something changes."}]

"The mind just kind of accepts it after a while," Orr said. "And it's really quite peaceful after that acceptance."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"The Voice"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"At some point, every ultrarunner hears a voice that says “stop.\""}]

It’s the voice that says you've gone far enough and starts pointing out the absurdity of voluntarily running 100 miles through the mountains.

[{"type":"text","text":"Hinman hears it every race."}]

"Please stop," she remembers the voice telling her. "This is dumb. You shouldn't be out here."

Her solution is simple — make it to the next aid station, then reassess.

[{"type":"text","text":"Nine times out of 10, she keeps going."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"The physical pain, though, is impossible to avoid."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"\"Every step hurts,\" she said."}]

Orr broke a toe during a 47-mile Grand Canyon effort and severely damaged a hamstring tendon during his first 100-mile race. He finished anyway.

[{"type":"text","text":"That's part of the bargain, he said."}]

"It's not a matter of if," Orr said of injuries. "It's a matter of when."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Finish Line"}]

Despite the image of solitary runners disappearing into the wilderness, ultrarunning is rarely a solo effort.

Orr's girlfriend flew from Maine to crew for him while studying for her nurse practitioner certification exam. His brother drove from Powell to help at later aid stations. A pacer he'd never met before joined him for the final 32 miles.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"It's a good way to get to know somebody,\" Orr joked."}]

For many runners, the support crew becomes just as important as the training. They hand over fresh shoes, refill water bottles, offer encouragement and, when things get dark, help convince exhausted runners to keep moving.

[{"type":"text","text":"Eventually, a 100-mile race stops being about running."}]

It becomes a test of what a person can endure through a sleepless night in remote terrain — through aching muscles, stomach troubles, phantom voices and trees that suddenly look like people.

[{"type":"text","text":"For reasons even many runners struggle to explain, they keep coming back."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"One painful step at a time."}]

Bighorn 100 rsw 2560 9 6 21 26

<title>When Trees Become People: The Strange Reality Of Running 100 Miles In Wyoming | Cowboy State Daily</title>

This weekend, runners descended on Sheridan for one of the West's most respected ultramarathons. They'll tell you the 100-mile race is a test of what a person can endure: aching muscles, phantom voices and trees that suddenly look like people.

When Trees Become People: The Strange Reality Of Running 100 Miles In Wyoming

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's business and tourism reporter, Renée Jean

Renée Jean

Waterfalls shoot straight out of volcanic cliffsides, flinging themselves into canyons almost no one ever visits. 

Far from the boardwalks and pullouts, meanwhile, something that looks very much like a starfish seems to nap where no starfish should even be, sunning itself in a crystal-clear thermal pool in Yellowstone National Park. 

It’s all part of a hidden Yellowstone that most people never get to see — the Yellowstone that Bozeman filmmaker Stephen Quayle has spent five decades chasing with a camera and has finally stitched into a new film, 

“Only 5% of Yellowstone is visible by the roads or by the boardwalks around the geysers,” Quayle told Cowboy State Daily. 

Another thin, 10% slice belongs to the hardy few willing to trek for miles into grizzly bear and wolf territory. 

But from a helicopter, “the most gorgeous” waterfalls and the most intriguing geothermal pools can be seen in stunning aerial views. 

Photographing from the air takes a million-dollar camera lens, Quayle said, one that can take high-resolution images from at least 2,000 feet away. 

That’s the minimum height recommended by the FAA for flying over places like national parks. Any lower could violate federal laws if an aircraft disturbs wildlife or park visitors.

“That way we can present to people the Yellowstone that really is,” he said. “And it’s breathtakingly wonderful. It is not just a wonder of the world, it is 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"A Fateful Party Weekend"}]

Quayle’s relationship with Yellowstone began when he was a college student with time on his hands and weekends to burn in glorious summer road trips. 

Yellowstone was perfect for that when you’re a young man from Bozeman, Quayle said. 

“I went there because that’s where everybody used to go and party,” he admitted. “And from Bozeman, they drive down to the inner West Yellowstone, but I would take a diversion. That doesn’t mean I didn’t partake of some of the wild stuff in those days. 

"But the bottom line is that it was so close, and in those days you could go from one feature to the next and never see another car,” Quayle added.

The more he photographed Yellowstone, the more he wanted to go back. It felt like becoming lost in another world, one that seemed to rearrange itself every time he visited.

At first, Quayle stuck to closeups. Think bacterial mats, colorful mineral formations, tiny, iridescent insects — all reflecting his interest at the time in abstract art.

“Most photographers would take a leaf,” he said. “I would take the veins in the leaf.”

But over time, Quayle saw that Yellowstone was like this gigantic living creature, breathing, pulsing, moving around. 

That could never be captured with microshots of leaf veins and abstract rock patterns. 

For the real Yellowstone, Quayle realized he had to do something to widen his scope. 

On a map, Yellowstone National Park looks vast, but knowable. 

You can drive in and easily hit the biggest, most popular features — Old Faithful, Grand Prismatic, the Canyon — and drive back out with a phone full of photos and a comfortable sense that you’ve now seen Yellowstone.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"It’s a beautiful illusion. "}]

For one thing, Yellowstone is among the most dynamic landscapes on earth. Fire and water are shaping and reshaping its landscapes all the time. 

The park is also vast —  3,500 square miles — and the majority is too dangerous and too inaccessible for most people’s hiking abilities. 

“It’s a matter of practicality,” Quayle said. “Because some of these waterfalls come out of the side of a mountain and you’ve got wolves in the park and you’ve got grizzlies in the park … and the wolves are not, ‘oh they’re so cute,’ and it’s not Yogi Bear time.”

Some areas are even untouchable when it comes to horseback, Quayle added, and the park also has rules on where people can go by horseback, which helps protect fragile areas. 

Quayle himself didn’t even realize at first just how much he’d been missing. Until one day he got the idea to take a helicopter ride and look down on this creation. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Yellowstone became a whole new world. "}]

Geyser basins became vast, veined paintings. Rivers resolved into networks tying distant waterfalls together. Thermal scars appeared in forest clearings that had no signs, no names, no crowds.

“It’s like a whole different world,” he said. “You literally wouldn’t know you were on planet Earth.”

The view from 2,000 feet is ultimately the one that captured and held Quayle’s attention the best. 

Waterfalls spilling over volcanic rocks like crystal threads of light into dark and lonely slot canyons and broad amphitheaters that had been carved by wind and water and time. 

There were blue-and-white ribbons twisting over black volcanic rock, framed by forests and meadows that melted into the mists of morning. Scenes like this often felt less like sightseeing, and more like eavesdropping on a secret earth, as if he, himself, was an alien. 

One time he saw what looked like a perfect, starfish-like form sunning itself in a crystal clear thermal pool.

“Imagine a starfish, a perfect starfish, in water that’s too hot to have any life,” he said. “How do you get that kind of design in geothermal pools?”

Quayle said he’s shared the images with researchers, who are still evaluating them.

Quayle has combined the footage taken from the air with snapshots he’s taken at Yellowstone National Park over a 50-year period, creating a feature-length film he calls “Yellowstone: Above & Below.” 

His goal with the film is to help people access even the most inaccessible places in the park, as well as raise funds to help support the park. 

Ten percent of the film’s proceeds will be donated to the park’s official nonprofit, Yellowstone Forever, to help fund conservation, education and stewardship of the park.

“Yellowstone is alive,” the film’s narrator says over sweeping aerial shots. “Every breath of steam, every shifting terrace is part of an ancient story written in stone and fire.”

Creating the film has taken Quayle a lifetime, including about four or five years worth of helicopter rides.

“We were in a helicopter for sometimes six and eight hours a day,” he said, a ride that was paid for by the hour. “I mean, it’s a lot of time in the air, but there’s no other way to see it all, to reference it.”

To capture the views, Quayle rented a gyro-stabilized camera system with a long-range lens once used for military surveillance. He also hired Hollywood cameraman Nel Boshoff to operate it.

The camera is so precise, Quayle said, it can focus on an elk 2 miles ahead and then zoom in on its eyelashes. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Where Science Meets Spirit"}]

Ask Quayle why he keeps coming back to Yellowstone after 50 years, and his answer lies somewhere between science and spirit.

From above, the branching runoff channels remind him of blood vessels in a human body, and everywhere he sees beauty born from volcanic violence.

“It’s a place of wonder and warning,” he says in the film. “It is fragile, and yet holds the strength of worlds beneath its surface.”

For most visitors, Yellowstone will always mean the 5% everyone else sees — Old Faithful, the canyon, a glimpse of bison in the valley. 

The remaining 95% — Quayle’s waterfalls in hidden canyons, starfish patterns at the bottom of a boiling pool, and backcountry geysers with no signs or names — are like something from a dream, revealed by one man’s uncommon obsession. 

If the images leave viewers feeling like they’ve gotten as close to the edge of creation as they ever will from a living-room couch, that’s fine with Quayle. That feeling is everything about Yellowstone that he’s ever wanted to say.

Contact Renee Jean at renee@cowboystatedaily.com

Quayle yellowstone alternative 6 21 26

<title>The Yellowstone You’ll Never See: Filmmaker Spends 50 Years Capturing Its Secrets | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Most tourists see just 5% of Yellowstone from roads and boardwalks. Bozeman filmmaker Stephen Quayle has spent 50 years filming the places most never reach. “It’s like a whole different world,” he said. “You literally wouldn’t know you’re on planet Earth.”

The Yellowstone You’ll Never See: Filmmaker Spends 50 Years Capturing Its Secrets

Heinz mark

Mark Heinz

Wildlife

A few weeks ago, tourists chuckled as a young grizzly named Storm was chased off by an angry sandhill crane, but nobody was laughing Thursday when Storm devoured an elk calf alive in front of about 100 people.

The calf was alive for roughly 15 minutes as it was being eaten by the 3-year-old female, wildlife researcher John Winnie Jr. told Cowboy State Daily.

Winnie was there with students from his Yellowstone National Park wildlife ecology field class.

“We were kind of awed at watching a bear take prey," said Winnie, an associate teaching professor in the Department of Ecology at Montana State University.

“But we were shocked and surprised at a calf staying alive that long,” he added.

“There were mixed comments from the crowd,” as 

 near the shore of Yellowstone Lake, Cody resident Vince Vanata told Cowboy State Daily.

“Some people had empathy for the elk calf, and some people were thinking it was just nature taking its course,” he said.  

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"A Good Find For A Bear"}]

Similar to deer fawns, elk calves have little to no natural scent, Winnie said.

Tourists in Yellowstone got a brutal taste of reality Thursday when a grizzly went after a live elk calf and devoured it. John Winnie, an ecology professor at Montana State who was there, said most people don't "grasp just how high elk calf mortality is."

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