Behind the Shot: Black Detonation

My wife and I packed the truck, loaded all the essentials, and I carefully stowed my photography gear — everything I thought I might need. We set out from eastern Idaho toward Yellowstone National Park, driven by the hope of capturing at least one large bull bison — for me — and wolves — for my wife. This trip was about them, and nothing else.

To avoid the crowds and catch the bison migration into Paradise Valley, Montana, we decided to target Lamar Valley on the far east side of the park. We timed it perfectly: the last open week before the park closed for winter. When we arrived, Yellowstone was quiet — peaceful — almost haunting. Only a handful of vehicles dotted the landscape. It was mid-October, and the weather was a gift: crisp mornings and afternoons that touched 70 degrees.

In Lamar Valley, bison were everywhere — even jamming up the two-lane park road. At one point, we found ourselves trailing a herd of about twenty, casually ambling down the pavement like they owned it. I pulled out my camera to dial in my settings, snapping a few shots. Nothing portfolio-worthy yet — but that wasn’t the point. We were simply grateful to be there among them.

The first afternoon was about scouting — understanding the migration and the lay of the land. Locals told us that earlier in the season, over a thousand head had filled the valley. Now, perhaps 500 to 750 remained. Still an incredible sight.

That evening, we returned to our hotel in Gardiner, Montana, planning our next day: an early start to scout wolves before sunrise, then focusing on bison once the light improved.

The next morning, we reached a known wolf den site before dawn. We weren't alone. A line of at least twenty wildlife photographers already claimed their spots. After a long, patient wait, a black wolf finally appeared, loping across the distant hills. I pushed my 500mm lens into DX mode for the extra 1.5× reach, managed to fire a few shots, and captured him — small in the frame, but enough to get a shot.  My wife saw the same wolf through her binoculars, as this thrilled my wife. She had seen her first wild wolf. Mission accomplished.

We returned to Lamar Valley, photographing bison herds crossing rivers and grazing. It was spectacular — but hard to isolate a single animal for a powerful shot. Too many bison. Too much background clutter.

Locals told us Lamar was now the last stronghold of bison in the park — the herds had moved. Still, we decided to explore further. We drove toward Hayden Valley, stopping to photograph antelope, bighorn sheep, and deep canyons along the way. As we rolled into Hayden Valley, it looked barren at first — until a dark figure appeared on the open prairie: a lone bull bison.

We pulled off the road.

I grabbed my gear.

My wife stayed in the truck.

Her parting words echoed behind me:

“Be careful. They’re dangerous.”

I replied without thinking, “No worries.”

And stepped into the sagebrush.

The hike was harder than it looked. Twisted stumps and uneven terrain made every step a risk, especially while carrying over $10,000 worth of camera equipment. I picked my way forward carefully, pausing every few yards to raise my lens, assess my shot, and edge closer.

The bull paid me no mind. He grazed, massive and indifferent.

I moved slowly — frame, check, move; frame, check, move — trying to align myself for the most dramatic, head-on angle. The light was harsh — mid-morning sun — creating shadows I didn't want. I adjusted my position, moving closer to him than I realized.

Too close.

I looked up from my viewfinder...

And locked eyes with the old bull.

Thirty feet separated us.

Maybe less.

He froze.

I froze.

In that moment, time compressed.

He stared, calculating.

I stared, weighing my odds.

I thought briefly about running — but knew the sagebrush would trip me, and my camera gear would slow me. My instinct screamed "Flight," but experience whispered "Hold steady."

I began backing up — slow, careful, deliberate.

He took one step forward.

A warning.

I lifted my camera without thinking, fired off a series of shots, and continued retreating — moving backward through uneven terrain, heart pounding, planting each foot carefully.

Miraculously, I didn’t stumble.

Had I fallen, I have no doubt he would have charged.

Step by step, I widened the gap — until finally, the bull dropped his gaze and returned to grazing, as if nothing had happened.

The image I captured — The Standoff — was taken at that exact moment:

His eyes locked on mine.

My survival instincts fully awake.

A once-in-a-lifetime encounter.

And a stark reminder of the respect these animals command — and demand.