Colorado is bringing back wolves. On this ranch, they’re already here.

Colorado is bringing back wolves. On this ranch, they’re already here. - The Washington Post

WALDEN, Colo. — Don Gittleson was plowing the snow-blanketed dirt road to his ranch on a recent frigid morning when his cellphone rang. It was a man the rancher didn’t know, calling from the Denver area three hours away, offering his services: Could he come watch over Gittleson’s cattle at night?

Gittleson, friendly and polite, has gotten used to such queries over the past year and a half. That’s about how long gray wolves have been making their mark in this high valley known as North Park — nowhere more than on Gittleson’s ranch, where wolves have attacked several cows and calves. That has turned the 11,000-acre property and the region into a testing ground for the wild canines’ future in Colorado — and for the hopes and fears of both their advocates and opponents.

Colorado is finalizing a 300-page plan to reintroduce wolves to the state, from which they were eradicated by the 1940s. It is doing so at the behest of voters, who in 2020 narrowly approved an unprecedented ballot measure directing the state to begin releasing the endangered predators into rural western Colorado by the end of this year.

But in a twist, wolves began to set up shop on their own. In 2021, the state wildlife department announced that six pups had been born to a pair believed to have migrated from Wyoming — the first documented Colorado-born litter in decades.

The news was celebrated in Denver, where Gov. Jared Polis (D) welcomed the pups and dubbed their parents “John and Jane,” and where 66 percent of voters approved the ballot measure. Not so much here in Jackson County, where the pack made its base, and where 87 percent voted no.

The reintroduction effort is being closely watched nationwide. Will Colorado be hospitable to a contentious wild animal, serving as the missing link in a chain of wolf habitat from the Northern Rockies to the Southwest? Or will it veer toward the stance of Montana and Idaho, which conservationists say allow far too aggressive hunting?

Wolves are federally protected outside the Northern Rockies, so nearly all killing is prohibited. Colorado’s plan leaves hunting off the table, but the state is asking the federal government to deem the released wolves an “ experimental population,” allowing more “flexibility” — a term that can include killing wolves that attack livestock. Ranchers, including Gittleson, want that. Wolf advocates worry it will set back a fledgling population.

Under Colorado’s plan, wolves are likely to be captured in the Northern Rockies and released in a Central Colorado area where the state says there is an overlap of suitable habitat and social tolerance. But for now, it is in this quiet landscape along the Wyoming border where early clues are emerging about Colorado’s ability to live alongside a predator the plan says “symbolizes the diversity of American thoughts, values and opinions.”

The local wolf pack has already been diminished. Three of its eight members are believed to have been killed last year across the border in Wyoming.

Colorado Parks and Wildlife (CPW) says it has confirmed 14 killings of cattle or working dogs since January 2022, including a border collie killed last month that was worth $20,000, its owner told local media. Down the highway from Gittleson’s ranch, a red sign on a different property reads: “If you voted for reintroduction of wolves, do not recreate here. You are not welcome!”

The opinions aren’t so adamant on the mountain-flanked ranch where Gittleson and his wife have 190 cows and 39 heifers. That has made it a sort of Rorschach test — a place where opponents see proof of wolves’ threat and advocates spot glimmers of the potential for coexistence.

Gittleson said he ranched for four decades with just a handful of suspected losses to mountain lions. He spotted a black wolf in 2019 and tracks here and there. “They weren’t bothering our cows, so we were like, okay,” said his wife, Kim Gittleson, 60, an administrator at a local sheriff’s department. “Obviously, that changes when they start killing your cattle.”

That happened in December 2021, when the pack killed one of their heifers — the first confirmed wolf killing of Colorado livestock in more than seven decades. Eight more deaths followed over the next few months, the Gittlesons say. (CPW confirmed four as deaths and two as injuries, they said.)

Word got out, and Gittleson’s phone started blowing up with questions and advice — from reporters, wolf advocates, conservation groups, ranchers in other states and hunters. Gittleson took them all and opened his ranch to the callers.

“Here, the public is seeing that maybe they’re not quite the sweet little things they think,” Gittleson, 65, said as a winter-white hare dashed through leafless willows nearby. “And maybe the rancher’s not the biggest S.O.B. in the world.”

Besides, with killing not an option, “I’m extremely motivated to find nonlethal means,” he said. “So if you thought you had an answer, I was willing to listen.”

To frighten wolves, Gittleson has hung government- and nonprofit-provided fladry — flags that can deter predators. He has used flashing Foxlights and shell crackers. Range riders — some on horseback, some in cars; some volunteers, some from a coexistence organization — have patrolled at night. He placed horned cattle with his cows and deployed six burros— known for livestock guardian skills — donated by CPW.

Gittleson said he considered fencing but worried it would block pronghorn and elk. Feeding guard dogs would be pricey, he said. He wasn’t sure a Noodle Man — the inflatables that dance wildly at car lots — would work for long. A man who had experience protecting rhinos from poachers in Africa offered fencing and alarms but disappeared after seeing how large a 300-acre pasture is, Gittleson said.

“That was a problem we had with a lot of people,” Gittleson said. “I tell you how many acres there are, and you don’t have a concept of what I’m talking about.”

Nonlethal deterrents are often effective, researchers say. But Gittleson said he’s concluded the techniques last until wolves learn they are not deadly. Two of his cows were killed while range riders were monitoring, he said. Wolves were on his property this month, he said, “testing” the cattle.

“They’re extremely smart,” Gittleson said. “It’s just gonna be me continuing to do things, and if we get several long periods of time without attacks, maybe we’ll say we are doing something right.”

The day before, the state wildlife commission held one of its final hearings on the reintroduction plan in Steamboat Springs, an hour away. The front rows of a college auditorium overlooking snowy slopes were filled with parks and wildlife employees in brown uniforms. Behind them, some audience members wore shirts with wolves on them. Others wore cowboy hats and camo.

The public comments were cordial but reflected still-stubborn divides. Gail Bell, who helped drive the ballot measure campaign, said the proposed compensation for livestock attacked by wolves — up to $15,000 per killed animal, and up to $15,000 for veterinary fees — “seems exorbitant.”

“There has been a lot of entitlement over centuries regarding ranchers,” Bell said, adding: “Let’s focus on what unites us.”

It is true that wolves don’t kill large numbers of livestock, conceded Jo Stanko, a local rancher. But “if you are that particular individual rancher, it is a huge, huge financial, emotional and planning impact,” she said.

Gittleson spoke, too, calling for a more specific definition of “chronic depredation.”

Back at his ranch, he said he knows people wonder why losing some cattle to wolves can’t simply be a cost of doing business in an industry that raises animals for food. “The worst part of it is the stress,” he said. “Staying up all night, night after night, and then still having to do things during the day.”

After all the meetings, Gittleson said, he’s not sure anyone changed anyone else’s mind. “I know there’s people who think I’m gonna come up with the answer. That would be nice. But I don’t know if it’s realistic,” he said.

Calving was about to start, providing vulnerable prey for wolves. Even so, Gittleson gently turned down the caller’s offer to keep vigil. The snow was too deep to drive into the pasture, he told him, and it was too cold to go on foot at night.

“I told him we had people out there before, and you don’t really save me any sleep when I worry about whether you realize wolves are coming in,” Gittleson said. He would, he said, keep losing sleep alone.