3 Among the Wolves Page 3

  About midnight, Charlie woke us by jumping to his feet. Ears forward, alert, he was listening to something outside. Bill and I sat up, mirroring Charlie’s silence. Then, with ears tuned to the slightest sound, we eased out of our sleeping bags. Bill again reached for the shotgun. Outside, we could hear paws crossing the mossy ground.

  Bill whispered, “Watch the back door. I’ll go to the front.” We heard a quiet grunt followed by a yip. From the opposite side of the tent came an answering yip.

  Wolves! Now we understood Charlie’s absolute quiet. He knew that wolves had surrounded the tent, and although he was used to wolves in the Arctic, he chose a respectful silence around these strangers.

  More soft, careful footsteps circled us, followed by loud sniffing at the base of the front door, only inches from Bill’s crouched, tense body. Probably one of our visitors was trying to discover the contents of our home.

  Soon the footsteps faded. Charlie slowly relaxed, then lay down, still alert, on my now empty sleeping bag. Eager to investigate, we stepped outside. A full moon glowed in the starry sky, lighting the night and casting long shadows across the nearby spruce forest.

  Deep within the woods, a great hoot pierced the stillness. Then came an answering hoot, followed by quiet. I wondered what these owls were saying to each other.

  Charlie senses wolves close by.

  As Bill and I started back to the tent, a long, richly toned howl surged from the shadows, followed by a higher-pitched howl joined by several other voices. We spun to face the trees as the eerie chorus carried through the treetops and faded away, only to start all over again with another great howl.

  Chills coursed down my spine. At the first howl, Charlie instinctively went to our side. As the howls subsided, he sent a soft woof in reply. We strained to see, but we could only imagine what was out there. A sudden loud hoot from an owl made my heart race, while Bill visibly jumped. Only Charlie was unperturbed. He wandered off to the tent to once more claim most of my sleeping bag.

  Bill and I watched and listened until we began to shiver, then reluctantly returned to the tent, too excited to sleep. We were reasonably sure these wolves were from the pack we had seen at their den the year before, and we assumed they were checking us out as we entered their territory.

  At first light we discovered the wide paw prints of wolves in the soft snow. The tracks surrounded our tent and led away to follow a well-worn trail that disappeared into a shaded ravine. After Charlie sniffed the tracks he eagerly marked his territory, just as we guessed our wolf visitors had marked theirs during the night. We marveled at his copious supply of urine as he went about the serious business of placing boundaries until he achieved satisfaction. Only then did he turn his attention to breakfast.

  Our lack of sleep left us yawning and listless. Just as I wondered aloud if we might take the liberty of sleeping two hours past dawn before starting the day’s trek, I saw movement on a low ridge to the west.

  A lone black wolf was watching us. Minutes later, four others crested the hill, standing as still as stone statues in shafts of sunlight.

  “We’ve still got visitors,” I said.

  “No more sleep,” Bill said with resignation. “We’d better get going.” Although there was no danger of an attack, we knew we could be interrupting the pack’s routine. Their intense surveillance might indicate that we were close to their hunting trails. The wolves continued to watch from the ridge as we broke camp. Now and then other wolves joined the five, stayed awhile, then left.

  Charlie surveyed them with casual interest and then returned to eating. He appeared to regard the pack as friends, as he had the arctic wolves. His calm reactions bolstered our hope that when we reached the den he would be able to communicate with the wolves, winning their trust and enabling us to camp near enough to the den to observe wolf behavior at close range.

  We set a lively pace along a foot-wide game trail that led us east, away from the wolves. We crossed packed snow that received little sun as we traversed the foothills of the 3,000-foot peaks closely bordering our route.

  A half hour later, Bill stopped. “I feel like we’re being watched,” he said, looking puzzled.

  I’d had the same feeling ever since we left camp. “Let’s just keep walking and see what happens,” I said. “Maybe it’s our imagination.”

  Charlie also seemed to sense something. Now and then he paused to raise his nose, as if checking a wild scent drifting by. A hundred feet farther along the trail, he stopped and looked into the trees.

  We listened but heard nothing. Reasoning that Charlie would warn us of an approaching bear, I suggested that we step up the pace and try to outdistance whatever was following us. A short tug on Charlie’s leash sent him to his usual position in front.

  Minutes later, wolves appeared in the thick willow undergrowth and spruce trees, silently surrounding us. A large black male stood calmly observing us with his amber gaze. He blocked our path.

  An urgent “Here, Charlie” brought our companion close to my side. As he returned the stranger’s stare he stood tall, tail curled high to display his alpha status, ears forward, without animosity or submission. An understanding seemed to pass between Charlie and the wolf. Then the black stranger turned his lean body and, in a blur, disappeared to join the other wolves, who had remained in the shadows.

  Charlie whipped around to face the rear. We followed his gaze but could see and hear nothing. Turning his attention once more to the trail ahead, he pulled to tell us it was time to leave. The wolves had left as silently as they had arrived, but for the next half hour we couldn’t rid ourselves of the sense that we were being followed.

  We camped on snow in the deep sunless valley and spent the next day climbing over 2,000-foot naked summits. The following day we traversed precarious caribou trails that clung to the steep mountainsides. On the narrow crest of a rocky ridge, Charlie tensed as he spied two wolves below. After a concentrated stare, he sent a long howl of varying notes to the distant figures. Just before trotting single file into a thicket of dwarfed trees, one of the pair answered with a long, low howl. Charlie echoed them but, receiving no answer, resumed his journey.

  We were elated that Charlie had received an answering howl so soon in our trek. The wolves hadn’t panicked or shown any sign of nervousness, even though we were closing in on their den.

  As we traversed yet another narrow, precipitous caribou trail that continually broke away beneath our boots, Charlie leaped from one rock to another, skillful as a ballet dancer. Bill and I, under the weight of our backpacks, were far less light-footed. When the trail gave way, we slid downward with flailing arms for several feet, in an avalanche of small rocks. At each ridge top we hoped to see an end to our ordeal, but instead we saw only more steep slopes of barren gray, rocky trails, some even more exposed than those we had already crossed. A wrong step could send us hurtling several hundred feet downward. Our heavy packs would make it impossible to stop a slide and could even cause us to tumble head over heels.

  Bill was usually stoic in hazardous mountain conditions, but the rocky terrain tested even his patience. “Is this blasted stuff going to last forever?” he muttered.

  I felt even less charitable. We stopped to assess the route ahead, hoping to see an easier, safer path, but there seemed to be no way around the dangerous slopes. We crossed each slope one at a time to avoid the possibility of both of us being caught in the same avalanche of falling rocks. When it was my turn I became the nervous mother, keeping a white-knuckled grip on Charlie’s leash in case he slipped.

  But Charlie’s calm stride reminded me that he was far more sure-footed than I. In truth, I was only adding to his danger by holding his leash in such a death grip that if I fell, I would drag him downward with me. After crossing the first slope, I let him off the leash. He immediately bounded across the next slope ahead of Bill and stood patiently waiting for me to follow.

  After one more troublesome day of precipitous slopes we descended the eastern
mountains to enter easier terrain in a world of black spruce, willows, native grasses, and sedges. Tiny surprises grew in the crevices: Persistent early-season wildflowers thrust their showy heads upward to meet the light. Bogs of green and brown moss occasionally blocked our path.

  We splashed through knee-deep rivers that, although no more than ten feet wide, quickly numbed our feet and legs. Charlie, disenchanted with swimming, showed his displeasure by attempting to look for a shallow crossing. After I gave him several tugs on his leash and words of encouragement, he agreed to cross with us. The rivers and streams, some no more than a quiet trickle, all drained from the eastern mountain slopes to the Peel River fifty miles away. We passed two miniature glassy lakes separated by a thick patch of black spruce. All around us a springtime explosion of green life thrust itself through melting snow.

  After another day spent climbing and scrambling, we camped early beside a foot-wide stream. Even Charlie was tired. Without ceremony he spread out on the soft earth with a contented sigh.

  A young grizzly plays with a log while we remain hidden.

  The tent was barely erect when a large grizzly walked by, a silent dark shadow, only two hundred yards away, his chocolate-colored fur covering a powerful body. We each grabbed our shotguns, but the bear only glanced in our direction, displaying little interest, and then disappeared into the brush.

  Charlie was unconcerned. He raised his head, decided there was no danger, and returned to his dreams.

  “How can Charlie sleep at a time like this?” I marveled.

  Until we two troubled humans were sure the bear wouldn’t return for another look, we kept a nervous watch, but only silence floated on the breeze as Charlie slept on.

  Trust

  SIX DAYS AFTER LEAVING MARGARET, we neared the wolf den. For most of the morning we crossed bogs, enduring icy water flowing over our boot tops. The afternoon was a forced march through an entanglement of head-high willows. Our mood darkened by the hour as we struggled with maddening thickets that twisted in every direction. One small branch jabbed Bill’s left eye, drawing blood, which caused our fast-diminishing good spirits to dwindle even further.

  It wasn’t fun for Charlie either. At one point he sat down and refused to move. His body language firmly informed us that he had had enough and was going on strike. We sat with him, offering tidbits of beef jerky and other tasty morsels. But when we attempted to resume our hike, Charlie only sat and begged for more treats. Only after another half hour of shameless begging and snacking did he finally agree to accompany us.

  We crawled on hands and knees through branches that snagged our packs, then changed tactics and, in desperation, tried a stand-up charge. But the more aggressive strategy made no difference. The wall of branches dictated our dismally slow pace. With our sleeves pulled down, collars pulled up, and gloves pulled on, we did everything we could to minimize the punishment to our bodies. Finally, at 5 P.M., an inviting clearing lay just one hundred feet ahead. Our ordeal was over.

  As we broke clear, Charlie’s tail fanned back and forth; he seemed relieved too. We set up camp in a miniature, snow-free meadow tucked into a gap at the base of a rock cliff. A cup of hot chocolate restored our optimistic mood, although we both agreed that if we encountered more dense undergrowth, we would go miles out of our way rather than bushwhack again.

  Charlie rose at four the next morning, eager to go outside. His breakfast normally took top priority, but a scent out there preoccupied him today. He raised his sensitive nose in the brisk breeze. After catching just the right whiff, he let loose with a long, wild howl that spiraled down the scale to resonate off the mountainsides all around us. Immediately, an answering far-off cry drifted back to us, followed by additional voices with different pitches. We were ecstatic.

  Because a pack’s hunting territory ranges over many square miles, we were sure the howls were those of our target family. Charlie was already in conversation with them. To allow the wolves time to accept our approach to their den, we would now change tactics and begin a slow, nonthreatening advance to gain their trust.

  Charlie, two days from the den.

  Under sunny skies, we broke camp and descended into a short valley, skirting willow thickets as we went. Preoccupied with wolf scent, Charlie stopped frequently, at times cocking his head to one side. He occasionally paused to howl, then listened for a reply. Once in a while wolf voices, which drew closer as the day wore on, answered him. Here and there a scent attracted Charlie’s attention. He followed with his nose close to the ground, at the end of his leash, pulling us along.

  Around noon, just as we veered around a rock incline, the appearance of two wolves startled us. Both stood motionless, watching from an outcrop a hundred feet away. One was the same black wolf we had seen earlier; the other was gray.

  Charlie stopped. For a few moments he calmly returned their steady gaze, then quietly lay in a submissive pose, head resting on his paws and half turned away.

  Following his lead, we sat and looked to the side. The two stone-still wolves continued their inquiring stare while we waited for their next move. Ten minutes later, without a sound, they turned and disappeared in the direction of the den.

  Charlie stood and pulled on his leash, eager to follow the two scouts. He led us at a rapid pace, ignoring our appeals to slow down. After we scaled a slippery snow-covered rampart, we stopped for the day. The only suitable campsite was a ledge with a narrow flat place barely large enough for our tent.

  As we ate a dinner of rice and beans, we planned our approach tactics. Just as mountain shadows plunged us into deep shade, we caught a brief glimpse of a wolf on an exposed ridge three hundred feet to the south. An hour later, another wolf stood watching. The surveillance crew was taking turns keeping an eye on us! Bill and I agreed that they might be getting nervous as we closed in on their den. We would move slowly tomorrow so as not to spook them.

  The next morning, after trekking for an hour, we climbed a gradual ridge located a half mile from the den. With powerful binoculars, we scanned the area.

  “I see wolves at the den,” I said as my heart beat faster. We could be sure of it now: The wolves were using the same den as the year before.

  Two wolves lay on a barren patch of earth, stretched out side by side in the sun. Close by, the black and gray wolves we had seen earlier sprawled near huge rocks, enjoying their shade. A blond wolf appeared at the place our memories told us the den entrance should be. Two more wolves, probably lookouts, stood on the highest point around, directly above the den. As we remembered from our reconnaissance journey, the den itself was dug into the side of the steep slope and shielded by boulders.

  Suddenly one of the wolves gave a sharp bark. He and his companion must have caught our scent. They bounded down the steep slope to the black wolf’s side. All three wheeled to stare directly at us in our exposed position. The two wolves lounging in the sun jumped to their feet to follow their companion’s gaze and barked another alarm. Our plans for an inconspicuous approach rapidly crumbled. One wolf returned to the ridge top to continue his lookout duties.

  As we watched the wolves, we saw that they had become agitated. We agreed to stop for the day to allow them time to calm down before we moved on. If we approached too quickly, the family might panic.

  Out of sight of the den, we camped on a barren gravel patch screened by willows and a few scraggly spruce trees. “We’d better avoid any eye contact,” Bill advised. “They might interpret it as threatening.” And that, we knew, could cause the entire wolf family to leave the area.

  Charlie, unhappy with our choice of a site, pulled at his leash. He wanted to camp where he could see the wolves. Finally he sat down but, moments later, not to be defeated, he tossed his head back and howled to the heavens. A minute later, an answering short call bounded across the valley. Still on his leash, Charlie contentedly returned to the tent and his food bowl. We hoped a friendship had begun.

  That night, as we sat on a large, flat rock outside our t
ent eating a leisurely dinner of freeze-dried vegetables and rice, Bill and I discussed our plans. Although pleased with our progress and encouraged by Charlie’s reactions, we were worried that if we moved too fast, we could undo our so-far successful approach. The next few days would be critical. We agreed to adopt a slow, cautious pace while keeping a sharp eye out for nervous reactions from the wolves.

  We had originally planned to move ahead the next day, but instead we camped on the gravel patch for the next two days. It was the last week of April. We had the waning days of spring, in addition to all of summer and autumn, to interact with the wolves. We felt no need to hurry. Time was on our side.

  While we remained close to our tent we caught up on our journal notes and aired out our sleeping bags and clothing. About midafternoon, Charlie sent a single howl across the valley. Hearing no answer, he returned to the tent and went to sleep. Toward evening, he made another call; this time, answering voices of intermingling tones echoed through the valley. I wondered aloud whether the calls were territorial, meant to warn us away.

  “I’d rather believe they’re welcoming us,” Bill said.

  “Charlie seems eager to talk to them,” I observed. He was standing at attention, alertly listening to the wolves’ conversation. Now and then throughout the day he had suddenly looked up, stared into the brush, and then lay down to display submission. Although Bill and I saw no wolves, we knew they were keeping silent vigil close by.

  We busied ourselves with washing clothes in a barely adequate stream at the back of our camp. I mended a willow-torn shirt while Bill repaired a pack strap jerked loose by a branch. During these two days the wolves were less secretive, sometimes boldly watching from rock ledges protruding from the steep slopes above us. Usually Charlie merely glanced at them, but he always showed submission when the black one stood guard.

  On the third day we slowly moved our tent two hundred yards closer to the den, to a place where the brush thinned. Halfway through the short move, the terrain forced us to drop into a narrow depression out of sight of the den. Charlie abruptly raised his head, looking to his right and then quickly to his left. Wolves had maneuvered around us in the underbrush. They circled in and out of the brush, eyes fixed on Charlie, who stood stiff-legged, silent, monitoring them.