3 Among the Wolves Page 4

  I felt panic flood in. What if the wolves had turned against Charlie? Could we protect him from so many attackers at once? I stepped between the wolves and Charlie to shield him, then realized the wolves were showing no aggression.

  “Let’s sit,” I whispered to Bill. We sat on the ground on either side of Charlie, looking down to show our submission.

  “They must be testing Charlie. I don’t think they’ll attack him,” Bill said. “But we’d better stay on the ground so we don’t look like a threat.” As we sat with our eyes averted, the rustle of the brush told us the wolves still surrounded us. But Charlie remained calm, as if understanding all.

  After thirty minutes the wolves departed, and we heard nothing but the low moan of a rising wind that prowled the ridge tops. Wispy clouds scattered across the blue sky, signaling a weather change.

  Charlie sat in the warm sun as the melting snow dripped from the surrounding rock ledges. But Bill and I couldn’t share his relaxed attitude. We were worried that the wolves had staged the afternoon’s events to persuade us to leave, and that made us nervous. We decided to camp in the depression that night. Now that we had established continuous contact with the pack, we hoped an unhurried appearance would demonstrate that we were no threat.

  “I hope we haven’t made a mistake by approaching the den too fast,” I said as I cooked a dinner of instant potatoes and freeze-dried peas and beans.

  “The next few days will tell us if we should stay,” Bill said. “If we seem to disturb them too much, it’d be better to leave than to cause stress to the pack.”

  The next afternoon we shifted camp without interruption to a wide patch of snow among misshapen spruce trees. The scattered cotton grass was already pushing its new stalks upward to meet the spring temperatures in the midforties.

  Late the following day, we broke camp to move another hundred feet closer to the den. We watched for any sign that our approach might frighten the wolves into flight. The evening sun sent golden shafts of light through gaps in the gathering clouds. As we reached a clearing big enough for our tent, we unexpectedly came upon a wolf fifty feet away. His streaked blond-black fur glowed as he chewed what appeared to be a hare. With no sign of alarm, his steady yellow-green eyes swept the short distance from Bill and me to Charlie, who stood rigid and perfectly still.

  Fascinated, I stepped forward without thinking. Immediately the wolf’s mood changed from calm to defensive. He bared his formidable teeth to warn me away from his meal. I froze. Then, hardly daring to breathe, I slowly stepped back a few paces as I looked away to avoid his angry stare. After I made it back to Bill and Charlie, the wolf relaxed.

  Charlie abruptly dropped to the ground on his belly with his front legs straight out, his head meekly resting on his paws. Taking our cue from Charlie, Bill and I also crouched, keeping our gaze low and averted. After a few minutes the wolf resumed eating, although he remained cautious. My mistake appeared to have been forgiven.

  Minutes later, the black wolf stepped out from the brush, tail curled high, ears forward and alert. Two immature wolves followed, a gray-black and a blond—last year’s pups, now teenagers. These two milled about, suspicious and insecure in contrast to the black male, who continued his proud stare. The first wolf stopped eating and stood over his unfinished meal of hare.

  The big black male took a few challenging strides toward us, then stopped in a stare-down, his piercing yellow eyes contrasting with his rich black coat. His proud, authoritative attitude and calm posture showed him to be the alpha male who reigned over the entire wolf family. His penetrating gaze seemed to pierce our souls.

  Charlie continued to demonstrate submission while Bill and I remained crouched below the wolves’ eye level in a nonthreatening position. After a last stern look at us, the alpha, his gaze softening, turned his attention to the passive Charlie. Then, with a slight wave of his tail he turned away from Charlie and walked to the leftover hare meal, picked it up without so much as a by-your-leave to the owner, and trotted toward the den with his three family members following. It was a haughty display of his superior position.

  The two younger wolves, still nervous, tossed frequent glances over their shoulders as they followed the adults. Charlie rose to his feet, carefully marking his territory by urinating in a line a few yards in front of Bill and me. Although we were encouraged by Charlie’s exchange with the wolves, the all-important question still remained: Would the pack accept Bill and me?

  We camped in the wide clearing surrounded by willows and a few spruce trees for one day before cautiously moving closer to the den. Charlie, clipped to his seventy-five-foot camp leash, remained vigilant, watching for the wolves who occasionally visited nearby, their movements muffled as they remained under cover in the trees.

  On the sixth day we set up the tent a few yards beyond the screen of scrub trees and thin brush. At first we couldn’t see the den entrance, but when a blue-gray wolf stepped behind three-foot high rocks and didn’t reappear, we guessed the entrance lay behind the barrier.

  A day later we placed our camp two hundred feet closer. We were now under constant surveillance by the wolves, who sometimes paced back and forth with nervous suspicion but not serious alarm. We kept our gaze averted and moved slowly to prevent startling them. Charlie relaxed in the sun and slept, or sat and gazed at the neighbors. He was fully content now that he could see the wolves.

  Finally, after nine days of cautious, unhurried maneuvering, it was time to test the wolves. We needed to determine how close they would allow us to approach. We packed our camp and slowly, with eyes averted and Charlie tugging at his leash in the lead, edged closer.

  The wolves clustered together to watch. Tension filled the space between us. The alpha male—tail high, ears forward, lips parted in a partial snarl—stepped in front of his family, ready to defend. The rest waited behind him. Suddenly the two youngsters ran from one adult to the other, seeking reassurance. As the adults gave short barks of alarm, the teenagers became even more agitated, puffing their cheeks out as if sending us silent messages with each breath of air.

  We were too close. Immediately we stepped back, sat down, and turned our eyes away. Charlie lay with his chin resting on the ground, also looking away from the wolves. After five minutes of submission, we retreated to a narrow moss- and grass-covered meadow a hundred feet from the den. The pack slowly calmed but remained wary. The alpha’s neck mane stood erect as he barked gruffly at us. Two wolves ran from the den area, circled behind us, and stood stiff-legged, watching and barking.

  A critical limit had been revealed. At one hundred feet, we had breached the comfort zone of the wolves. We sat for an hour with Charlie, quiet and subdued.

  The wolves, although still on guard, gradually relaxed. Even the alpha stopped barking and calmed somewhat, although he still stood regarding us with distrust. The two who had circled behind us rejoined the pack.

  “Do you think we’ve gone too far?” I whispered to Bill. “Maybe we should leave and camp down the valley for a few days to let them calm down.”

  Charlie wonders how long until dinner.

  “They seem to be settling down,” Bill whispered back, as he cautiously turned to get a better view of the wolves. “At least that big black fellow has stopped barking and snarling.”

  “Let’s put up the tent and see what happens—if we go slowly with no sudden moves, it might work,” I said, with little conviction. Our sudden rejection had left us uncertain about what to do next.

  We cautiously rose and erected our tent, keeping our eyes averted. Meanwhile, Charlie walked several feet farther away and lay down, this time with his back to the den.

  “We’d better copy Charlie and sit awhile. He seems to know more about this than we do,” I said.

  Together with Charlie, we kept a low profile for another hour. With an occasional careful sideways glance, we checked on the wolves periodically. Tails still curled high over their backs, they watched us with an uncertainty that eventually fad
ed as evening approached.

  To avoid startling the wolves we didn’t light our noisy stove, instead eating a cold dinner of high-energy food bars. As night approached, the wolves relaxed even more. Some lay down, while others wandered around the den area. A particularly long-legged male stood on a high ridge above the den, looking away from us across the tundra beyond. We hoped he had accepted us and was looking for prey. Even the teenagers were less suspicious; one picked up a stick and teased the other into chasing her to steal it.

  Now that the day’s tension had passed, tranquility spread across our camp. We paused to breathe in the fresh scent of spruce trees and admire the lonely splendor of the mountains and ridges surrounding our tiny meadow.

  I reached for Bill’s willow-scarred hand and whispered, not wanting to break the peaceful spell, “I think we’ve made it.”

  He squeezed my hand and whispered back, “Yes, thanks to Charlie.”

  Charlie, outside on his long camp leash, gobbled his dinner in his usual haste, his appetite unaffected by the excitement. Next he marked his territory by lifting his leg every few yards. To complete his territorial circle, he sniffed a few of the marks he had made, then vigorously scratched dirt in a few places around the circle. Now he walked over to the tent and, before we could stop him, urinated on the side closest to the den to leave his scent. In seconds the sharp aroma of urine had begun to infuse our wilderness bedroom.

  With that, he stepped inside the tent, gave a contented sigh, and settled himself down, apparently well satisfied with his day’s work. We knew it was all part of claiming his territory, and gave our own sighs as all three of us headed off to dreamland.

  Camp

  THAT FIRST NIGHT, our excitement allowed us to sleep only a few hours. The next morning, as dawn brightened into day, we awoke and cautiously looked outside. We saw only two wolves, who soon left, following a path that disappeared into the nearby trees. The ensuing silence made us wonder if the entire family had abandoned the area while we slept.

  Charlie ate his breakfast with no apparent concern about our neighbors, but Bill and I were too nervous to eat. Our main concern wasn’t that we might be attacked, but that the wolves would abandon the den. We kept watch, hoping they would return. Although by midmorning we still saw no wolves, Charlie’s continued relaxed posture gave us hope.

  Around noon the wolves drifted back, carrying two hares and part of a Dall sheep. We were relieved to see that they were continuing to hunt and bring food back to the den despite our presence. It was a sign that we hadn’t disrupted the rhythm of their lives.

  Although the family lived in a remote, rugged area deep in the mountains, they had an unobstructed view of the nearby ridges and the game trails. Several well-worn trails led from the den through the nearby forest and valleys, indicating that this was a popular site that had been used for many generations.

  We guessed that the den’s narrow entrance opened into a wider living space farther back in the slope. From the summit, the pack spent many hours watching for prey across the almost treeless tundra and the distant muskeg, an ancient wetland of peat and low plants. A shallow stream nearby provided constant water. Several dugouts had been excavated in the rocky slopes, beneath overhangs that offered shelter from the sun and rain. Water, the concealed den area, and the surrounding terrain perfectly suited the secretive nature of wolves in the wild.

  Wolf Camp One, a name that naturally evolved as the weeks went by, would be our home for our entire stay with the wolves. The meadow, softened by native grasses and mosses, lay nestled between the den ridge and another ridge, three hundred feet high and peppered with a few twisted spruce trees. We pitched our tent in the meadow, where we had a clear view of both the den entrance and the main trail leading into the taiga forest. We could also clearly observe the wolves’ lookout. The region sloped gently toward the nearby stream that wound through the meadow.

  We intentionally situated our tent a few feet lower in elevation than the wolf den so the wolves would be able to look down on us. In our past observations of wild animals, we had always been more successful when they lived above us, a position they regarded as more secure when dealing with humans.

  Charlie’s long leash allowed him access to all parts of the meadow and reached to within twenty-five feet of the wolf den. In order to ensure his safety, and to prevent him from yielding to the temptation to get closer, we always kept him tethered.

  He confidently set about scent-marking to indicate his territory, an area that resembled an irregular circle, with the tent in the center and the stream flowing along one side. Downstream Charlie also lifted his leg at the edge of a brushy area. Although his leash reached beyond his marks another twenty-five feet toward the den, he showed no desire to claim more of that area.

  We assumed he had reached some agreement with the wolves over land claims, since there was no challenge from them. While in camp, Bill and I kept to our side of Charlie’s marks, especially in the area closest to the den. We wanted to reinforce what we hoped was the wolves’ impression that we were Charlie’s pack and he was our undisputed alpha male.

  After our camp was established, we took some time to simply enjoy the peaceful solitude of the place. I felt liberated, even though we were surrounded by great bare summits that breasted the distant reaches of sky. The clean air and nearby scented woods sprinkled with bird song made life here seem perfect. Beyond our valley and spruce forest, the way widened to tundra, where sparkling streams flowed through sedges and arctic grasses.

  While at Wolf Camp One, our goal was to have no impact on the environment. Rather than cutting trees, willows, or other vegetation for fuel, we cooked on a camp stove that used white gas. To safeguard the stream, we never used soap to wash our clothes or utensils; instead we scrubbed the utensils with a coarse pot scrubber and anchored soiled clothing in the stream to allow the water to flow through the fabric for several hours. Throughout the surrounding terrain, we hiked the existing trails rather than cutting new paths.

  We dug a five-foot pit for a latrine at the far edge of the meadow, far from the den and stream but still inside Charlie’s scent-marked boundary. Worried that the smell might attract wolves, we kept the hole covered with a tightly anchored tarpaulin, but our diligence proved unnecessary. Perhaps out of respect for Charlie, the pack never disturbed the toilet. The scent of Charlie’s feces, which we tossed in each day, may have discouraged them from close investigation.

  We stored our food in sealed plastic bags to minimize odors that might tempt inquisitive wolves. Because the scent of meat would be too enticing for them, we ate a vegetarian diet of rice, instant potatoes, freeze-dried vegetables, dried fruit, nuts, milk powder, cereals, and peanut butter supplemented with native plants. At the end of our stay we planned to pack out our garbage, fill the latrine, and leave no signs of human habitation.

  During the third morning at Wolf Camp One, a low-pressure system that had been threatening the area became a full-fledged thunderstorm. It forced us to seek refuge in our tent, where we listened to the downpour drumming its beat on the tent roof. Lightning struck the ridges; thunderclaps rolled across the mountaintops and tumbled into the valley. The stream swelled to the top of its banks, but didn’t threaten the meadow. Two wolves disappeared into the den, but the rest took shelter in the dugouts.

  We spent the first few hours of the storm dozing in our warm sleeping bags; then, with the heavy rain still drumming on the tent roof only two feet above our heads, boredom set in. A trip outside to the latrine now and then brought only misery: It was no fun putting on wet raingear and then trying to keep the pelting drops out of the tent as we climbed in and out. By midafternoon Bill was wondering if we should take turns singing. I somewhat unkindly reminded him that his singing voice was even worse than mine and would probably chase all the wolves away forever. Instead we spent the next three hours in a spirited discussion about a future expedition to the Amazon, a place where some torrential rain falls almost every day.


  Meanwhile, Charlie contentedly stretched out across my sleeping bag. When I tried to ease him over to Bill’s side, he sent me a reproachful look. He normally slept with me, and this expedition was no exception.

  By late afternoon the storm had passed, and we emerged from our tent to see the wolves also emerging from their various shelters, one by one, to enjoy the sun that now shone between broken clouds. We were mildly surprised that they did not seem to like the rain, or perhaps it was the accompanying lightning and thunder.

  The next day the sun commanded a cloudless sky. As the wet earth dried, the wolves once again stretched out to sun themselves. We aired out our sleeping bags and basked in the sunny meadow, glad to escape the tent’s confinement. While we lounged, Charlie energetically refreshed his scent marks. Once satisfied that the job was complete, he stretched out on a mossy patch to sleep.

  The first two weeks were a time of adjustment for all. Gradually the wolves relaxed in our presence, but they were not ready to let down their guard. They had accepted Charlie from the beginning; the howls they had exchanged during the days we spent approaching our final campsite now appeared to have been a conversation of testing and then resolution. But during our first two weeks at Wolf Camp One, at least one wolf always watched Bill and me. When either of us moved, sharp eyes followed.

  Charlie quickly settled into a routine. His activities alternated between eating, dozing, and watching the wolves. Mealtime was an important affair to Charlie, never to be missed. His favorite resting spots included a particularly soft mossy area by the stream, a grassy mound near the tent, and a smooth spot close to his scent-marked boundaries, which was excellent for observing the wolves’ activities. At night, he retreated to his usual place on my sleeping bag.