3 Among the Wolves Page 8

  Hunt

  ONE MID-JUNE EVENING as they surveyed the distant tundra from their vantage point high on the den ridge, Omega and Denali spied six white Dall sheep a half mile away. Quickly joined by Beta and Alpha, they left for the hunt, led by Denali.

  From where we waited above the junction, we watched the wolves with binoculars. They trotted toward us in single file on the well-worn trail through thin patches of spruce trees. In a grassy clearing, Beta stopped midstride, his body low to the ground, and crept toward a quarry that moved in the foot-high tundra grass. Suddenly he pounced to snatch a squealing lemming. In moments its struggles ceased. After tossing the tiny gray body into the air in an attempt at play, Beta caught it, crunched, and swallowed. Although we felt sorry for the lemming, we reminded ourselves that wolves observe nature’s way. The wolves were always on the lookout for small snacks they might find on their way to a hunt.

  The four wolves were in no hurry. The sheep, upwind, remained unaware and continued to graze placidly on grasses and sedges a few hundred yards away. The hunters continued along the trail, occasionally scent-marking a tree or a rock. Once Denali abruptly leaped a few feet to one side to examine some imagined movement, then he hurried back to lead his companions forward along the trail. Finally they arrived at the junction below our lookout spot on the ridge, and thoroughly scent-marked the old snag and the rock.

  Meanwhile, two sheep lay down to rest. All four wolves crouched, heads up, ears forward, watching their prey. In a few minutes, Denali and the others fanned out, with bodies slung low, beginning their patient, deliberate approach.

  Suddenly aware of the danger only a hundred feet away, the six sheep leaped to attention, legs braced, facing the wolves. One stamped its foot in defiance. Then, as one, they bolted for a ridge to the east. The four wolves raced after the sheep. The hunters and the hunted dashed across the rocks, surefooted and magnificent. As the sheep crested the first low ridge, one stopped to face the pursuers, but in a moment he fled with the others, who suddenly swerved toward us.

  The wolves split up. Denali and Omega swung through a shortcut to head off the sheep. The other two ran behind to herd them forward. The sheep dashed along a faint trail, desperate to escape, their white bodies propelled on agile limbs that took no notice of the steep slope.

  Just as all six reached the crest, Denali and Omega burst across the ridge, heads thrust forward, legs pumping, only a few yards behind the sheep. Then Denali abruptly stopped. Omega, still at full speed, crashed into his shoulder. Alpha and Beta raced up the slope, stopping when they encountered Denali and Omega standing motionless.

  The sheep swept past a hundred feet from us and bounded in long leaps down the back side of the ridge, then up the next. They paused a moment to look back at the wolves, who now trotted with apparent indifference to the hunt. The sheep moved away, no longer fleeing the wolves, who had turned from predators into mere observers. It was as if a signal had passed between the two species that the hunt was off.

  The sheep and wolves disappeared over another ridge. A half hour later the four ambled back, stopping now and then to scent-mark. They lay down a hundred feet away on the ridge where we waited, looking in the direction the sheep had disappeared but showing no desire to resume the chase.

  As the unexpected turn of events swirled about us, we could only stare, incredulous, and anticipate the wolves’ next move. After some time, when it was clear that the wolves had changed their minds—at least as far as these six sheep were concerned—and no further action would be forthcoming, we took out snacks.

  Twelve opportunistic ravens who had flown from tree to tree ahead of the wolves, expecting to share in the hunt leftovers, now perched on the surrounding rocks, voicing their disappointment in cacophonous tones. A furious Charlie chased one impudent bird after it brazenly brushed his head. He lunged at the raven, but with a rasping cry it triumphantly hopped onto a ledge, barely out of reach, and cawed. Charlie shot it a murderous look, then walked to our side and sat down with his back to the bird.

  All twenty-four raven eyes were now fixed on our food. Their rasping caws rose to a deafening level. Hoping to quiet them, we tossed a few crackers on the ground. The volume lowered. One individual, chatting nonstop short caws as if in deep conversation with me, hopped to within a foot of my outstretched hand. I traded two crackers for bird gossip.

  Charlie, an exhilarated spectator of the hunt, had kept up a barrage of barks while the chase continued, but he calmed as soon as it ended. Although Bill and I were confused by what we had seen, Charlie seemed unperturbed, appearing to understand all. When the wolves returned, he took no further interest in the sheep.

  Surprised that what had appeared to be an eminently successful hunt had been abruptly called off, we concluded that there must have been some sort of communication between the sheep and the wolves. Wolves often test their prey and usually attack only if they see a weakness. Given the ready supply of prey here, these wolves apparently weren’t willing to waste their energy on animals that showed so much speed and strength. For their part, the sheep wouldn’t have stopped to look back unless they were sure the wolves had given up the chase.

  The four wolves napped in the shade of the rocks until Alpha rose, stretched his sleek body, then set off alone across the rocky terrain, scent-marking at frequent intervals as he went. Every few days, and always after a rainstorm, Alpha—sometimes alone, but often accompanied by the teenagers—renewed his scent marks.

  As Alpha disappeared, the rest of the wolves sauntered down the slope they had raced up only an hour before, stopping occasionally to scan the tundra for more hunting prospects. There were none, so they made their way back home at a leisurely pace, stopping once in a while to scent-mark a tree or rock. The three wolves also stopped when Beta found a stick and taunted the other two into chasing him for the prize. After a merry chase and an energetic tug-of-war in which the stick was reduced to slivers, they continued, zigzagging now and then to examine something of interest. Omega found another stick and carried it to the den, presumably to use as a future toy. The ravens also returned, perching in the trees and on the ridges to await further hunting opportunities.

  Catching an early morning scent of prey.

  The rest of the day passed quietly. I devoted thirteen journal pages to the morning’s events, while Bill repaired the stove that had sputtered to a halt as we brewed our lunchtime cup of tea. He finally found the culprit: a gasket in the fuel pump.

  About 8 P.M., Beta and the teenagers headed off toward a notch in the ridge behind our camp. Because our supply of Labrador tea had run out, we decided to follow the trio and perhaps collect tea leaves from a new area.

  The aromatic, leathery leaves of the Labrador tea plant, a common northern shrub, were used by native peoples to ease the symptoms of colds, indigestion, and food poisoning. Trappers and fur traders used Labrador leaves as a substitute for British black tea. On a previous northern journey, an elderly Gwich’in woman had instructed us to brew the leaves very lightly. Excessive brewing releases ledol, she explained, a toxin that causes dizziness and even death if the tea is brewed for long periods and drunk to excess.

  We took a shortcut and dropped down the backside of the ridge, only a few yards behind the wolves. They continued toward a trickling stream that flowed through spruce and willow thickets. Beyond, we discovered a beaver-made glassy pond at least ten feet deep set amid a mossy marsh. Calling upon their impressive construction skills, the resourceful animals had felled small spruce and used the trees and countless willow branches to make a thirty-foot, S-shaped dam. They built their lodge inside the dam, which they entered through underwater tunnels to discourage any predators from following. All the streams in the area had been dammed by beavers at some point along their length to form numerous ponds of various sizes, where the beavers then built lodges and raised their young.

  A dark gray beaver, his wet coat gleaming, worked energetically to saw a fallen log with his impressive self-sharpeni
ng teeth. He stopped to watch the approaching wolves. Then, sensing danger, he instantly escaped with a splash to the safety of the lake. The delighted wolves, with Yukon in the lead, raced to the water’s edge in a futile attempt to catch the beaver, who swam to the center of the pond and watched the antics of the wolves as they splashed and leaped through the shallow water at the shore.

  A few minutes later, delight turned to frustration as the pack realized its quarry had escaped. They returned to the bank, shook themselves dry, and paced as three more adult beavers and two kits quietly slid into the water. The adults immediately formed a protective circle around the kits while keeping their black eyes fixed on the unwelcome intruders.

  Apparently beavers were not high on Charlie’s list of animals to chase. He showed no interest in the furry rodents and instead concentrated on excavating the burrow of some tiny creature. Disappointed to find no one at home there, he tugged at his leash to signal that it was time to move on. We suspected that Charlie’s dislike of water was the main reason for his disinterest in the beavers.

  Beavers, the largest of North American rodents, can grow to around seventy pounds. Family oriented, they commit to lifelong pairing during their ten-year life span. Their lodges, made of sticks, small branches, and mud, have underwater entrances to protect against predators, while their living quarters are high and dry. These herbivorous, nonhibernating animals cache fresh branches to serve as a winter food supply. They also eat aquatic plants, roots, and bark, and use tree trunks for building material. Although their underwater tunnels are their safe havens, they are hunted by wolves, bears, and sometimes lynx.

  Further investigation of the area surrounding the pond revealed deep canals dug into the soft earth, where the industrious beavers had floated four-inch-diameter logs to the pond. The beavers’ influence on the landscape, as they dammed streams to create ponds and wetlands, was clearly beneficial to many aquatic species.

  After half an hour the frustrated wolves finally gave up on the beavers and returned to the den. We suspected that the beavers were used to their visits.

  Bill, Charlie, and I continued across the beaver wetlands to the edge of a muskeg area, where we found the ground-hugging Labrador tea growing in profusion. We picked a week’s supply of the leaves and set off again into what we thought was fairly dry muskeg, but quickly ran into trouble. Leading the way, Bill had traveled only ten feet when he suddenly sank halfway to his knees in the sticky brown peat.

  I shoved my trekking pole toward his outstretched hand as I grabbed a nearby stunted black spruce to use as a brace. Bill struggled mightily to stay on the surface of the muck. After ten more minutes of fighting for toeholds, he reached the relatively solid patch of earth where Charlie and I stood. We quickly retreated to the safety of more stable ground.

  Muskeg wetlands, sometimes hundreds of years old, contain plants in various stages of decay and usually form in wet, poorly drained areas. Decomposition of dead plants is slow due to the water-saturated, acidic soils. Therefore, the accumulation of decomposing debris builds up to form peat. Wetland is reclassified as muskeg when one foot of peat has accumulated, and it can take a thousand years to build. In some areas of the Yukon and Alaska, peat is twenty feet thick.

  Muskeg itself, a floating mat that covers a bog, can be dangerous, as we had just discovered. The underlying soggy peat is frequently deep and lacks toeholds. Victims who are unable to climb out may meet a suffocating end. The only safe time to traverse muskeg is during the frozen winter.

  “From now on we’ll forage around the edges with the bears, wolves, and lemmings,” Bill said, sounding as though he’d had enough. “No more shortcuts across muskeg.” As the shortcut had been my suggestion, I thought it prudent to remain silent.

  After we scraped most of the brown slime off Bill’s pants, we returned to camp by a new route across the tundra. We climbed a low rise on which a lone wind-blasted spruce, twisted and bent, desperately clung to life. A narrow lake sparkled, almost hidden between two ridges. A startled loon skittered to lift from the water, and the maniacal cry of another pierced the stillness. Then the immeasurable calm returned. We continued our concealed watch as a half-dozen loons floated peacefully on the water, their voices breaking into wails, gentle coos, and eerie laughs.

  A Siberian Eskimo legend tells us that when the world was covered in water, Loon dove to the bottom and surfaced with enough mud to make Earth. These birds are the strongest and deepest swimmers of all, and can dive more than five hundred feet. To reach such depths, they squeeze the air out from under their feathers and deflate their lungs. As we watched from our vantage point, a mother with a chick riding safely on her back slid into the water and paddled away as ripples gently radiated across the lake.

  An hour later, we arrived at our camp. After a dinner of rice, beans, dried fruit, and Labrador tea, I spent the next hour writing journal notes. Bill washed the muskeg peat from his pants and sewed a button onto his shirt. Then, taking Charlie with him, he climbed the slope behind our tent. They soon returned with the verdict that a ridge to the west that we hadn’t yet crossed looked interesting. We decided to explore early the next morning.

  I was eager to look for not only cotton grass roots, which Bill and I had sampled before and found delicious, but also lichens. Since caribou eat lichen, I reasoned, it should be good for us too. At the mention of lichen, Bill merely rolled his eyes skyward at the thought of another gastronomical experiment in the name of nutrition. During our many years of marriage, he had patiently suffered through countless such efforts.

  At 5 A.M. we marched toward a threatening sky, shaking the cobwebs of sleep from our minds. A gray fog washed across the mountaintops, swirling about the narrow caribou trails that laced the slopes.

  Dall sheep are always of interest to Charlie.

  As we reached an area of head-high dense willows, movement flashed in the undergrowth. Charlie instantly leaped, snarling and lunging and almost tearing his leash from my hands. We peered ahead, expecting a bear, but instead saw a gray catlike figure crouched over a freshly killed hare under a canopy of tangled willows. Bill grabbed Charlie’s leash as well, and we both hung on while Bill maneuvered the end of the leash around a tree that would act as a belay to stop Charlie’s wild charge.

  With Charlie secure, I quickly grabbed my camera to photograph the lynx, whose growls were becoming louder and more vicious. He was determined not to abandon his dinner. The fury in his luminous green eyes spelled attack. I barely managed a few fast frames before we retreated, hauling a snarling Charlie behind us.

  Lynx are as quiet as a falling snowflake, hidden and secretive. They are striking creatures, clothed in mottled, thick gray fur, adorned with long black ear tufts, their short tails tipped with black. Usually we saw little more than a silent blur as they melted into the shadows. Strictly carnivorous, their main prey is the snowshoe hare. Lynx numbers are directly connected to the abundance of hare populations. These wild cats silently stalk on thick-furred paws that allow them to speed over barren ground or snow.

  As we skirted the lynx, a disappointed Charlie lunged again at the crouched, snarling cat. Only when we neared the ridge did he turn his attention to a group of Dall ewes and lambs. When the sheep caught sight of us, they disappeared into the swirling fog. The ledges, although only inches wide, were sufficient for their nimble feet.

  At four hundred feet, we hastened through a heavy mist that merged with dark clouds, then dropped into a lonely meadow full of cotton grass, its snowy heads waving in the increasing breeze. Keeping one eye on the sky, we dug as many roots as our plastic bag would hold, then headed to camp the way we had come.

  Cotton grass is an important forage food of northern native peoples all across Alaska and the Yukon. Two years ago we had met a Gwich’in woman collecting cotton grass roots not far from Dawson City. To satisfy our curiosity, she allowed us to eat the sweet root. Ever since then, we have looked forward to the treat whenever we travel to Alaska or northern Canada. T
he peeled root can be eaten raw and makes a gourmet addition to a bowl of rice.

  Along the way, I picked a large handful of gray-green lichen and stuffed the fibrous vegetation into my pack. “There’s no way we can eat that stuff,” Bill felt the need to comment. I made no reply as I pondered how I might soften the leatherlike growth.

  We reached Wolf Camp One just as a sudden clap of thunder rent the heavens, sending three ravens squawking skyward in confused flight. As the startled birds dove back to the protection of the trees, we sprinted for our tent, dodging huge raindrops. The wolves had already taken shelter in the dugouts and Mother was in the den with the pups.

  As the storm beat down on our tent and the thunder rolled above us, Charlie lolled across my sleeping bag. Bill wrote journal notes while I lit the stove, brewed Labrador tea, and peeled cotton grass roots. A liberal helping of peanut butter smeared on salted crackers completed our modest meal.

  I took the lichen and pulled it apart to taste it, then handed some to Bill. “Pretty tasteless but chewy,” he said. “Glad we’re not caribou and don’t have to live on it.” Lichen, a slow-growing plant, does not require soil. It gleans its nutrients from the air and tolerates the extremely low Arctic temperatures. Although not a moss, it is sometimes referred to as reindeer moss and, along with other lichens, is a vital food for musk ox and moose as well as caribou.

  At dinnertime, while Bill took inventory of our food and fuel supplies and Charlie napped, I cooked rice and furtively added finely chopped lichen, along with freeze-dried peas I hoped would disguise my secret. “Boy, this tastes good,” Bill said. “It’s got a sort of slight musky taste.”

  I laughed.

  “Lichen! You sneaked it in!” he said, laughing at my audacity. “I should have known you wouldn’t give up.”

  After years of expeditions together, Bill and I knew each other well. Our different personalities allowed us to think and act separately but also work as a team when necessary. We quickly learned that fussing over small things was a waste of time and energy. Bill’s quiet nature and my chattiness blended well. My habit of getting things done yesterday was tempered over the years by Bill’s more realistic attitude that sometimes tomorrow will do just fine.