3 Among the Wolves (4 page)

Our first challenge that day was a dense willow thicket. Our packs tangled with the protruding branches, and our bootlaces straggled loose. Charlie fought his way through the dense undergrowth. As Bill trailblazed, he described the entire area in rather graphic terms while I mumbled something about our poor choice of route. Dew soaked our shirts and pants, adding to our misery. By the time we cleared the entanglement, we looked as though we had walked through a rainstorm. We were drenched and our tempers were frayed. Only Charlie was in good spirits. He shook the water from his thick black coat, showering our already dripping clothes.

I pulled the clammy fabric of my shirt away from my body as I looked ahead, hoping to detect an open route. But all I could see was more willows. “This stuff is enough to make me wish I had never left home,” I grumbled.

“It can't get worse,” Bill said, adjusting his pack over his wet shirt. “Maybe after we clear this next mess of willows, it'll get easier. If it doesn't ease up soon, we'll have to take to the ridges.”

Charlie was the only one with the right attitude. With a gentle wave of his tail, he tossed his head back and gave a high-pitched bark. A sharp tug on his leash relayed the message that he was ready to travel whether we were or not. Rather than change into dry clothes, we decided to follow and allow the warm sun to dry us. Happily, our luck changed; as soon as we cleared the thicket and rounded a few spruce trees, we were greeted by the sight of open tundra.

Even though we had to cross areas of soft snow, the footing was solid enough to allow faster hiking compared to our slow start. As we warmed up, our good humor gradually returned. It was lunchtime when we entered a thicket of untidy spruce that soon thinned to an orderly forest of twenty-foot-high trees. Bill noticed a low rocky knoll sheltered by a few shade trees, a perfect lunch spot. Gratefully, we lowered our packs from tired, sweaty shoulders.

Charlie stretched out full length for his noon nap while we took out a bag of nuts and dried fruit. Two trees made excellent backrests for us, adding to our comfort. But just as we were congratulating ourselves on choosing such a fine site, the sharp crack of snapping twigs in the forest straight ahead interrupted our tranquility.

In an instant, Charlie was awake and on his feet, staring in the direction of the sound. All at once, a playful young grizzly galloped out of the trees. The large form of another bear, probably his mother, remained in the shadows. The youngster, perhaps a year and a half old and only two hundred yards away, picked up a large stick, chewed it, then tossed it in the air. Charlie, sensing there was no danger, sat on his haunches and watched quietly.

We were downwind and shielded by trees. Not daring to move lest we attract the bears' attention, we at first sat motionless. Then I slowly lifted my camera from its resting place at my side and discreetly photographed the young grizzly as he played. Meanwhile, just in case, Bill reached for his shotgun, which he carried lashed to his pack.

As we watched, fascinated, the little bear found a larger stick and proceeded to strip the coarse brown bark from its surface until the wood disintegrated. Then he wandered into the stream and caught a small fish, but soon lost interest and dropped it. Splashing his way out onto the low streambank, he gave a gigantic shake and then rolled in the grass to dry, just as piglike grunts came from deep in the forest. The young bear paused, then loped obediently back to his mother, his healthy coat rippling across his shoulders as he moved. Mother and son vanished into the trees.

Charlie stood, stretched, and lay down to finish his nap. Bill and I leaned against our two trees and began to breathe again, still incredulous that we had witnessed a grizzly bear at play. “The right place at the right time,” I said.

“I wonder where they'll sleep tonight,” Bill said.

“In a safe place but away from our camp, I hope.”

After a brief rest we set out again, stopping only when the mountain shadows once more reached across the valley. We stored our food bags as high as possible in a convenient spruce tree. After dinner we slid into our sleeping bags and dropped promptly off to sleep.

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.

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.