Never Cry Wolf (3 page)

 

4

When Is a Wolf Not a Wolf?

A
S I LOOKED
about me at the stark and cloud-topped hills, the waste of pressure-rippled ice, and, beyond the valley, to the desolate and treeless roll of tundra, I had no doubt that this was excellent wolf country. Indeed, I suspected that many pairs of lupine eyes were already watching me with speculative interest. I burrowed into my mountain of gear, found the revolver, and then took stock of my situation.

It did not seem very prepossessing. True, I had apparently penetrated to the heart of the Keewatin Barren Lands. And I had established a kind of base, although its location—on the lake ice, far from land—left much to be desired. So far, I had adhered
strictly to the letter of my instructions; but the next paragraph in my operation order was a stickler.

 

Para. 3

Sec. (C)

Subpara. (iv)

 

Immediately after establishing a permanent base you will proceed, by means of canoe and utilizing waterways, to make an extensive general survey of the surrounding country to a depth, and in a manner, which will be significant in statistical terms, in order to determine the range/population ratio of
Canis lupus
and in order to establish contact with the study species….

 

I was willing enough to carry on as per instructions, but the ice underfoot had a solidity about it which suggested that canoeing would have to be deferred for several weeks, if not forever. Furthermore, without some alternative means of transport, I did not see how I could even begin the task of moving my mountain of gear to a permanent location on dry land. As to establishing contact with the study species—this seemed out of the question at
the moment, unless the wolves themselves decided to take the initiative.

It was a serious dilemma. My orders had been drawn up for me after detailed consultation with the Meteorological Service, which had assured my Department that “normally” the lakes and rivers in the central Barrens could be expected to be clear of ice by the date of my arrival.

My orientation course in Ottawa had taught me that one never questioned information emanating from another department; and if a field operation based on such information went awry, it was invariably the fault of the fellow in the field.

Under the circumstances there was only one thing I could do. Despite the discouraging reaction I had had to my first radiogram to Ottawa, I had no alternative but to seek new orders once again.

Briskly I went to work uncovering the portable radio and setting it up on top of a pile of boxes. I had not previously had time to examine this instrument, and on opening the
Instruction Manual
I was a little taken aback to find that the model with which I had been supplied was intended for the use of forest rangers and could not normally be expected to work over ranges of more than twenty miles. Never
theless I connected the batteries, rigged the aerial, turned knobs and pressed buttons according to instructions—and went on the air.

For some reason known only to the Department of Transport, which licenses such mobile transmitters as mine, my call sign was “Daisy Mae.” For the next hour Daisy Mae cried plaintively into the darkling subarctic skies, but without raising a whisper of a reply. I was almost ready to accept the pessimistic statement in the manual and give up the attempt as hopeless when I caught the faint echo of a human voice above the whistle and rustle of static in the earphones. Hastily I tuned the set until I could make out a gabble of words which it took me some time to identify as Spanish.

 

Since I realize that what I must now recount may strain the credulity of some of my readers; and since I have no technical knowledge whatsoever about radio, I can do no more than put forward an explanation given to me later by an expert, together with the assurance that no mere biologist could possibly have invented the sequence of events which followed. The technical explanation embraces a mysterious phenomenon known as “wave skip,” whereby, because of a combination of atmospheric
conditions, it is sometimes possible (particularly in the north) for very low-powered transmitters to span considerable distances. My set outdid itself. The station I raised belonged to an amateur operator in Peru.

His English was easily as imperfect as my Spanish, so that it was some time before we began to get through to each other, and even then he seemed convinced I was calling from somewhere near Tierra del Fuego. I was beginning to feel exceedingly frustrated before the Peruvian finally agreed to take down the substance of my message to my Chief, and forward it by commercial means to Ottawa. Recalling recent admonitions I kept this message to the ten-word minimum, which was probably just as well, for those ten words, inadequately understood in Peru, and no doubt thoroughly corrupted by double translation, were sufficient to cause something of a crisis—as I was to learn many months later.

Perhaps because of its South American origin the message was delivered, not to my own department, but to the Department of External Affairs. External could make nothing of it, except that it seemed to have come from Tierra del Fuego and it appeared to be in code. Hurried inquiries embracing the Ministry of Defense failed to identify the code, or to reveal
the presence of any known Canadian agent in the Cape Horn region.

It was only through fortuitous circumstances that the mystery was ever resolved. Some weeks later one of the secretaries at External who was in the habit of lunching with a senior man in my department told him the story, and, in the telling, casually mentioned that the inscrutable message was signed
VARLEY MONFAT
.

With commendable and rather surprising acumen, the senior man had identified me as the probable originator of the message; but this only led to the posing of a new and even more disturbing mystery, since no one could be found who would admit to having authorized me to go to Tierra del Fuego in the first place. The upshot was that a series of urgent messages were dispatched to me through the Canadian Consul in Chile, instructing me to report to Ottawa at once.

None of these messages ever reached me, nor could they have done so even if they had been sent by a more direct route, for the battery in my radio was good for only six hours' use, and the only station I was ever again able to raise before the batteries went dead was broadcasting a light music program from Moscow.

But to return to my narrative:

By the time I had finished my business with Peru, it had begun to grow quite dark and the surrounding hills seemed to be closing in on me. I had as yet seen no sign of wolves; but they were understandably very much on my mind, and when I glimpsed a flicker of distant movement near the valley mouth, I became even more wolf-conscious.

By straining my hearing I detected a faint but electrifying sound—one that I instantly recognized, for, though I had never before heard it in the wild, I
had
heard it several times in cowboy films. It was unmistakably the howling of a wolf pack in full cry, and, equally unmistakably, the pack was crying full in my direction. At least one of my problems appeared to have been solved. I was about to establish contact with the study species.

The solution of this problem led directly to the discovery of several new ones, not the least of which was that there were only six rounds in my pistol and I couldn't, for the life of me, remember where I had stowed the reserve ammunition. This was a matter of some moment, since I knew from my extensive reading on the subject that the number of individuals in a wolf pack can vary from four to forty. Furthermore, judging from the volume of sounds
being made by the approaching animals, I suspected that
this
pack numbered closer to four hundred.

The subarctic night was now hard upon me, and the wolves soon would be too. It was already so dark that I could not see them clearly enough to estimate their actual numbers or gauge their probable behavior pattern. I therefore decided I should retire underneath the upturned canoe, so that the presence of a human being would not be readily apparent, with its consequent tendency to induce atypical behavior in the beasts.

Now one of the cardinal tenets of biology is that the observer must never allow his attention to be distracted; but honesty compels me to admit that under the present circumstances I found it difficult to maintain an attitude of correct scientific concentration. I was particularly worried about my canoe. Being lightly built of canvas over thin cedar staves, it might, I suspected, be easily damaged by rough usage, in which case I would be completely immobilized in the future. The second thing which was bothering me was so unusual that I must give it special emphasis, if only because it demonstrates the basic illogicality of the human mind when not under proper disciplinary control. I found myself fervently wishing I was a pregnant Eskimo.

Since I could no longer see what was happening, I had to rely upon my other senses. My ears kept me informed as the pack swept up at full speed, circled my pile of equipment once, and then rushed straight for the canoe.

A terrific chorus of howls, barks and yelps very nearly deafened me, and so confusing was the noise that I began to experience hallucinations, imagining I could hear the deep-throated roar of an almost human voice above the general tumult. The roar sounded rather like:

FURCRISAKESTOPYOUGODAMNSONSABITCHES!

At this point there was much scuffling, an outburst of pained yelping, and then, miraculously, total silence.

 

I had been trained for years to make accurate deductions from natural phenomena, but this situation was beyond me. I needed more data. Very cautiously I put one eye to the narrow slit between the gunwale of the canoe and the ice below. At first I could see nothing but wolf feet—scores of them; but then my glance fastened on another pair of feet—a
single
pair—which could have belonged to no wolf. My deductive abilities returned all of a rush. I lifted the side of the canoe, stuck out my head, and
peered upward into the bewildered and rather apprehensive face of a young man clad all in caribou furs.

Scattered around him, and staring at me with deep suspicion, were the fourteen large and formidable Huskies which made up his team. But of bona fide wolves…there was not one in sight.

 

5

Contact!

N
ATURALLY
I
WAS
disappointed that my first encounter with wolves should have turned out to be an encounter with nonwolves; but there were compensations.

The young man who owned the dogs was, so it developed, a trapper of mixed Eskimo and white parentage who possessed a cabin a few miles away. It was ideally suited to serve me as a permanent base camp. Apart from a small band of Eskimos including his mother's family, living seventy miles away to the north, this young man, whose name was Mike, was the only human inhabitant in an area of some ten thousand square miles. This was excellent news, for it ensured that my study of the wolves
would not be adversely affected by human intrusions.

Mike was at first inclined to treat me with some reserve—not to say suspicion. During his eighteen years of life he had never known an aircraft to land in his part of the Barren Lands, and indeed had only seen two or three planes before, and these had been passing high overhead. It was therefore difficult for him to absorb the fact that an aircraft which he had neither seen nor heard had landed me and my immense pile of equipment on the middle of his lake. In the beginning of our relationship he leaned more toward a supernatural explanation of my presence; for he had learned enough about Christianity from his white trader father to be on his guard against the devil. Consequently he took no chances. During the first few days he carried his 30–30 rifle in his hands and kept his distance; but soon after I introduced him to wolf-juice he put the rifle away, having apparently decided that if I
was
the devil, my blandishments were too powerful to be resisted.

Probably because he could not think what else to do with me, Mike led me off to his cabin that first night. Although it was hardly a palatial affair, being built of poles and roofed with decaying caribou hides, I saw at once that it would serve my purposes.

Having been empowered by the Department to
hire native assistance, so long as the consequent expenditure did not exceed three dollars a month, I promptly made a deal with Mike, giving him an official I. O. U. for ten dollars to cover three months' accommodation in his cabin, as well as his services as guide and general factotum. I was aware that it was a generous payment in the light of the prevailing rates which Government agencies, missions and the trading companies paid the arctic natives, but I felt my extravagance would be tolerated by the Treasury Department in view of the fact that, without Mike's help, my own Department stood to lose about four thousand dollars' worth of equipment as soon as the lake ice melted.

I suspect, from the nature of subsequent events, that the bargain I struck with Mike was rather one-sided and that he may not have fully grasped its implications; but in any event he provided the services of his dog team to help me move my supplies and equipment to his cabin.

 

During the next several days I was extremely busy unpacking my equipment and setting up my field laboratory—being obliged to usurp most of the limited space in the tiny cabin in the process. I had little time to spare for Mike, but I did notice that he
seemed deeply preoccupied. However, since he had so far seemed to be naturally taciturn—except with his dogs—and because I did not feel it right, on such short acquaintance, to intrude into his personal affairs, I made no attempt to discover the nature of his distress. Nevertheless I did occasionally try to divert him by offering demonstrations of some of my scientific equipment.

These demonstrations seemed to fascinate him, although they did not have the desired effect of easing his distrait attitude which, if anything, got worse. Shortly after I showed him the cyanide “wolf getters” and explained that not only were they instantly fatal, but almost impossible to detect, he began to display definite signs of irrational behavior. He took to carrying a long stick about with him, and before he would even sit down at the crude table for a meal, he would poke the chair, and sometimes even the plate of food, in a most peculiar way. He would also poke at his boots and clothing before picking them up in the morning when he was getting dressed.

On another occasion, when I showed him four gross of mousetraps with which I intended to collect small mammals to be used in determining the identification of animal remains found in wolf stomachs,
and then explained the method of boiling a mouse skeleton in order to prepare it as a museum specimen, he departed the cabin without a word and refused to take his meals with me from that time forward.

I was not unduly alarmed by his behavior, for I had some knowledge of psychology and I recognized the symptoms of an ingrown personality. Nevertheless I determined to try to draw Mike out of himself. One evening I inveigled him over to the corner where I had set up my portable laboratory and proudly showed him my collection of glittering scalpels, bone shears, brain spoons and other intricate instruments which I would use in conducting autopsies on wolves, caribou and other beasts. I experienced some difficulty in explaining to Mike what was meant by an autopsy, so I opened a pathology textbook at a two-page color diagram of a human abdomen under dissection, and with this visual aid was well into my explanation when I realized I had lost my audience. Mike was backing slowly toward the door, his black eyes fixed on me with an expression of growing horror, and I realized at once that he had misconstrued what I had been saying. I sprang up in an attempt to reassure him, but at my movement he turned and fled through the door at a dead run.

I did not see him again until the following afternoon, when, returning from setting out a trapline for mice, I found him in the cabin packing his equipment as if for an extended journey. In a voice so low and rapid that I had difficulty understanding him, he explained that he had been urgently called away to visit his sick mother at the camp of the Eskimos, and would probably be gone for some time. With that he rushed out to where his team stood ready harnessed and, without another word, departed at a furious pace into the north.

I was sorry to see him go, for the knowledge that I was now entirely alone with the local wolves, while satisfying from a scientific point of view, seemed to intensify the
Hound of the Baskervilles
atmosphere of the desolate and stormswept lands around me. Then too, I had not yet clearly decided upon the best method of approaching the wolves, and I would have been happy to have had Mike perform the initial introductions. However, a sick mother took precedence even over my scientific needs—though I am still at a loss to understand how Mike knew his mother was ill.

The weighty problem of how best to make contact with the wolves hung fire while I began drawing up my study schedules. These were detailed in the ex
treme. Under “Sexual Behavior” alone I was able to list fifty-one subtopics, all requiring investigation. By the end of the week I was running short of paper. It was time to get out and about.

 

As I was a newcomer to the Barrens, it behooved me to familiarize myself with the country in a cautious manner. Hence, on my first expedition afield I contented myself with making a circular tour on a radius of about three hundred yards from the cabin.

This expedition revealed little except the presence of four or five hundred caribou skeletons; indeed, the entire area surrounding the cabin seemed to be carpeted in caribou bones. Since I knew from my researches in Churchill that trappers never shot caribou, I could only assume that these animals had been killed by wolves. This was a sobering conclusion. Assuming that the density of the caribou kill was uniform over the whole country, the sample I had seen indicated that wolves must kill, on the average, about twenty million caribou a year in Keewatin alone.

After this dismaying tour of the boneyard it was three days before I found time for another trip afield. Carrying a rifle and wearing my revolver, I went a quarter-mile on this second expedition—but saw
no wolves. However, to my surprise I observed that the density of caribou remains decreased in an almost geometric ratio to the distance from the cabin. Sorely puzzled by the fact that the wolves seemed to have chosen to commit their worst slaughter so close to a human habitation, I resolved to question Mike about it if or when I saw him again.

 

Meantime spring had come to the Barrens with volcanic violence. The snows melted so fast that the frozen rivers could not carry the melted water, which flowed six feet deep on top of the ice. Finally the ice let go, with a thunderous explosion; then it promptly jammed, and in short order the river beside which I was living had entered into the cabin, bringing with it the accumulated refuse left by fourteen Huskies during a long winter.

Eventually the jam broke and the waters subsided; but the cabin had lost its charm, for the debris on the floor was a foot thick and somewhat repellent. I decided to pitch my tent on a gravel ridge above the cabin, and here I was vainly trying to go to sleep that evening when I became aware of unfamiliar sounds. Sitting bolt upright, I listened intently.

The sounds were coming from just across the river, to the north, and they were a weird medley of
whines, whimpers and small howls. My grip on the rifle slowly relaxed. If there is one thing at which scientists are adept, it is learning from experience; I was not to be fooled twice. The cries were obviously those of a Husky, probably a young one, and I deduced that it must be one of Mike's dogs (he owned three half-grown pups not yet trained to harness which ran loose after the team) that had got lost, retraced its way to the cabin, and was now begging for someone to come and be nice to it.

I was delighted. If that pup needed a friend, a chum, I was its man! I climbed hastily into my clothes, ran down to the riverbank, launched the canoe, and paddled lustily for the far bank.

The pup had never ceased its mournful plaint, and I was about to call out reassuringly when it occurred to me that an unfamiliar human voice might frighten it. I decided to stalk it instead, and to betray my presence only when I was close enough for soothing murmurs.

From the nature of the sounds I had assumed the dog was only a few yards away from the far bank, but as I made my way in the dim half-light, over broken boulders and across gravel ridges, the sounds seemed to remain at the same volume while I appeared to be getting no closer. I assumed the pup
was retreating, perhaps out of shyness. In my anxiety not to startle it away entirely, I still kept quiet, even when the whimpering wail stopped, leaving me uncertain about the right direction to pursue. However, I saw a steep ridge looming ahead of me and I suspected that, once I gained its summit, I would have a clear enough view to enable me to locate the lost animal. As I neared the crest of the ridge I got down on my stomach (practicing the fieldcraft I had learned in the Boy Scouts) and cautiously inched my way the last few feet.

My head came slowly over the crest—and there was my quarry. He was lying down, evidently resting after his mournful singsong, and his nose was about six feet from mine. We stared at one another in silence. I do not know what went on in his massive skull, but my head was full of the most disturbing thoughts. I was peering straight into the amber gaze of a fully grown arctic wolf, who probably weighed more than I did, and who was certainly a lot better versed in close-combat techniques than I would ever be.

For some seconds neither of us moved but continued to stare hypnotically into one another's eyes. The wolf was the first to break the spell. With a spring which would have done justice to a Russian
dancer, he leaped about a yard straight into the air and came down running. The textbooks say a wolf can run twenty-five miles an hour, but this one did not appear to be running, so much as flying low. Within seconds he had vanished from my sight.

My own reaction was not so dramatic, although I may very well have set some sort of a record for a cross-country traverse myself. My return over the river was accomplished with such verve that I paddled the canoe almost her full length up on the beach on the other side. Then, remembering my responsibilities to my scientific supplies, I entered the cabin, barred the door, and regardless of the discomfort caused by the stench of the debris on the floor made myself as comfortable as I could on top of the table for the balance of the short-lived night.

It had been a strenuous interlude, but I could congratulate myself that I had, at last, established contact—no matter how briefly—with the study species.