3 Among the Wolves (14 page)

Suddenly, at the sound of splashing, we turned to see Denali and Beta crossing the stream. They trotted along a thin trail through scattered willows to parallel our course, only two hundred feet away as we hiked down the valley. Once the two wolves set out with us, Charlie stepped in front of Bill and me and strode ahead, tail held high, with a happy, confident spring to his step. He had resumed his role as our leader.

“There must have been some sort of conversation,” Bill said as we followed Charlie.

“I'd love to be a wolf for a day, just to figure out what the wolves and Charlie tell each other,” I said.

As we trekked toward our meeting place with Margaret, we speculated about Charlie's reluctance to leave. We wondered what would happen in the fall, when we were set to return to our home in the Cascades before beginning our winter journey. Charlie clearly wanted to be with his wolf friends, but although he had tried to prevent us from leaving, he was so completely bonded to Bill and me that he would never have stayed without
us. And we would never have left him in the wilderness. Our bond was permanent and inseparable.

We caught fleeting glimpses of the two wolves as they traveled with us down the much shorter route to the Dempster Highway. Although the journey was easier than our route in, and involved no bushwhacking, it still took three eighteen-hour days to reach Margaret, who had parked the truck in an abandoned quarry close to the roadside.

She was disappointed to learn that Charlie's eagerness to return would preclude our camping with her for a few days, as we had originally planned. But she understood Charlie's need to return to the den and our anxiety over the safety of our tent.

Sitting on the tailgate, enjoying enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes away, we lunched on peanut butter sandwiches, Charlie's favorite. We regaled Margaret with tales of the wolf family and our many adventures. Denali and Beta were close by but invisible in the surrounding undergrowth.

When we told Margaret of the aerial hunters, she said she had seen the same green plane landing several times at Fort McPherson. “There was a pilot and two American passengers,” she told us. “The locals told me the trio hunted wolves and sometimes bear from the air.”

While Margaret drove back to Fort McPherson, we trekked with heavy packs up a valley and took another, quicker route we had noticed on our downward journey. We traversed a narrow ravine that cut through a ridge and skirted an enchanting beaver pond, with water gently lapping at its edges, where three adult beavers and two kits watched us cautiously. As we left the pond, we disturbed a moose and calf, who after a startled look splashed away across a bog and disappeared into the willows. The new route led us directly to the den area.

Meanwhile, Denali and Beta continued to parallel our course. As we crested a low pass, I remarked that the wolves must know every square inch of the region and probably
wondered on the way down why we were taking the long way. An exuberant Charlie led us at a brisk pace. Even with heavy loads, we took only two days to return due to the much shorter distance and Charlie's energetic pace, fueled by his desire to return to his friends.

Along the way on the edge of a boggy area, we saw a large patch of cotton grass, its white fluffy heads on foot-long stalks in full bloom. Although Charlie bounced with impatience and tugged at his leash when we stopped to pick the delicious roots, we insisted on gathering enough to make a small meal.

An hour from the den, howls of welcome greeted us. In unison, Denali, Beta, and Charlie called back, the tuneful acknowledgment linking the wolf family and our little group. A half mile from the den, Alpha suddenly appeared. With a certain proud majesty to his stride, he led us all home as Denali and Beta followed close on his heels. Charlie, his tail fanning his delight, pulled on his leash, urging us to hurry.

At the den, Mother, the teenagers, and Omega greeted the traveling pack mates and Charlie with tail wagging and yips of pleasure.

But all was not well with our camp. A foot-high hole in one side of the tent, through which a sleeping bag had been dragged into the meadow, was the most obvious damage. The bag had been ripped apart, scattering feathers in all directions. A large hunk lay in a feathery heap just outside the den entrance.

The culprits appeared unconcerned. Once again showing respect for the boundary line, now that we had returned, they were perfectly well mannered, with an air of utter innocence.

We opened the tent door to confront a disaster. Everything lay in a crumpled mess. Charlie, who had already renewed his scent marks, sniffed all around and inside the tent. While we began the task of sorting through the jumbled items, he sat facing the den. In indignant tones, he loudly voiced his protest with hard-edged barks followed by a stern stare-down. The
wolves showed no reaction, but we were sure they understood the message.

Considering the rough treatment our neighbors had bestowed upon our belongings and the fact that wolf jaws can crack large moose bones with ease, we were thankful that our gear had survived the ordeal at all. We replaced the ruined sleeping bag with a new one. We could live with the deep teeth marks on the saucepan handle, we quickly decided, and we wouldn't miss the chewed-off corners on the sleeping pads.

The rest of the damage was relatively minor. Three pairs of socks were shredded well beyond further use, and a shirt missed its collar, buttons, and one sleeve. Powerful jaws had crunched a spare compass and two spoons. A pair of sneakers had been reduced to small pieces of fabric, each no larger than a dime. We added a water bottle with the bottom gnawed off to the pile of items committed to the garbage sack. Although we tried to mend the tent as best we could, we finally gave up and unpacked the spare.

My naive notion that the wolves would leave our belongings alone in our absence had certainly been dispelled. Bill was kind enough not to point out how wrong I had been.

After three hours, we had once more returned everything to reasonable order. It took Charlie more time to recover from his indignation. But later he relaxed and appeared to have forgiven the trespassers, as seemed to be the rule here no matter what the disagreement. Neither Charlie nor the wolves harbored grudges.

As the shadows deepened and the sun disappeared beyond the mountains, we cooked a dinner of rice with our precious diced cotton grass roots sprinkled on top. We followed up with hot chocolate and half an apple pie. Margaret had somehow persuaded a local Gwich'in woman of legendary baking fame to make it for us.

It felt good to be back among the wolves.

A
S THE EARLY-MORNING DEW covered Wolf Camp One in a damp blanket, Alpha departed alone, presumably to scent-mark the ridges to the south. An hour later, while Bill was returning from the stream with the clean breakfast dishes, I shook the sleeping bags and spread them over the tent to air.

Suddenly Charlie rose from resting alongside the tent and strained to get as close to the den as his leash would allow. Denali and Beta looked apprehensive too. All three animals gazed intently at a far-off crest to the south. A breeze drifted toward us.

“Are they catching the scent of prey?” Bill wondered aloud.

“Maybe,” I answered, “but why are they so anxious?”

Then we heard two short, high-pitched barks. Denali and Omega bolted toward the sound, while the rest of the pack spun to face south. In minutes, an agitated Beta returned and nudged Mother's shoulder as he ushered her into the den. Omega and the teenagers guarded the entrance, watching the ridge. Charlie voiced a warning growl.

“Must be danger close by,” Bill said.

Alpha and Denali, shoulder to shoulder, streaked toward the den. Panting, the two disappeared, along with all the other wolves, into the safety of the dugouts or behind boulders.

Charlie, for his part, hid behind a boulder beside the tent and softly barked an alarm. Then we realized: Hunters! We ran to the tent, jerked the aluminum poles out to collapse it, then
pulled it and its contents behind Charlie's boulder, crouching there with him.

A long half hour later, he slowly relaxed. The wolves reappeared. Although still vigilant, they seemed less fearful. Alpha and Denali trotted to the ridge but returned in an hour, and the others resumed normal activities.

We re-erected the tent, behind the boulder this time. To ease our concern we hiked to the ridge with Charlie, hoping to detect the cause of the panic. To avoid being seen in case hunters remained in the area, we approached the ridge from the east, scrambling and climbing to the top. Sure that Alpha had detected hunters on his scent-marking tour, we scanned the southern heights with binoculars. A troubled Charlie stared and growled at something far away. At first our human eyes couldn't reach across the distance. Then, just as we were about to give up, we saw two tiny figures on the tundra heading away, the faint outline of rifles slung across their backs.

“I wonder how close they were,” Bill said.

“We didn't hear a shot. Perhaps they never saw Alpha,” I replied, looking around at the incredibly rough terrain, which could easily conceal a cautious wolf. The men disappeared. Charlie stopped growling.

“Let's see if we can find more signs of hunters,” I said as I put the binoculars back in their case.

We swung east around a brutally rugged ridge to follow a shallow valley until it abruptly ended at a sheer wall of loose, gray rock. Two miles from camp, we climbed yet another ridge and found numerous cigarette butts scattered among the footprints of heavy-soled boots. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground. The hunters had obviously scouted from the ridge for some time. Looking back over the mountainous landscape between us and the den, we could see why Alpha had most likely been invisible to the hunters.

A chilling wind picked up as we headed back. Storm clouds billowed from the northern horizon. We scrambled as fast as the mountains allowed to avoid being caught in a storm in such hazardous footing.

Three hours later, as the light faded before the approaching storm, we reached camp in time to see Yukon, who had claimed ownership of a golf ball–size rock, being chased by Klondike, who was determined to steal it for herself. Alpha greeted Charlie with a few yips and wagged his tail, while Charlie replied in kind. Ignoring the weather, everyone relaxed. The danger of hunters had passed, and normal life had resumed. Charlie wandered over to the stream for a long drink, then climbed into the tent to sleep.

After checking that all the tent guy lines were secure, Bill and I joined Charlie inside to escape the wind. Dark clouds dipped low over the mountains. Soon torrential rain forced us to zip the door. The wolves quickly forgot their games and found shelter.

Troubled by the idea that hunters, although separated from the den by several craggy ridges, had been actively searching for our wolf friends, Bill and I discussed the day's events as Charlie slept with his head on my lap. We were awed that Charlie and the wolves knew something was wrong even before Alpha sounded the alarm. It had been a clear demonstration of these animals' ability to sense each other's emotions, even when out of sight of each other.

When Beta had shoved Mother into the den and Omega and the teens stood guard at the entrance, it showed us that the wolves were still committed to defending their pups against other human intruders. Even though we had lived close to the family for several weeks, the wolves still had a healthy fear of humans, and when threatened by hunters, they had sought to protect themselves. Because of the alarm the hunters had caused the wolves, we wondered if Mother might delay bringing the
pups out of the den. We hoped not. Every time we returned to camp we looked to see if she had perhaps brought them out in our absence.

To the sound of rain and wind, we cooked dinner and slid into our sleeping bags, intent on staying warm while we caught up on our journal notes. But first we had to look for Bill's reading glasses. Such things as gloves, socks, and eyeglasses disappear into the jumbled void of a tent's contents with exasperating frequency, we have found. Even though Bill testily claimed that they had to be in the tent's side pocket, just where he put them, the pocket was empty.

After going through just about everything, I triumphantly found the glasses—squashed but still usable—beneath Charlie, who had watched us placidly during the search but never moved a muscle. Only as a last desperate measure had I slid my hand beneath his heavy body. “Charlie, you knew they were there all the time!” Bill exclaimed.

While Charlie did not reply to Bill, at least not in this particular instance, he frequently expressed himself to the wolves with howls, yips, and tail wagging. When an energetic activity was in progress near the den, Charlie usually became an interested bystander. But after his first try, with the teens, met with no invitation, he never again attempted to join the activities. Instead he often initiated his own game of chase with Bill and me, just as he often did at home, as if to show the pack, which always stopped to watch.