3 Among the Wolves (24 page)

John helped us lift our loaded sleds from the pickup and waved good-bye. At last, with a sense of relief mixed with anticipation, we attached skis to our boots and sled harnesses to our waists and set forth on our winter expedition.

We were about to experience life in splendid solitude again, this time in the Mackenzie Delta and taiga forest, blanketed with snow and ice and locked in the depths of an arctic winter. We estimated that weather permitting, we would take six or seven days to cross the delta and arrive in Tuk, the only settlement along our route.

With Inuvik receding into the distance, Charlie returned to his cheerful self. He strode ahead with his normal impatient gait, signaling us to hurry. Our skis crunched against the dry,
squeaky snow typical of the polar North. As we let go of Inuvik and our daily lives, our minds opened and peace prevailed as we looked ahead to life in a natural, simple space.

We gradually reoriented ourselves to a daily routine consisting mainly of the ebb and flow of weather, geography, and the snow beneath our feet. The
swish, swish
of our skis took the place of conversation. Our senses became more acute. Words were unnecessary as we listened to and watched nature slide by. Ptarmigan exploded from the snow around willow thickets, the heavy beat of their wings carrying them safely away from Charlie's lunges.

January's forbidding winter and monochromatic light contrasted with the softer hues we recalled from last summer's tundra environment. It was 36 degrees below zero. The sky was streaked with sun dogs, arcs of light the colors of a rainbow formed by ice crystals reflected in the sunlight. The slender spruce trees were Christmas-card perfect in their white cloaks. A snowy owl glided past in silent flight, its breath a thin stream of ice particles trailing behind. Three ravens flew by, their raucous voices loud and vaguely disturbing in the quiet.

Two months of tough, unrelenting training in the mountains had done much to acclimatize the three of us for the journey ahead, but it still took time to adjust to pulling a fully loaded sled and camping in subzero cold. At first our sleds felt like anchors around our hips. For the first two days, we followed the frozen ribbon of the East Channel of the Mackenzie River as it wound tortuously through stunted spruce.

Occasionally we passed items serving to mark the edges of the road—a barrel, a tall orange stake, a snowplow berm. As we stopped to allow three snowmobiles to pass, we looked forward to leaving the road and heading across the white landscape to make our own path. Charlie sneezed in the exhaust fumes and shook off the snow that landed on him as the Inuit snowmobilers accelerated past on bright red and yellow machines.

The immense delta, through which the Mackenzie River's contorted three main channels flow to the Beaufort Sea, is an ancient floodplain that developed during the retreat of the Wisconsin ice sheet thousands of years ago. Sluggish streams meander their way north through an elaborate mosaic of lakes and ponds. Stands of dwarf alder, birches, and willow are interspersed with low-growing sedges. Closer to the coast, most of the trees disappear and willow increases.

As we struggled along the ice road, I was reminded that in dry snow, sled runners do not slide as easily as they do in the wetter snow of Washington. With my load straining at my hips, I vaguely wondered at the wisdom of tossing aboard those extra energy bars. As the hours passed I resolved to have a generous dinner, topped off with as many of the bars as I could possibly eat. Tomorrow my sled would be lighter, I promised myself. It all sounded very familiar—reminiscent of my thoughts on many a previous journey, in fact. Meanwhile, Bill plodded steadily onward in his usual uncomplaining fashion.

As the first day progressed, feathery clouds signaled a weather change. We stopped for a late lunch of beef jerky, cashews, and walnuts, followed by a drink of hot chocolate. After gobbling half my beef jerky, Charlie turned his full attention to Bill and begged for more snacks. Only after he was soundly rebuffed did he eat his dog food.

The temperature rose to -29 degrees, but was still too cold to rest for more than ten minutes; any longer would allow the seeping cold to reach through our innermost layers. Next to our skin we wore thin thermal tops and pants. Next came a thick fleece sweater and pants, topped by a windproof, insulated hooded jacket. We also had a head-hugging fleece hat topped by a thermal, windproof outer hat. Our hands were covered with thin but warm glove liners under polar mitts, and our boots were especially designed for cold, dry climates. They were breathable, with rubber soles that gripped the snow and ice. Finally, neoprene
masks protected our faces and warmed our breath before the searing cold could hit our lungs. Charlie, on the other hand, needed nothing but his thick black Arctic coat to keep warm.

As Bill and I skied along, each engrossed in our own thoughts, we exchanged places in the lead. Charlie mostly traveled at my side, but enjoyed taking an occasional turn with Bill. By midafternoon lenticular clouds, shaped like lenses and saucers, had developed to signal oncoming high winds.

Suddenly Bill called, “Moose to your right!”

An adult female browsed in the thick willow undergrowth. Remembering the summer episode when I had been chased by an angry mother, I froze. Charlie stared at the moose without moving. Now aware of us, she took a few quick steps, as though to flee, but changed her mind and continued browsing as she slowly wandered deeper into the entanglement. As she disappeared, Charlie stepped ahead to continue the journey as though nothing unusual had happened.

In late afternoon's rapidly fading light, more lenticular clouds billowed across the sky. The rising wind ripped through the treetops, sending a full-scale storm bearing down on us. We rushed to erect the tent. Within ten minutes and with perfect teamwork, we anchored it securely and tossed our gear inside, just as a blizzard began to hurtle snow in horizontal blasts that we estimated at sixty miles per hour. Bill and I both dived in headfirst, followed by Charlie. I lunged at the door zipper, pulled it shut, and leaned back, panting.

“Whew!” I said. “Just in time.”

Charlie lay back in comfort. We rearranged our gear, ready to wait out a storm that could last days. After the sleeping bags and equipment were in place, we cooked a dinner of soup and crackers followed by dehydrated rice and vegetables with butter added to increase calories. Dessert was an easy decision: energy bars.

At the beginning of an expedition, the food always seems quite tasty. As time passes, especially in cold climates, it reduces
itself to the taste of sawdust as cold numbs taste buds and the same fare appears over and over. To keep our loads as light as possible and to simplify cooking, we ate the same nutritious, energy-laden items each day with little variation, supplementing them with multivitamins and extra vitamin C.

Lest our spirits become defeated by the tedious diet, we never critique the food while traveling. Allowing our minds to wander to thoughts of more varied, mouthwatering fare does not help our resolve to continue onward. And persistence and dedication to the task ahead is sometimes all that keeps us going through the difficult stretches of sled hauling.

After dinner we climbed into our down sleeping bags, far more heavy-duty than our lightweight summer models. All night the wind roared and snow dumped on our tiny home. Now and then we beat the inside walls to knock down the snow that rapidly built up outside, particularly on the windward side. By first light, late the next morning, the storm had lessened its fury, but it strengthened again by midday. To stay warm, we remained in our sleeping bags. Charlie, spread across my bag as usual, took up more and more room as time went on, until I was forced to push him off and start over. I again claimed a generous share that I knew would gradually disappear.

After two feet of windblown snow had built up on one side of the tent, we had no choice but to venture outside to clear it away lest the wall collapse. The shock of the cold wind forced us to work at top speed. The sleds were buried, but at least they wouldn't blow away. Finished, we plunged into the tent, this time taking a large amount of snow with us. Charlie looked up, stretched, and yawned. Bill and I brushed snow off each other's backs and then, after stowing our boots in the vestibule, retreated into the depths of our warm sleeping bags.

We emerged to brave the elements only reluctantly, to attend to toilet duties. Again the cold made speed essential. Charlie woke us up twice to go outside, scratching at the tent
door. By dinnertime the storm had subsided, but it was too dark to pack and start skiing. We cooked dinner, snuggled deep into the folds of our warm sleeping bags, and slept soundly.

The next day the first light of breaking dawn crept silently through the spruce trees. The storm had passed, leaving us to wallow in deep drifts of snow. In the gray silence that followed the storm, we ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal, milk powder, and dried fruit, then dressed to dig out the sleds. The wind had blasted the snow into hollows and ridges, some as high as three feet. As the skies cleared, the temperature dropped to -45 degrees. We packed and headed north.

To make up for lost time, we pulled at a steady pace. I had looked forward to a lighter sled after eating our first day's food and burning fuel in our stove. But the effect of the slightly lighter load was more than cancelled out by the resistance of the layer of new snow over the ice. Even stoic Bill was heard to complain. We camped in the late afternoon under moonlight.

The next day we left the ice road and headed cross-country. We knew that sled hauling across the roadless terrain would be more difficult, but escaping the rumbling supply trucks and snowmobiles was our reward. To avoid the trees and other vegetation, we followed a meandering route across frozen lakes and twisting channels. The flat surfaces allowed us to make good time in the clear weather. We wondered, as we skirted patches of gnarled trees, how long these pitiful specimens, ripped and blasted by Arctic storms, had taken to reach their ten-foot height. Although far from the majestic size of trees found in southern forests, some white spruce in the delta have been documented to be 560 years old. They were probably here when the river was first discovered by Scottish explorer Alexander Mackenzie and his men in 1789.

Several white arctic foxes scurried away from a dark mound in the snow as we skied across a miniature lake. We investigated and found half the body of a female moose. Judging by the
ripped abdomen, the animal had been killed by wolves, perhaps that morning, although none were in evidence now. Wolf paw-prints and the smaller prints of foxes surrounded the body. We guessed that the wolves either had eaten their fill and moved on, or were resting somewhere and would return to finish their feast. Meanwhile, the foxes were taking advantage of the fresh kill. Already we had found more evidence of one animal's hunting skills benefiting another.

After a few days our bodies had adjusted to the daily grind of hauling sleds, setting up camp, making dinner, sleeping, and beginning all over again the next morning. We had a new appreciation for the luxury of last summer, when we had camped in one place close to the den and never had to search for wolves.

In still weather the delta is a silent place, everything frozen, waiting for spring's release from the icy prison. The biting cold made it difficult to imagine how it might look in summer, when it is the watery home for a wide variety of nesting birds such as tundra swans, geese, golden plovers, sandhill cranes, and willow ptarmigan, as well as black clouds of mosquitoes.

Almost halfway to Tuk on day six another storm swept through, this time bringing strong gales from the south. We made good time with the wind at our backs, pushing us along. The gray sky blended with the far-off horizon, turning colors to black and white. The weak sun that hid somewhere in the cold sky made depth perception tricky as the shadows disappeared. Windblown snow scurried along the rock-hard surface, passing us in long streamers. Now and then we stumbled when we hit bumps and holes that were invisible in the flat light.

Once, as we skied down a shallow hollow, I slipped and fell. My sled didn't stop until it knocked me off my feet. An amused Bill laughed to see me on my back on the snow and my sled halfway on top. As he helped me to my feet I informed him, in icy tones that easily matched our surroundings, that I failed to see the humor in my being run over by my own sled. He stopped
laughing, but I could see a twinkle in his eye. Charlie calmly observed the entire episode, no doubt wondering why I could not stay on my feet, as it was never a problem for him.

We spent three days waiting for another storm to pass, then set out to cross a snowy moonscape. We soon learned to avoid the hollows, which were traps waiting to bog down our sleds. By now the weather and soft snow had dropped us far behind schedule. It was day twelve. At our present pace we were at least three days from Tuk, but our supply of food was plentiful. Arctic foxes scurried by. Moose and caribou looked up as we passed. More wolf tracks crisscrossed those of arctic foxes, but still we saw no wolves.

Charlie treated each wild animal differently. The ptarmigan left him unimpressed—birds just did not count—but the foxes deserved special attention. He leaped to the end of his leash in fake charges that usually made the foxes scurry away, but some sat and stared, as if to tease him. They knew his tether would stop him. The moose were a more serious business. Charlie watched them as he would a polar bear, sensing their mood, to judge whether he should become a growling, menacing ball of fury or wait quietly, body tense and ready. Because he so loved chasing wild animals, we kept him leashed at our side most of the time, not only for his own safety but to prevent the local wild inhabitants from becoming nervous as we skied past.