3 Among the Wolves

by Helen Thayer

  Charlie’s days were busier than ours. After all, he had the responsibility of keeping his boundary marked as well as sniffing scents left by the neighbors. He observed their various games closely, and when a hunting party returned he always stood up to see what they had caught.

  Now, in the latter part of May, Charlie no longer presented a submissive posture. He stood tall, with his tail curled above his back, displaying his alpha status. He had gained the confidence of the pack. His dog habits diminished, and his bearing and attitude became more authoritative. He continued his gentle approach with Bill and me, but plainly, he was the alpha and we were his charges.

  Often one or two wolves would stroll over to the nearby rocks and, while relaxing in the shade, they would watch Charlie. Their casual postures and gentle facial expressions displayed friendliness. He was at home around them and enjoyed their company. We suspected that the wolves might have invited Charlie to join them at the den. At times he begged to be let off his long leash, but we were afraid to grant his wish. Perhaps we were too cautious, but we could not chance anything when it came to Charlie’s safety.

  At one point during a particularly energetic game of tug-of-war between Yukon and Klondike, Charlie walked closer, wagging his tail as though asking to join in. The teens stopped and wagged their tails briefly, but gave no sign of invitation. We quietly called Charlie back, and he returned to his favorite mossy spot to watch as the game resumed. We hoped he wasn’t too disappointed, and yet we were relieved. We had no intention of allowing Charlie to join the wolves. If trouble developed, we would be unable to defend him.

  One night as we slept with Charlie in his usual position on my sleeping bag, a chorus of howls suddenly erupted from the ridge right above us. We crawled outside with Charlie in the lead. Alpha and Beta were facing each other, muzzles lifted skyward. Long mournful sounds flowed from them. The rest of the animals positioned themselves along the ridge. Facing south, led by Alpha, they howled into the summer night. If we had not known how many voices were in this wild chorus, we could have easily estimated many more.

  Mother watches us with suspicion.

  Charlie remained silent, facing south and listening intently as the concert unfolded. Each wolf used a different note and volume, creating the impression of large numbers. The notes rose in volume and pitch, then sometimes descended, pausing in the silence, then once more reached a crescendo. At times one or two wolves resorted to yipping notes in odd contrast. The untamed melody unsettled the night. Their voices echoed off the surrounding mountainsides and filled the valley with music from the wild.

  The howl of a wolf is perhaps the most unforgettable of all wilderness sounds. Scientists speculate that wolves howl for many reasons. In addition to the sheer joy of a community singalong, they howl to communicate with neighboring packs, to establish dominance over their own hunting range, and to inhibit trespassing by hostile wolves. They often howl immediately before a hunt and sometimes communicate with each other when separated during a long chase. Dispersing loner wolves howl to attract a mate, and packs frequently howl during the breeding season. Howling also emphasizes the messages left on the many urine scent marks on logs, rocks, and trees scattered throughout and along the boundaries of the pack’s hunting range. A wolf’s ability to increase and decrease volume as it slides its harmonics up and down the scale can cause a listener to assume that there are many more animals in a group than there really are, an advantage if attempting to discourage a threatening pack.

  Denali descends the ridge after detecting prey.

  The chorus continued for fifteen minutes and then tapered off, with Alpha giving one last mournful final howl that rose to a pitch above all others. The wolves remained on the ridge, still silently watching the southern expanse. Soon a faint howl from a long distance to the south pierced the silence. Each wolf immediately stood and listened intently. In a few minutes the distant howling stopped. Alpha again led a song. After a short silent interval, a single howl quickly joined by many others responded, still from the south.

  As the last notes died away, one by one the pack strolled down the ridge to take up restful positions around the den. Mother disappeared inside to tend to the pups. As we listened to the wolves’ voices rise from earth to sky, filling this great valley, we understood why North American Indians believed that when wolves howl, they are talking with the spirit world.

  Ravens

  IT WAS THE LAST WEEK OF MAY. The days had gradually been growing longer ever since we’d set up camp near the den, and now darkness had ceased entirely to fall. We would have twenty-four hours of light for several weeks, making our observation of the wolves easier. Day and night blended together as the pack went about its activities, often hunting in the cooler hours. We occasionally lost track of time and were surprised to find that it was already past midnight. Long days have an invigorating effect on the human body, making it easy to continue working but difficult to keep to a normal schedule. The Inuit of the far northern Arctic often stay up all night during the summer, energized by the sun.

  As we watched the wolves’ games and family interactions, we could see that they were intelligent animals with the ability to plan and think. Playful by nature, they would carry back to the den various toys such as sticks, stones, animal hides, and bones. Toys not used immediately were carefully placed close by, ready for use later.

  The wolves often teased each other into starting a game or taunted a pack mate to get a response. Those in the middle of the pack’s social order often harassed Alpha. We noticed, though, that he was always allowed to win the game eventually; no wolf overdid domination when Alpha was involved.

  Several ravens lived in the spruce trees and in crevices in the cliffs close to the wolf den. Ravens and wolves are both sociable creatures, and although we would have thought them unlikely companions, they appeared to enjoy each other’s company. The ravens liked to tease the wolves and sometimes initiated play with individuals.

  While the wolves dozed comfortably one day, a raven appeared as silently as a shadow, landing a few feet from Klondike. It sneaked up behind her, pausing now and then to make sure it had not been detected. When the raven reached the end of Klondike’s tail, the bird gave it a quick jab with his large beak, then quickly flew away with a loud squawk and perched atop a six-foot-high rock.

  Klondike leaped to her feet in indignation. Seeking revenge, she made futile efforts to scramble up the steep rock. But she slid to the ground each time, her claws leaving long scratches in the rock. Finally the raven flew onto the ridge to await further opportunities. After a few minutes, a disgruntled Klondike resumed her sleep in the protection of a dugout.

  Not even Charlie was spared. One day as he lay asleep alongside the stream, two ravens crept up behind him in waddling unison and, as if on cue, both nipped his tail at once. With a loud yelp Charlie jumped up, ready to kill, but the clever birds flew to the ridge where they strutted and cawed, elated at their success. Charlie’s indignant bark brought all the wolves to watch and, we supposed, to sympathize as he railed against his tormentors.

  One evening when Charlie was engrossed in eating his dinner, three ravens acting as a team swooped down from the cliff. A particularly bold individual led the attack, diving at Charlie’s head. When he left his bowl to race after the first bird, the other two made for the abandoned food, stealing as much as they could grab in their large beaks in one low pass. The infuriated Charlie angrily turned and leaped at the ravens, but it was too late. We allowed him to eat inside the tent from then on.

  One sunny afternoon Beta rose from a shady spot beside a large rock to stalk a raven who pretended not to notice. As Beta crept closer, the bird hopped ahead, until at the last moment it flew off chattering just as Beta snapped at its tail.

  The ravens showed little fear of Bill and me, becoming unbearably bold at times as they strutted and waddled about our campsite with impunity. With heads tipped sideways, they peered at us with their beady black eyes and talked nonsto
p—about us, we were sure. A few times the birds dived low over our heads, knocking off our caps. They even landed on the tent and pecked the fabric. As a precaution, we kept all our food inside, away from both the wolves and the birds.

  At first it puzzled us that the ravens seemed to disappear whenever the wolves were out hunting. One cloudless May morning, hoping to see the wolves leave to hunt, we climbed a nearby ridge that allowed us an unobstructed view of the den area, the valley, and the tundra beyond. Using rocks as backrests, we settled down with our binoculars to wait.

  Klondike at play: A stick will do.

  An hour later the wolves left the den with their usual exuberant display of tail wagging. As Denali led the hunters through the valley below our ridge, several ravens accompanied them, flying at treetop level. The birds waited on a low branch for the hunters to catch up, then flew ahead, cawing loudly, as if urging the wolves to hurry. Both groups soon crossed the tundra and disappeared into a far valley. If the wolves hunted successfully, we realized, the ravens would also have a feast.

  Now we understood why ravens lived close to the den. Not only were the wolves and ravens socially connected, but the wolves also, through their killing of prey, provided food for the ravens. And the ravens didn’t just follow the wolves; both species communicated with each other on hunts.

  As we continued to observe the two species during the summer, we saw that the information sharing sometimes rose to an even higher level. Twice we watched ravens return to the den and rouse the wolves by flying low and emitting loud squawks. As soon as the birds had gained the wolves’ attention, they flew back and forth until the wolves followed them to the source of their excitement: carrion on the forest floor or on the tundra.

  On both occasions Alpha, Denali, and Omega followed the ravens while we hurried to catch up. Each time we were quickly left behind, but by taking a shortcut we arrived in time to see both birds and wolves wrestling with the carcasses: a Dall sheep on a slope in the first instance, and a beaver that lay close to a pond in a forest clearing in the second. Both had apparently died of old age or disease. Because of the birds’ inability to tear open a tough-skinned carcass, they needed the wolves to do the job for them. The wolves did so, then ate their fill while the ravens, cawing and cackling impatiently, waited close by for their turn. As soon as the wolves departed, the ravens noisily swarmed the carcass. We marveled at these remarkable displays of interdependence and food sharing by two very different wild species.

  Ravens, and their smaller cousins the crows, are members of the corvid family. Like wolves, ravens mate for life and can live for twenty years. The birds are intelligent, easily trained, and socially adaptable. They have wingspans of up to four feet with shiny black feathers, a curved, thick black beak, and black feet. At two feet in length from beak to tail, they are the world’s largest perching songbirds.

  The folklore of the First Nations people of northern Canada contains many legends about Raven that extol the supernatural life of this bird. He is a powerful figure, responsible for making rivers flow, bringing daylight to the world, hanging the moon in the sky, and acquiring fire. He also created people, and then is said to have tricked them out of their food.

  Mystical powers have been attributed to Raven as far back as ancient Greece. Odin, the Raven God and ruler of the Norse gods, kept a wolf on each side of his throne and a raven on each shoulder. Wolves and ravens even accompanied Odin into battle.

  The Alaskan legend of the elderberry shrub tells of the time Raven traveled along a northern river and met Stone and Elderberry, who argued over who should give birth to the Tsimshian people, the natives of Southeast Alaska. Stone argued that if she gave birth first, then the people would live an extraordinarily long time, whereas if Elderberry was first to give birth, then the people’s life span would be brief. Wise Raven listened and saw that Stone was almost ready to deliver, so he reached out and touched Elderberry, instructing her to go first. She did, and that is the reason people don’t live as long as stones.

  The last long days of May signaled the onset of the main mosquito season. They arrived in waves of bloodsucking, buzz-bombing hordes from hell. Northern mosquitoes are larger and more aggressive than their southern relatives. Their bites raise large welts whose itching can drive a victim to the brink of insanity. A buzzing that quickly becomes a loud whine signals their arrival.

  For the entire summer, the sky-filling swarms dive-bombed us to grab a blood meal at every chance. Even when we tired of the battle and escaped into our tent they waited outside, daring us to venture into their midst, and a few dozen always beat us inside. Only the female mosquitoes draw blood; they need the nourishment to lay eggs. Thus our blood was providing the means for these pests to lay more eggs, which of course meant more mosquitoes.

  In response, we grabbed our industrial-strength deet repellent and smothered our exposed skin. Considering that this substance melts plastic, one has to be desperate to use it. And desperate we were. When I smeared a little deet on Charlie, though, he pulled back in indignation, even though his nose already bore numerous bites. Fortunately I was able to persuade him to accept a milder liquid; although useless to us, it kept him reasonably mosquito-free.

  By the end of May, an atmosphere of trust and acceptance prevailed between the wolf pack and our camp. The wolves often sunned themselves close to Charlie’s boundary or just sat in the shade watching us. Even timid Omega relaxed and frequently stood in full view instead of furtively peering at us from behind a rock. Mother, although still somewhat aloof, was less secretive and her gaze less piercing. When we washed our clothes in the stream, she was fascinated. She would stand tilting her head this way and that, as if trying to understand this strange activity. We hoped that as her trust in us increased, she would bring her pups out of the den.

  Alpha, although always authoritative, proved to be a gentle leader and quickly demonstrated acceptance of Charlie after our first week at Wolf Camp One. Later his relaxed posture would exhibit acceptance of Bill and me as well. His natural gentleness, self-confidence, and assured position as his family’s undisputed leader likely made it easier for him to readily accept Charlie as the alpha of his human pack. With Alpha’s own role unquestioned, he felt no need to defend himself against Charlie, or even against Bill and me, and thus quickly disregarded us as a threat. In contrast, Omega, who clearly lacked self-esteem, usually kept to the edges of the pack and took as long as two months to accept Charlie and, later, Bill and me.

  Easygoing Denali and Beta took little notice of us after the first two weeks. Beta, as the second in command, was never required to prove his leadership and calmly took life as it came. As for Denali, whenever he wasn’t leading a hunt or watching for prey from a ridge top, he spent his time relaxing and keeping a low, fairly unemotional profile. Always one of the last to join in a game, he played with wild abandon; he enjoyed bowling the teenagers over and then, as they jumped to their feet, whipping around to knock them down again. Even when both teens ganged up on Denali, his astonishing ability to twist and turn usually left them racing in his wake.

  The mischievous, energetic teenagers soon discovered that playing was more fun than observing the neighbors. They mostly ignored Bill and me and only occasionally watched Charlie.

  The seeds of trust had sprouted. It was time to plan a strategy that would enable us to observe a hunt. Already we had attempted to follow but had soon been left far behind, even when the wolves were just loping along. We would have no chance when they increased their pace as they neared prey.

  At 4:30 A.M. on the last day of May, Denali, who had been scouting from the lookout since midnight, suddenly raced down the slope to greet Alpha with vigorous tail wagging. Beta and Omega quickly joined them. After a few minutes of excited milling about, the four wolves, led by Denali, trotted along the main path from the den and disappeared into the trees.

  Bill, Charlie, and I had already left camp at 2 A.M., hoping that the wolves would hunt that day. We had position
ed ourselves on a low rise about three hundred yards away, with an unobstructed view of the wolves’ living area. We hoped our advantage of starting closer to the prey area would enable us to follow the wolves for at least part of the distance to their hunting site.

  The wolves cleared the trees, trotting at a steady pace, and headed north about a mile across the tundra toward an unnamed river. Nine ravens accompanied the wolves, circling ahead and then waiting for them to catch up. We jogged along an easy shortcut across the tundra, and noticed the ravens flying ahead of the wolves as if they knew where to locate prey. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the ice-choked river’s edge.

  The fifty-foot-wide river was bordered by two-foot-high earth banks. We guessed the water depth beneath the ice to be no more than six feet. A sheet of foot-thick ice covered the water, bank to bank. Although the ice was melting in the May warmth, it appeared strong enough to hold our weight. The wolves had already fanned out, crossed the ice, and disappeared into willow brush and black spruce on the far side.

  Charlie, always happy at the sight of ice, bounced ahead in eager anticipation. Bill and I gingerly stepped onto the slippery surface to test its strength. After we had taken a few cautious steps, the ice settled two or three inches with a few ominous creaks and groans. We called Charlie to walk behind us for safety.

  With Bill in the lead, we had reached the halfway point when suddenly a thunderous boom echoed around us. A wide chunk of ice ahead of us had collapsed a foot, and water was flooding over the top of the ice sheet. With pounding hearts we fled back in the direction we had come, Charlie racing ahead.