Brigit, 16.5 years old. Photo by Sharon Lawrence
. . . In a little more than a single century (from 1820 to 1945),
no less than fifty-nine million human animals were killed in
inter-group clashes of one sort or another. . .
We describe these killings as men behaving “like animals”
but if we could find a wild animal that showed signs of acting
this way, it would be more precise to describe it as behaving like men.
Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo
6
It was during our April 1984 trip to Michigan that I last socialized on my own with the Ishpeming wolves, again feeding them, then entering the enclosure to observe them at close quarters. Shawano again approached and sniffed my pants, after which he briefly smelled my right hand, his wet, cold nose touching my skin lightly. Done, he wagged his tail sparingly and moved about six feet away, there to stand and stare into space. Brigit remained near the fence, behind me. She whined occasionally while pacing. Thor, careful to stay clear of Shawano, sat on his haunches and watched me from about ten feet away, his expression relaxed. Denali, the wildest of the four, stared at me fixedly from a distance of about thirty feet, her expression inscrutable, showing neither aggression nor sociability. I had in the past been treated to the same kind of appraisal by wild wolves, and maintained long enough, it always elicited mystical responses in me. There are those who find such stares intimidating. One person of my acquaintance, who was appraised in that way by Wa when the latter was only five months old, turned away, commenting, “So young and already vicious!” But there is nothing vicious in such looks–serious, yes, and meditative, but most of all, gloriously wild and testifying that behind the amber eyes there is an exceptionally keen intelligence. On this last occasion, Denali unlocked her gaze from mine after about one minute, then loped into the forest.
The next day, satisfied that I had obtained the confidence of the pack leader and had also been accepted by the others in one way or another, I asked Sharon to accompany me to Ishpeming, wanting to note how Shawano would react to her. But because Sharon had no real experience with wolves and might not, therefore, know how to react if approached closely by one of them, particularly in view of the lingering tensions that existed between Shawano and Thor as well as between Denal and Brigit, I decided that we would not enter the enclosure.
When we arrived, the four wolves were already waiting at the fence, and on this occasion even Denali showed some anticipatory excitement by dancing around Shawano and play-biting at his muzzle. Brigit, careful to keep a good distance from her daughter, was off to one side, crouched submissively, as usual, but watching us eagerly. Thor was rather more relaxed than he had been the day before. He stood at the fence within ten feet of the blond Alpha.
As we neared the compound, Denali retreated, taking up a position within the trees at least seventy-five feet from the wire, her action perhaps dictated by Sharon’s presence. Moments later, Thor also backed away, then turned and loped to the shelter of some bushes that grew about fifty feet away. Shawano, however, remained where he was, and when we were a couple of steps from the wire he reared up on his hind legs and rested his enormous front feet against the fence. In that stance, his head was about twelve inches higher than Sharon’s, who is five feet four inches tall. Looking into the big wolf’s eyes from a distance of about eighteen inches, she greeted Shawano quietly, whereupon he wagged his tail and snapped his jaws, again making that distinctive, hollow sound I have come to associate with the expectation of food. Afterwards, still upright, the wolf sniffed at Sharon’s face, inhaling and exhaling audibly and causing tiny bubbles of moisture to dance and gleam on the edges of each black nostril, his interest seemingly centred on Sharon’s perfume and cosmetics, which, though mildly scented from a human standpoint, were strong in the nostrils of a wolf. Shawano’s inspection was brief, probably because he was also savouring the aroma of the raw chicken I was carrying, but from the way he greeted Sharon I knew that he had accepted her immediately. I now suggested that she feed the Alpha, and she took a chicken leg and offered it to him. The wolf took it gently and ate it on the spot, and while Sharon continued feeding him, I tossed chicken parts to the others.
The next day, which was to be our last visit with the pack before we returned home, the wolves were again waiting for us as we got out of the car, watching as we fed and fussed over Chico and, later, as we collected the meat and walked toward the enclosure. The pack’s behaviour was much the same as it had been the day before. When we reached the fence, Shawano again stood upright, sniffed intently at Sharon’s face, and immediately accepted food from her fingers, his behaviour telling me that he had taken a particular liking to her.
When we had fed the pack, we stood back a few paces from the fence and watched. Brigit scuttled up and down beside the wire, Thor lay down, licking himself, and Denali, again puppy-like, solicited food from her mate, who obliged by regurgitating twice for her and, after the second time, helping her eat the result.
When that was over, the leader came to the fence and we walked to meet him. Sharon squatted by the wire and the wolf again sniffed her face. After he was finished, he moved closer to me, turned sideways, lifted his leg, and urinated, managing to splash my boots and leaving me to wonder about his choice of target. Why just me? My guess is that, recognizing me as a male of my species, he was scent-marking the spot on which I stood, telling me in this way that although he was happy to welcome me to his home and glad to see me each time I arrived, he wished me to know that this was his range and that, regardless of our relationship, he was definitely the master within the area bounded by the wire.
We left soon afterwards. As we reached the car, Sharon turned, seeing that the four wolves were now standing by the fence, watching us.
“I think they know that we’re not coming back,” she said rather wistfully. ‘’It looks like they’re saying good-bye to us.”
She was still looking out of the car window as we headed down the driveway, and she was silent as we turned on Route 41 and drove east. For that matter, so was I, for I shared her sense of loss. We were going to miss the Ishpeming wolves. After we had travelled about ten miles, Sharon turned to me and asked, “Why in the world would anyone want to kill wolves?”
“Mainly, I think, because they are afraid of them. They see them as competitors for the deer and other animals that people like to kill,” I replied.
“Well . . . I just can’t understand how a man can bring himself to kill anything!” Sharon said, expressing rare anger in her tone.
“It’s not as if hunters really need food. But I guess they just want to kill something. It’s horrible!”
I agreed.
After that brief exchange we both fell silent, each thinking about the wolves. Sharon, as it later transpired, had become deeply affected by her brief contact with the pack, so much so that she could not rid herself of their memory and, indeed, began daydreaming about the possibilities of our getting wolves of our own. In this she had undoubtedly been influenced even before our first trip to Michigan, when I had talked about Matta and Wa. Later I wrote a book about them, and she read it and had been further influenced although she had never before come into direct contact with members of the species. Our journey to the Upper Peninsula and her acquaintance with Jim’s pack, particularly with Shawano, had turned Sharon into a wolf devotee, although she kept this from me at first because I had often said that I did not think I would ever want to keep wolves again. I had found the responsibilities of such a task enormous, and besides, when the time had come to part with Matta and Wa, the experience had been emotionally upsetting.
As I drove back to Marquette, my own thoughts were more clinical, centred mainly on something that George had said about the eating habits of wolves, which Jim had confirmed the evening before. Principally, what occupied me was the statement by George that “wolves do no
t eat bear meat.” Inasmuch as I had seen wolves eating bear meat on a number of occasions and had actually used the carcass of a dead grizzly as the means of attracting a pack so that I could observe the wolves from nearby, I was startled by his remark. Upon my questioning him, it turned out that the only evidence supporting his thesis came from an incident in which a highway-killed bear had been placed in the wolf enclosure and had been rejected by the pack. Since neither of my friends had engaged in field observations of wild wolves, they had both assumed that there was something about bear meat that was unpalatable to all members of the species. And they were not alone in their views, for in the past I had heard others make the same claim with even less evidence to back it.
Musing in this way, my thoughts travelled back to the field research I had done in British Columbia in 1971, when, during May, June, and part of July, I had connected with the wild pack in the area of Muckaboo Creek and had been present when a young male wolf left on his solo journey, returning later to be welcomed by his family. When the five pups that had been born to the pack that year started going on trips with their parents and adult relatives, I realized that I would soon have to abandon that particular study, so I made plans to journey down the Nass River, following its course in a southeasterly direction to the junction of one of its tributaries, Damdochax Creek, a respectable stream that leads to a lake of the same name on the shores of which I had once wintered with Yukon, the part-wolf, part-Alaskan malamute who had been my wilderness companion and partner for a number of wonderful years. The distance from the wolf rendezvous to Damdochax Lake was only about thirty-five miles, a journey that, going with the current, would take about eight or nine hours.
I lingered in the Muckaboo Creek area for four more days without seeing the wolves, but during the last hours of my vigil, I thought a great deal about revisiting Damdochax Lake, a prospect that became more attractive the more I recalled the placid, emerald green waters of the tarn, the rugged but beautiful mountains that surrounded it, and the two cabins that graced its shores. The idea of spending a few weeks in the place where I had experienced the rewarding and carefree life of a wilderness vagabond was irresistibly appealing. As a result, and although I might well have seen more of the Muckaboo wolves had I lingered, I began to break camp on the evening of the fourth day, sleeping that night under the stars, rising before dawn for breakfast, and leaving at first light, paddling easily and stopping occasionally beside well-remembered landmarks that rekindled affectionate memories of Yukon.
Dawdling in this way, it took me eleven hours to reach the lakeside cabins, but once there, my fond expectations were dashed when I discovered that humans had vandalized both dwellings, actually using as a toilet the one that Yukon and I had shared so comfortably. Saddened and angered, I left, paddling away from the log buildings and heading toward the southeast corner of the lake, where I knew there was a good, open area near the water that offered excellent camping facilities.
Disturbed by what I had found down the lake, but nevertheless happy to be back in a wonderfully wild region, I pitched my tent, constructed a fireplace out of rocks, cooked and ate my supper, and turned in early, somewhat fatigued after my journey. Under such circumstances, I am usually awakened by the rising sun and the singing of the birds, but this was not to be on that occasion. Instead, I was aroused during the predawn by the angry bellowing of a grizzly bear, an unmistakable and chilling sound which was coming from somewhere near my tent.
Grizzlies are not given to such outbursts unless they are seriously disturbed. And when they do voice their aggravation in the neighbourhood of humans, they can be extremely dangerous. Beyond this, to be awakened before first light by such stentorian roars, while knowing that the thin walls of one’s canvas shelter will part like so much tissue paper under the onslaught of a grizzly’s claws, is an experience that galvanizes an individual on the instant.
With unaccustomed alacrity, I got out of the sleeping bag and reached for my carbine, then put it down again, realizing that I wasn’t dressed and that, more to the point, the gun was empty, my supply of shells buried in my duffel bag because during such wilderness trips I carry a gun only for emergencies and had never before had cause to reach for it. Scrambling into pants and putting on a thick woollen shirt to ward off the mountain chill, I slipped my feet into moccasins and started digging for the 30-30 cartridges, being serenaded all the while by the constant roaring, which appeared to be getting closer to my tent with every passing moment. At first I couldn’t, find the ammunition. My anxiety rose proportionately with my fumbling, until I emptied the bag, spread its contents on the tent floor, and, using my flashlight, quickly pounced on the box of twenty shells. By the time I had broken the seal and opened the carton, the roaring had come even closer; this made me fumble some more as I stuffed five cartridges into the Winchester’s tubular magazine. Slipping the remaining bullets into my pocket, I unzippered the tent and went outside, my intention being to make my presence known to the bear, following which I confidently expected the animal to retreat. My optimism was based upon long acquaintance with the species, none of which had ever threatened me, much less sought to attack, although on three occasions I had retreated from bears that had also been roaring with aggravation. These experiences, however, had all taken place in daylight and none of the bears involved had been advancing in my direction.
Outside, I took time to notice that the eastern peaks were only slightly illuminated by the yet-unseen sun, their crowns glowing with greenish hues reflected downward by the snow that topped each spire. Around me I could distinguish the shapes of nearby trees and rocks, but in front of where I stood, the forest was a wall of darkness. The shoreline and the place where I had pitched the tent were about thirty yards from the forest edge. Inside that gloom was the bear. Now, besides the repeated bellowing, I could also hear intermittent crashing sounds that I knew were made when the bear swiped at bushes, or at the ground, with one of its massive front paws, sending cascades of vegetation and showers of soil sailing into the air.
Taking about half a dozen steps from the tent, I stopped in the open some fifteen yards from the forest edge, listening to the rowdy bear, seeking to determine the distance between us but unable to see more than the indistinct outlines of the nearest tree trunks. Tentatively I raised the carbine and tried to align its sights against the amorphous shape of a downed tree, wanting to know if I could see to shoot accurately, if that should become necessary. The sights were invisible. Should the bear attack, my only hope of stopping it would be to shoot by “feel,” raising the Winchester to shoulders height and roughly aligning the gun with its body. Not a pleasant prospect! For a moment I considered returning to the tent to get the five-cell flashlight, but I decided against this move, because to try to position the light beside the gunstock to illuminate the sights as well as the running bear, it was necessary to hold light and barrel in one hand, the left, and during the time that it would take to align the beam, the sights, and the target, the grizzly, should it decide to charge, would close the short distance between us before my juggling act was completed. Besides, I was still confident that the animal would retreat once I made my presence known.
Slinging the gun over my right shoulder, I clapped my hands and shouted at the same time, continuing to do so for some fifteen seconds before standing silently, listening. Now the bear was quiet. I dared to hope that my plan was about to work, although the animal remained nearby, otherwise I would have heard the crashing sounds it made as it retreated within the forest. As the seconds passed and the silence continued, I began to feel concern. Knowledge of the species suggested that the grizzly should have retreated by now, if it was going to do so. Its continued presence was cause for concern.
While I was still debating these things, the bear began to bellow and to smash at the underbrush once more. Again I shouted and clapped my hands. As before, the grizzly became quiet, but did not retreat. Now, definitely worried, I unslung the carbine, worke
d a shell into the breech, and fired a shot in the air, fully expecting that the loud and echoing report of the rifle would cause the animal to flee. It didn’t. Roaring louder than before, the grizzly burst out of the forest, a huge, indistinct bulk coming directly at me. I could not escape. I had to shoot.
Ejecting the spent casing, I worked another cartridge into firing position, aimed the gun at the bear, and squeezed the trigger. The grizzly appeared to stagger, but kept coming. Feverishly, without lowering the Winchester from my shoulder, I ejected the spent casing, worked the loading lever, and rammed another bullet in place, squeezing the trigger immediately. This time, because the grizzly was only about twenty feet from me, I saw it stumble under the impact of the shot; but, roaring more loudly than ever, the enormous bear kept coming. Once more I repeated my actions with exactly the same results: the grizzly didn’t fall. Lowering the gun, I fired from the hip. The bear crashed to the ground, the momentum of its run sliding its body forward to stop when it was only eight feet in front of me. Standing immobile, I again worked the gun’s action, my gaze fixed on the sprawled bear. It didn’t move. The light was now slightly better, but not yet good enough to see distinctly. I was unable to determine whether the animal was still alive.
In Praise of Wolves Page 12