In Praise of Wolves

by R. D. Lawrence

  I suppose I waited about a minute before approaching to see if it was dead. When I was no more than a step from it, I saw that the last bullet had penetrated the top of its head, about an inch above the eyes and almost equidistant from each of its ears. Holding the carbine in my right hand, my finger on the trigger, I bent down, reached out with my left hand, and searched for a heartbeat. The grizzly was dead. Only then did I realize that my gun was empty! I had loaded five shells and had fired them all-the last, fortunately for me, having found the brain.

  The killing of any animal is repugnant to me, even on those occasions when I have to deliver a mercy shot to some creature that has been mortally injured by humans. My emotions run high and continue to do so for days afterwards, regardless of how hard I try to justify the action. On that morning, my need to kill the grizzly upset me greatly, so much so that after I had made sure the animal was dead, I could no longer stay near its corpse. Without eating breakfast, I launched the canoe and paddled into the lake, at first pushing the craft along vigorously without regard to direction; later, as the sun cleared the peaks to warm the country and to make long shadows, I adopted a more leisurely pace, seeking to bring my emotions under some semblance of control by observing the animals and plants with whom I was sharing the sunrise.

  At eight o’clock, after almost four hours of aimless paddling, I felt sufficiently restored for the business of checking the grizzly to try to find out why it had been so seriously agitated and abnormally aggressive. That part of British Columbia is some three hundred miles from the nearest town or village, and I had seen no sign of human activity since I entered the region almost four months earlier, with the exception of one twin-engine Cessna that had flown low over the Muckaboo Valley about eight days earlier; I therefore surmised that the bear had been accidentally injured in some way or that it had become sick. In any event, I had to check it so that I could report the incident to the authorities when I returned to the outside.

  As I approached the campsite, a flock of five ravens rose from the bear’s carcass, cawing and cackling loudly, protesting my presence; but the ebony scavengers didn’t leave the neighbourhood, perching instead in trees adjacent to the dead bear and scolding me continuously. Torn between hunger and a desire to examine the bear, I sat outside the tent for some moments, trying to decide which should come first, food or dissection – while the ravens continued to make their fuss. In the end, I opted for food, thinking that perhaps I might not feel like eating immediately after I had finished examining the dead animal.

  Then, with the sun high, its light splashing directly over the grizzly’s body, I started the examination, discovering immediately that the animal had been seriously wounded by double-0 buckshot, the trajectory and spread of the spheres, which measured 33 inches in diameter, telling me that the grizzly had been shot from an aircraft.

  I had, at the time, wondered what the Cessna was doing in the area and why it was flying so low. Circumstantial evidence now strongly suggested that the pilot and passengers had been having some “sport,” shooting at animals out of season that they had absolutely no hope of recovering, because, even if they killed any, the twin-engine wheeled aircraft could not possibly land anywhere in that country.

  Closer examination of the bear’s wounds revealed that they were seriously infected. One surface wound on the upper part of the left flank contained two ounces of pus; seven more slugs had lodged over the hips and back, breaking no bones, but causing horrendous lacerations. One shot was lodged against the right ilium of the pelvis, tearing and bruising the surrounding muscles over an area that measured nearly ten inches in circumference. In addition to the buckshot wounds, the bear, maddened by pain, had bitten at both of its flanks, tearing the skin and flesh and, of course, aggravating the injuries. No wonder it had behaved as it had!

  Adding to the animal’s trauma were literally hundreds of blowfly maggots, or screw worms, which had invaded all the wounds and from there tunnelled into healthy tissue as they fed on the living flesh. When I opened the bear to examine the injury area from the inside, I found evidence of fresh, severe bleeding in the pelvic area. There was little doubt that the animal would eventually have died, had I not been forced to shoot it, but I could take no satisfaction from knowing that my bullets had ended its suffering.

  When the necropsy was concluded, I was faced with the problem of disposing of the carcass, which was within twenty feet of my tent and would soon begin to smell fearfully. At first I debated cutting up the dead animal and taking the parts into the forest, away from my own area, but the labour involved and the gruesomeness of the task deterred me, so I decided it would be easier and far less traumatic to move my camp to another open location immediately across the lake. While dismantling the tent and packing my belongings, I thought that if I could devise some kind of blind from which to observe the carcass so as to study the numbers and kinds of animals that came to feed from it, the grizzly’s death would yield some knowledge and would not then seem so useless and wasteful.

  That same afternoon I set up camp on the far shore, temporarily leaving the bear’s remains to the attention of the ravens, whose numbers had grown while I was packing and who had made the wilderness loud with their constant, impatient calls. I had hardly moved away from the shore when the birds landed and began to feed, for the openings that I had made offered them an easily accessible feast. By then, too, five grayjays had arrived and were sharing the meal with their large relatives as well as with a good number of flies and other insects.

  Already the forces of nature were at work, a series of natural undertakers that would eventually see to it that all of the grizzly’s protein would be used to sustain life, for even its juices, soaking into the ground, would enrich the soil and the green life that grew within the area covered by the carcass. After eating an early supper, I recrossed the lake at about seven o’clock to reconnoiter the area, looking for a location suitable for the erection of a blind. There was none at ground level, but a group of five good-sized birches grew within twenty feet of the bear, one of those clumps that result when a number of seeds fall in close proximity to one another and take root, so that the trunks grow near each other at first, then spread out to form a sort of irregular, inverted cone above which the smaller branches intertwine to become a massive, umbrella-like canopy of green leaves.

  Examining the birch cluster, I realized that it would be a simple matter to erect a watch platform about twenty feet from the ground by first securing five sturdy poles to the trunks, all at the same level to make a frame over which I would tie a series of smaller poles as a floor. From there, the line-of-sight distance to the carcass was about thirty feet. I would have an excellent view even without field glasses. The only problem was that because I would be almost too close, some of the more cautious scavengers might scent me and keep away. As I stood looking at the birches, it was evident to me that twenty feet from the ground there were enough branches and leaves to offer excellent camouflage if I added a few additional leafy branches that I could cut from the local shrubbery. But what to do about my man-scent?

  Anxious to start my vigil, I began constructing the platform that evening, thinking about the properties of smells as I worked. When I left the area to cross the lake, it was almost dark, but I had made the platform and I had thought of a way to cover my body odours.

  The next morning, as the snow-clad peaks blushed under the influence of a great orange sun that had not quite climbed above the mountains, I paddled back across the lake and put the finishing touches to my aerial blind by cutting a bundle of leafy branches from distant-growing saplings and carrying them up to the platform, using the makeshift ladder I had fashioned the previous day. Weaving the greenery in place, I climbed down to inspect the work. Except for a two-foot observation opening that looked down on the carcass, the dense screen that now surrounded the platform offered perfect concealment.

  Because I always keep a record of the lunar
phases when I am out in the wilderness, I knew that the moon was then two days from full. Provided that the weather continued fine, this meant that I would be able to observe the carcass during most of the night. With this in mind, I decided to return to the campsite and go to bed, hoping to sleep until early afternoon. But first I went to the bear and probed more deeply into it, locating the bladder and taking from it about a cupful of urine, which I stored in a plastic bottle. Next I went into the stomach cavity, opening some of the intestines and collecting the already pungent fluids that these contained, adding about another cupful of juices to the bottle. The resulting “cocktail” was to form part of the scent-camouflage strategy.

  Eating a large meal after I awakened at four o’clock in the afternoon, I began the business of covering up my body odours. I drew a pail of water from the lake, stripped off all my clothes, and lathered myself copiously from head to foot with the unscented soap that I always use during field work. When I was covered in thick lather, and without rinsing it off, I went to get my oldest clothing: a pair of pants, a shirt, socks, running shoes, and a sweater, taking these to a nearby beaver dam where, as is usual, there was an abundant supply of mud mixed with rotting vegetation that stinks abominably when it is stirred up. Into this soup I immersed all my apparel, soaking it thoroughly and afterwards hanging it over branches to dry. Then I returned to the lake and began to pour buckets of water over myself to remove the soap lather. Finished, I stretched out on the grass in a patch of sunlight and waited for my clothing to become more or less dry, although in the end it was necessary to light a good fire to accelerate the drying process, to keep my nakedness warm, and, most important, to generate plenty of smoke to discourage the biting flies that had taken full advantage of my exposed skin.

  By eight o’clock that evening my clothes were dry and extraordinarily smelly. I donned the uncomfortable garments without shaking them to remove the mud, then, taking the bottle of juices, I poured some of this over my shoes, on my hat, and on an old pair of leather gloves. The odoriferous results of this treatment are best left to the imagination! Collecting a bag of trail rations (a mixture of raw oats, nuts, raisins, and dried fruit) and a canteen of clean water, I paddled over the lake and installed myself on the observation platform, notebook, pencil, and field glasses laid out within easy reach. And I waited.

  Damdochax Lake is located at a latitude of 56º35’ north; this means that at that time of year, real darkness does not arrive until nearly eleven o’clock, so that when I took up my station on the platform, visibility was excellent, allowing me to note that apart from some eighteen ravens, nine grayjays, and numerous chickadees a number of white-footed mice and some shrews were busy dining off the dead bear. In addition, a variety of small, insect-eating birds flitted over and around the clearing, feasting on the host of flies, beetles, and butterflies that had been attracted by the carcass.

  Above my hiding place, the sky was clear and the gibbous moon was hanging over the northwestern peaks, a white orb slightly highlighted by the glow of the sun. which, though itself invisible, was still daubing the western skyline with admixtures of reds, mauves, and yellows that intermingled with the sky’s dark blue tones. Scanning the lake through the field glasses, I was first attracted by a beaver that was patrolling its territory, swimming lazily on the surface, its head raised, its body almost concealed by the waters. Some distance away, a loon bobbed up from a dive, then sat quietly, allowing itself to be gently propelled by the slight breeze that fanned the surface. The beaver and the loon, the birds and insects, the mice and shrews distracted me while I waited for night, the time when I might expect the arrival of larger animals: but after more than an hour of quiet sitting in that peaceful setting, I became drowsy as I leaned against one of the supporting birch trunks. I fell asleep.

  The calling of several loons awakened me soon after midnight, a joyous cacophony of shrieks, cackles, and wails that made loud a night wilderness bathed in moonlight and roofed by a completely clear, dark blue sky in which countless stars radiated like sunbathed emeralds scattered on a field of dark velvet. Because years of training have taught me not to move suddenly when awakening during such conditions, I opened my eyes without moving, allowing my sight to adjust to the change of light as I listened to the sounds that surrounded me. At the same time, I resisted the urge to scratch at the mosquito bites I had received while I was dozing. Fortunately, I have been bitten so often by these insects that I have built up immunity to their poisons and no longer need to use repellent. Nevertheless, the bites do itch a little when freshly delivered.

  When I was fully awake, I straightened up, moving slowly and as quietly as possible and positioning myself directly in front of the observation gap. I had an excellent view of the dead bear, which was now bathed by the moonlight. I saw that three red foxes, all males, were feeding, each some distance away from the others. Taking up the glasses, I noted that a number of mice and voles and three short-tailed shrews were also eating scraps of meat, all of the tiny animals being aware of the presence of the foxes, their greatest natural predators, but exhibiting no concern because they knew that the hunters were fully occupied with the abundant supply of gratuitous food.

  One of the foxes tore away some of the bear’s intestines and immediately turned from the carcass, the sausage-like food dangling from his mouth as he trotted into the screening forest, undoubtedly taking the prize to his vixen and her young. Soon afterwards, the other two foxes also left, each likewise carrying parts of the dead grizzly. As the small scavengers continued to scurry inside and on the carcass, now and then squeaking in argument over some coveted morsel, I realized that what wind there was had been blowing from the lake toward my side of the forest.

  This meant that although my odour was being carried toward the bear, the foxes, whose keen noses are hard to fool, had not detected man-scent; they had shown no interest in the clump of birches. It seemed that the reek of beaver mud and the smell of the grizzly’s lymph and urine were doing the job I had hoped they would.

  The loons were still laughing and cackling half an hour after the foxes had left, and it was because of their constant calling that I at first failed to hear the wolf howls – faint, ululating cries that appeared to be coming from a place within the forest southeast of my location and probably about two miles away. The wolves sang for almost one minute, their blended voices charged with excitement. It was the kind of singing that I had heard often while observing wild packs whose members were gathered and preparing themselves to go hunting. a ritualistic chorus voiced, perhaps, in anticipation of a successful chase. It was now 12:45am. The howling stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  Shortly before one o’clock, stealthy crackling coming from the nearby forest alerted me to the approach of a good-sized animal. Could it be a member of the pack that had broken away from the group to investigate the odour of death? I waited, eyes glued to the shrouded evergreen wall. The crepitant whispers became stilled for some moments, then began again, becoming more clearly audible as the animal neared the edge of the forest, there to pause once more to inspect the terrain with nose and ears before at last emerging from concealment to be seen at first as an amorphous shape a tone or two lighter than its background and then, as it entered the spill of the moon, to resolve itself into a dog coyote, or brush wolf, as the species is called in some parts of North America. Momentarily the little wolf looked at my blind, then walked boldly to the carcass, sniffing deeply as it prowled around the stiffened body. It was as though the sheer enormity of the food had put the coyote into a state of gustatorial confusion and I almost chuckled aloud as I thought of the luxurious dilemma with which the animal was faced: Where to start? As it circled the mound of food one more time, the moonlight drew reflective gleams from the drool that edged its mouth and hanging tongue–a few minute, quick flashes that quickly disappeared as the coyote darted forward and thrust its head inside the open stomach, starting to eat even before it had finished droppi
ng its body to the ground. From my observation platform I could hear the working of its jaws and the liquid sounds of its cursory mastication, a few chews that preceded a momentary silence as the mouthful was swallowed.

  Engrossed in watching the display of eager appetite, I forgot to time the coyotes meal, but the animal must have fed nonstop for about twenty minutes and might well have continued to eat for longer than that if it had not become startled by some influence too faint to register on my own senses. In any event, the little wolf jumped to its feet and dashed into the forest, the sounds of its going much louder than those it had made during its arrival. Seconds later, the wilderness became a silent place of black shadows and bright moonlight; even the loons stopped laughing. And although the faint croaking of distant frogs could still be heard, nothing appeared to be moving or calling in the neighbourhood of the lakeshore and the nearby forests. I too became affected by the unnatural stillness. I held my breath as I tried to hear whatever it was that had caused the change, although, after many nights of vigil in wild places, I knew it was caused by the presence in the vicinity of one or more large predators.

  I had by now come to think of such abrupt, after-dark pauses as circles of silence, for the unnatural quiet keeps pace with a hunting animal – or an intruding human – throughout the course of its foray. As a predator passes out of one area, normal, sound-producing movements and calls are resumed in its wake, while activity is suspended by the animals in that part of the wilderness through which the stalker continues to travel. The effect is rather like the results produced when a pebble is dropped into a still pond, except that instead of the visible rings that appear an the surface of water, circles of silence form around the hunter.

  Despite the fact that I could not at first detect what had caused the change of forest tempo, I felt reasonably sure that it was triggered by the wolves whose howls I had heard earlier; but I could not be at all certain that they were coming to feed off the bear’s carcass, for they could just as easily be on the track of a mule deer or a moose. Still, I felt that there was a good chance they would be attracted to the grizzly if they came within the broad odour trail that it was releasing; even I could smell it, although the carcass was not yet decomposing.