A Wolf Called Romeo

by Nick Jans

  Consider that one of Romeo’s routes north up the Montana Creek drainage led across the target end of a rural, sparsely monitored, yet steadily busy shooting range, and onward through a bow-hunting target area to a road’s-end turnaround where twenty-something partiers whooped around pallet bonfires, people dumped mattresses and tires, and the Juneau cops seldom patrolled. Beyond that, and on either side of Montana Creek Road, stretched boggy muskeg country and wooded hillside slopes roamed by a steady smattering of armed locals, many of whom would welcome a wolf, any wolf (especially this wolf), in their crosshairs or traps. How did Romeo know to switch between approaching and trusting humans at the lake to dodging would-be killers just a few minutes later and less than two miles away? He understood the difference and acted accordingly from his earliest days, with a power approaching prescience; his mere continued existence served as testament to that. And the Montana Creek corridor, though probably the most perilous, was just one of several worrisome spots.

  Case in point: matters near Amalga were far from settled. Evidence tying Romeo to Korc the lundehund’s death had proved vague at best, and wolf reports in the area had tapered. However, by the autumn of 2007, they had picked up enough to inspire a fresh spatter of complaints from that same sharp-voiced minority. The most vehement of the bunch, an elderly Out The Road resident, made good his threat from months before. Tired of waiting for Fish and Game, and unbeknownst to them, the old man took matters into his own hands by setting out poisoned baits. As an old-school, wolf-loathing Alaskan, he figured he was engaged in community service, shielding the entire neighborhood from certain threat. Attempting to poison wildlife in Alaska is strictly forbidden under any circumstances, with good reason. But that didn’t deter the old man. Some of the baits he set out did disappear, and no doubt a number of creatures died, wracked with spasms—probably a mink or two, some ravens, and at least one bald eagle whose carcass was discovered nearby, and who knows, maybe a bear or wolf that staggered off. In a perversely ironic turn, one of the creatures the neighbor did apparently manage to poison was the lone surviving lundehund, Bobber, whose companion’s fate had at least partially inspired the old man’s actions. Denise Chase suspects the little dog didn’t wander as far as the man’s yard from her own, but scavenged part of a strychnine-dosed animal that had traveled some distance before succumbing. Though veterinary diagnosis and action saved her life, Bobber lived with crippling, permanent nerve damage. Stung by remorse, the man ceased his campaign.

  One animal that didn’t end up dead was Romeo—fresh evidence of either the wolf’s almost magical ability to dodge deadly threats, or an indicator that he might not have been the trouble wolf in Amalga, after all. But though the poison plot passed, repeated complaints to Fish and Game from Out The Road continued into November. A black wolf had been hanging around, digging into trash, and scavenging human leavings, which raised the red flag possibility of food conditioning, with all its ties to aggressive behavior. The department had an obligation to intercede in such matters, in the interest of public safety. They quietly began exploring their options. Scott and other Fish and Game biologists including former area biologist Neil Barten, and Doug Larsen, director of wildlife conservation at the time, realized the wolf they were targeting could well be Romeo and, in fact, suspected as much. Without firm evidence of a second male black wolf that played with dogs, they weren’t ready to accept the multiwolf theory. As Juneau residents (Larsen born and raised here), they knew full well the toxic backwash they and the department would attract if they captured and relocated Romeo, whether he survived or not. That last information would be conveyed by a satellite collar with which they’d decided to fit him—to identify him beyond doubt, trace his movements, and (as a bonus) provide data for study. The biologists had repeated complaints in a limited-enough area that they felt they had reason to intercede, and a real chance of success. They took a collective breath and prepared to act.

  No self-respecting wolf would enter a large box or culvert trap of the kind commonly used for bears, and in that sort of dense-timbered, rough country, visibility was too limited to count on firing a successful tranquilizer dart. Cable snares were also out of the question: too much chance of causing fatal damage. The only real hope for live capture was deploying a spread of four-inch-diameter leg-hold traps with scent or bait for attraction, just like a fur trapper might use, though the steel jaws would be padded to reduce the odds of injury. In winter snow, wolves, like most wildlife, tend to stick to already-broken trails. In order to hold any hope of capture, Scott first had to locate specific, high-traffic areas for sets; snow (with frequent freshening, and the deeper, the better on either side of the broken trail) would hold evidence of whatever passed, draw the wolf toward the spread, and help conceal the traps. If a wolf did get caught, Fish and Game could then safely tranquilize and transport it.

  Before deploying any traps, though—to be set by a contracted, expert trapper—the biologists had to determine the course of action that would follow a capture. Due to the wolf’s possible exposure to domestic canine diseases and parasites, they’d have to quarantine him for a few weeks in an isolated enclosure to avoid the risk of infecting other wildlife, including wolves. Depending on the results, he might be euthanized or else cleared for transport and release in a suitable area. Then there was the matter of finding such a place—a large chunk of reasonably wolf-friendly terrain far enough from Juneau (not to mention other communities) to minimize the odds of his return to the same habits somewhere else. Even in a landscape as immense and thinly populated as Southeast Alaska, they had fewer available options than you’d suppose. Given the ability of any wolf to cover serious ground, and many wolves’ documented homing tendencies when moved, a hundred miles might not be enough. But even a Southeast wolf will rarely swim two miles of open water; so the far side of Lynn Canal from Juneau came to mind, or south on the mainland—the farther, and across as many fjords as possible, the better.

  Also on the short list was somewhere in the remote, mountainous country north and west of Haines, along the Canadian border. In the same area, up the Chilkat valley, lay a secluded wildlife viewing park owned and operated by my friend Steve Kroschel. (Incidentally, Steve’s captive animals have appeared in many television features and films, including National Geographic specials and the well-regarded Disney classic Never Cry Wolf.) Kroschel was approached by Fish and Game to ask if he’d be willing to serve as temporary host. Veterinarian Nene Wolfe, the same woman who encountered that little black female near Amalga, also later confirmed that she’d been asked by the department if she would agree to monitor a quarantined wolf. Both inquiries were hypothetical, in that they were never followed up by an actual request. All communications and meetings were conducted inside the department, without notice or fanfare. While Fish and Game wasn’t being willfully covert, neither was it attempting to include the public in its planning, for completely understandable reasons. Factors for keeping the location of a potential live trap area secret included promoting the safety of the public and wildlife; protecting the privacy of those who had lodged the complaint; and reducing the chances of vigilante meddling.

  But as the biologists debated their course of action, the Amalga wolf, whether Romeo or not, rendered the point moot by turning sporadic and unpredictable in his Out The Road appearances—so much so that Fish and Game abandoned the notion of live trapping and, with it, any final decision on where they might move him.

  Harry Robinson, however, offers a different version of Fish and Game’s deliberations. On the basis of inside information he claimed was leaked to him, he pronounced emphatically, “[Fish and Game] absolutely had made up its mind to relocate Romeo. It was a done deal, and they were proceeding forward.” He approached Juneau Alpine Club founder and respected outdoorsman Kim Turley—the same guy who had been mesmerized by the wolf following him and his wife on that morning run the winter before—to form Friends of Romeo, a group without meetings, dues, elections, bylaws, or formal roster
. Word was spread by mouth, posted bulletins, and an email list. Anyone, anywhere who felt a bond to the wolf was included, just by saying so. The group’s primary goal was to forge broad-based public advocacy for the wolf, aimed primarily at Fish and Game, the agency that held the power to determine his fate. Though it was all a fine idea in principle, and of course I shared the general sentiment, I kept my distance, wary of having my name pinned to statements that weren’t mine. Instead, I called Neil Barten on my own, who assured me that there was no specific plan to trap Romeo near the glacier. He omitted telling me of the discarded plan for whatever wolf was raising complaints from Out The Road—not out of deception, but because I failed to ask that direct question.

  Three Friends of Romeo bulletins were broadcast by email, public posting, and limited door-to-door distribution in the winter of 2008. The first, dated January 7, stated, “Reliable sources have revealed that the ADF&G has decided to dart and relocate him far from Juneau,” and also stated, “The current plan calls for . . . relocation in the spring, when the ice (and the viewing public) have left the Mendenhall area.” The second, dated February 1, escalated the call to arms with the headline ROMEO’S LIFE IS IN DANGER and contained bold-print phrases such as “a death sentence for Romeo.” One key part read, “Alaskan wolf relocation studies show that wolves have less than a 10% chance of surviving a relocation. ADF&G of course knows this, so for all practical purposes they intend to kill Romeo.” To be sure, this was an alarming statement. But when I delved into the matter, I could find no Alaska research data on wolf relocation survival rates. Several lower-48 studies suggest varying rates of survival for translocated wolves, ranging from nearly identical to resident control groups to significantly greater mortality. Wolves were indeed successfully darted and moved from the Fortymile area in east-central Alaska to the Kenai Peninsula during the mid-1990s, though that success was qualified by those aforementioned deaths of several wolves during transport. Still, examination of published research and personal communication with experienced research biologists suggest an overall survival percentage far higher than 10 percent. For a snapshot of the high end, consider the incredibly successful reintroduction of wolves into Montana’s Yellowstone National Park two decades ago, where relocated wolves that had obviously been unharmed by tranquilizing and transport flourished and multiplied. Nonetheless, relocation under less than ideal circumstances must often present added, sometimes insurmountable, risks.

  Both Friends of Romeo bulletins supported the case for urgency; unequivocally refuted Romeo’s involvement in any of the Amalga incidents or any other wrongdoing (in fact, flatly claimed that Romeo never had been known to visit the Amalga area); characterized Fish and Game as “misinformed”; implicated unnamed department employees recently arrived from California as a major source of the complaints; and called for supporters of the black wolf to raise their voices in his defense, with contact information included for Barten, Larsen, and then state senator Kim Elton. As a result of this campaign, the department received dozens of emails and other contacts from Romeo supporters, both in Juneau and from around the world.

  Neil Barten, who had several phone conversations and email exchanges with Harry and met with him in what he hoped was an air-clearing exchange before the second bulletin came out, offered this perspective, several years later: “I was pretty disenchanted with [Friends of Romeo] at that time. . . . I would have to say that some of their concerns were not reasonable or well founded, and much of their information was not reliable. . . . I felt that the group was trying to vilify the department in spite of our best efforts to be honest and open with them.” He, like Larsen and Scott, confirmed to me years later that Fish and Game indeed had plans to relocate whatever wolf they might be able to trap near Amalga—an animal Friends of Romeo insisted couldn’t possibly be their black wolf, even as their bulletins leaked between-the-lines concern that indeed it might be.

  As for darting and removing the wolf from the vicinity of Mendenhall Lake (where its identity would be virtually certain, and witnesses to a capture would be quite possible, even likely), Doug Larsen told me in a retrospective, 2012 interview, “We never went there. Given the circumstances, we didn’t think that was anywhere close to appropriate; . . . there were too many negatives to even consider it as an option. However, if we had decided to do something, we’d have owned it.” He continued, “We as a department recognized the uniqueness of the situation. . . . It was a pretty remarkable period of time for this community.” As a final thought, he added, “There was never any indication that the wolf was being aggressive around people. That would have been an entirely different deal.” Larsen didn’t need to spell out the swift and probably lethal action that “deal” would have entailed.

  Harry, years later, hasn’t budged from his allegations. He insists that the decision to specifically capture and move not just any black wolf, but Romeo—whether near Amalga or at Mendenhall Lake—had been set into motion, and that the Friends of Romeo bulletins, and the wave of public reaction they generated, stopped Fish and Game in midstep. In measured counterpoint, Area Biologist Ryan Scott responds, “As with any wildlife management decisions I am accountable to the public. . . . Management of the black wolf was not any different. All the decisions I made regarding the wolf were going to be critiqued and had to be founded in sound wildlife management principles and department policies for addressing public and wildlife safety concerns. The public involvement did not influence my management decisions per se, but it did ensure that any action was well thought out and defensible.”

  Whether Harry’s version of Fish and Game’s intentions was entirely accurate or a reaction to a contingency plan, and whether the resulting pressure swayed the department, the overall effect of the Friends of Romeo bulletin barrage could only have weighed in the black wolf’s favor, and so it did. A second face-to-face meeting in February between Barten and Scott and a Friends of Romeo representative—mild-mannered cofounder Kim Turley—smoothed over the imbroglio. The third and last Friends of Romeo bulletin, dated February 28, struck a positive, collaborative, even conciliatory tone. Besides thanking everyone who’d expressed interest, it noted that the department had suspended any plans for relocating the wolf, and that Fish and Game had gone on record as being “open and eager” for public input and, furthermore, agreed to inform Friends of Romeo ahead of any future action. Notably, half of the text was dedicated to encouraging safe wildlife viewing practices around Romeo: maintaining appropriate viewing distances, controlling dogs and children, refraining from feeding, and so on. The issue of removing the wolf, at any location, would never come to the fore again, though Fish and Game could say that was more due to the wolf’s actions and a lowered complaint level than anything else. No matter; it was a win-win deal. One more storm had passed, and the black wolf remained.

  Harry continued in his self-appointed role as companion and guardian of the wolf he called his friend—less visible than the year before, but present as ever, accompanying Romeo on his rounds, several hours a day, often before dawn or after dark, regardless of weather. Their bond continued, closer than ever; they sometimes brushed against each other without thought. In public, he continued to set an example by walking Brittain on a leash and going out of his way to intercede in awkward or potentially dangerous situations on Romeo’s behalf—sometimes facing down people who turned hostile. As a worst-case example, there was the man who made a regular practice of driving to the end of Skater’s Cabin Road in his pickup truck at dusk, luring the wolf into the parking lot with his black Lab, then driving up the road slowly with his dog barking hysterically in the truck bed, and the wolf running along behind, sometimes just an arm’s length from the rear wheels. I witnessed this bizarre rite twice, though the first time I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, and the second, I wasn’t in a position to even get a license plate number. Harry finally did manage to confront the man, who immediately squared off, chest to chest, enraged that any busybody smartass should interfere with w
hat he called his “fun.” Harry didn’t back down, and the guy, though still defiant, thought twice about taking the first swing and stormed off. Several other people with reactive dogs continued to push their luck with the wolf on a regular basis. Harry, I, and others each did our best to steer them away, with varying success; a few folks didn’t seem to get what was at stake or just didn’t care. Forest Service law enforcement officer Dave Zuniga continued to exert his presence and hand out occasional tickets during heavy traffic hours out on the lake, with noticeable, positive effect. In a subplot with comic overtones, Harry relates that several times, Zuniga also trailed him, Brittain, and Romeo in vain, hoping to witness a violation; but the portly officer, huffing along, was unable to keep up with Harry’s long uphill stride.

  Almost everyone seemed to be finding a balance that worked, wolf included. Maybe Romeo would make it to old age, after all. But for all the never-ending danger humans posed, one of the wolf’s greatest threats lay just ahead—not from us, not from the land, but from his own kind.

  On a mild April morning in spring 2009, I leaned against my ski poles, as if they might support a sinking heart. I and a half-dozen others stood, transfixed, as howls echoed off the flank of Mount McGinnis—not Romeo’s familiar, stately cadence, but the eerie, dissonant chorus of a pack in full cry, and less than a half mile away. I counted between four and six wolves, their intertwined voices rising and falling, filling the air, each individual modulating to avoid a note held by another. Small chance of coincidence that they’d chosen to announce their presence from an area where the open-timbered, steep-sided knolls on the southwestern shoulder of McGinnis form a natural amphitheater, one of Romeo’s favored howling platforms. They surely must have encountered his carefully maintained scent posts, tracks, and trails and heard his own calls—all the signals wolves use to define territorial boundaries and reduce conflict. The newcomers weren’t just slipping through an overlapping claim in the course of their travels. Their sudden, brazen arrival, down from the high country into the heart of the area Romeo had long claimed, amounted to a military invasion. Hopelessly outnumbered, the black wolf didn’t have much of a chance if their intent was deadly; and considering the high rate of mortality caused by interpack strife—up to a third of all wolf deaths in some areas—that motive seemed more than likely. He might have been gone already, the pack celebrating over his torn remains.