by Helen Thayer
At dinnertime, while Bill took inventory of our food and fuel supplies and Charlie napped, I cooked rice and furtively added finely chopped lichen, along with freeze-dried peas I hoped would disguise my secret. “Boy, this tastes good,” Bill said. “It’s got a sort of slight musky taste.”
I laughed.
“Lichen! You sneaked it in!” he said, laughing at my audacity. “I should have known you wouldn’t give up.”
After years of expeditions together, Bill and I knew each other well. Our different personalities allowed us to think and act separately but also work as a team when necessary. We quickly learned that fussing over small things was a waste of time and energy. Bill’s quiet nature and my chattiness blended well. My habit of getting things done yesterday was tempered over the years by Bill’s more realistic attitude that sometimes tomorrow will do just fine.
We had met in New Zealand in 1959, three weeks after Bill’s company sent him there from his home country, the United States, to fly a helicopter in New Zealand’s agriculture industry. I was impressed by his straightforward, honest approach to life. We immediately became good friends and discovered many similar interests. Our relationship culminated in a church wedding in July 1961, complete with a long white bridal gown I designed and made myself. (At that time I had my own business designing bridal and formal wear.)
That August we left New Zealand, when Bill was assigned to fly for the next four years in Guatemala and Honduras. While there, we lived in jungle compounds guarded twenty-four hours a day to keep marauding antigovernment rebels at bay, an experience that prepared us somewhat for our later expeditions to remote, little traveled, sometimes dangerous places in the world. In Central America we quickly became a balanced team, which has served us well over the years.
That night the rain sputtering against our tent reminded us of storms at home in the rugged and dramatic North Cascades. Thunder echoed from far away, and clouds swept across the mountains. The nearby stream rose a foot as it gurgled and swirled. As we drifted off to sleep to the comforting sounds of the rain, we looked forward to spending time with Margaret in a few weeks, when we would be meeting her to replenish our dwindling provisions. Only a quarter of the way through the summer portion of our expedition, we already had so many stories to tell.
Invasion
WITH THE ARRIVAL OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE on June 21, the sun turned up its heat to 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Hunting hours shifted to early morning, late evening, or night. The wolves visited the stream more frequently. They lay on their stomachs on the gravel bars, front legs stretched out before them, lapping water as they cooled their bodies. They emerged with huge shakes of their coats, rolling in the moss and coarse grass. Although Charlie detested water, he splashed in his own nearby sector of the stream, sometimes at the same time as the wolves, as if to share the activity.
As we watched Charlie enter the stream, we could see that he wanted to copy the wolves to gain acceptance, although he had a definite fear of water. I had first discovered this when we walked together to the magnetic North Pole. He displayed excessive caution when crossing any area of broken ice where water was visible. His intelligence told him that to fall in could mean death. Whenever we crossed a rushing stream a few feet deep in the Cascade Range, we always had to look for a crossing with a fallen log that Charlie could walk across.
Sometimes hunting wolves returned with their muzzles and parts of their fur covered in the prey’s blood. This was often an occasion for a bath, wolf style. They flopped down in the shallow water of the stream and let the stains flow from their coats, paws, and muzzles. Then came the customary shaking and rolling in the grass to dry their fur.
A wolf’s splendid coat has two layers. Dense underfur lies next to the skin, while another top layer of coarse, long, dark-tipped guard hairs sheds water and keeps the underfur dry. With the arrival of spring temperatures, much of the undercoat is shed. The most luxurious portion lies across the shoulders, where the guard hairs are the longest. A wolf’s legs are covered with short, thinner hair. Charlie’s coat closely resembled a wolf’s; in the winter it grew so dense we could hardly work our fingers down to his skin. Long black guard hairs covered his back and shoulders.
One breezy, mosquito-free afternoon, after the wolves had consumed the sheep of the previous night’s hunt, the usual air of contentment settled over the pack. They lay about sleeping among the rocks and trees, or just lounging in hollows they had dug in the soft dirt. One might change position now and then, or rise to dig a little more to increase the comfort of the bed. Charlie was fast asleep in his mossy spot, his only sign of life an occasional twitch of a leg.
The prevailing languor was contagious. We spread out our mats for a relaxed afternoon. But soon Bill nudged me awake to watch Klondike cautiously sneaking up on Denali, who was dead to the world. When only three feet from him, Klondike turned her back and dug dirt that hurtled through the air to whack Denali in the head. Denali instantly leaped to his feet with an indignant yelp. He struggled to focus his sleepy eyes on his tormentor, who, now that she had achieved the desired reaction, raced up the ridge. He sprinted and caught her. They were instantly entangled in a wrestling embrace. With growls and yelps, they rolled together all the way to the bottom of the ridge, landing close to the den entrance. Once there, they calmly stood, shook themselves clean, and strolled back to their respective beds to resume their lazy afternoon. It had all been just another game.
In the meantime a few heads rose to check out the ruckus, but none of the wolves had the energy or interest to join in. Peace continued to reign until early evening, when the pack woke up. Denali and Beta, after a short howling duet, climbed the ridge to watch for prey. The rest played games, chewed a few bones, and waited for the next hunt.
One afternoon Yukon and Klondike investigated a weatherbeaten log in the creek. They played chase around it until Yukon climbed on top. Klondike saw her chance. She pushed with her nose while Yukon frantically tried to keep her balance. Just when Yukon was about to fall off, play suddenly stopped. Klondike spied a small fish. She leaped up beside Yukon and dipped her paw into the water, but the fish was in no danger, even when the two wolves jumped into the stream and chased it.
Klondike quickly gave up the chase and flopped down to amuse herself by snapping at the ripples that flowed past. Not to be outdone, Yukon jumped from the bank onto Klondike’s back and, with a victorious growl, grabbed her fur ruff. The game quickly turned serious, erupting into a full-scale fight. Denali charged into the water, grabbed Klondike by the scruff of her neck, and flipped her onto the bank. Then he grabbed Yukon’s ruff, dragged her out of the water, and stood over the two, snarling with bared teeth.
The teenagers collapsed onto their backs, exposing their bellies and whimpering. In a few minutes Denali left them. With tails tucked under their bodies, the two thoroughly subdued teens slunk away to a dugout to lick themselves dry. An hour later, all was forgotten and play resumed.
We observed a similar drama many times. Squabbles between the youngsters weren’t tolerated by the adults, who always jumped into the fray and disciplined the offenders. But animosity never prevailed for long; quarrels were quickly forgotten.
Occasionally members of the wolf family lay close to the scent-marked boundary to watch us. Their abundant curiosity and observance of detail was a marvel. When Bill and I were the subject of their attention, it was impossible to ignore their piercing stares, which seemed to strip away all human pretense and lay bare our souls. Sometimes they observed us with heads resting on front paws, while at other times they sat alert, with heads raised, so as not to miss a single move.
Mostly, though, they ignored Bill and me, instead studying Charlie, but with a different expression—not the curious stare Bill and I rated, but a soft look that spoke of friendship, even fondness. At times a wolf communicated with Charlie by low yips and whines. Charlie responded with similar sounds, his tail fanning gently back and forth. He often sat closer to the boundary to
eye his neighbors thoughtfully. A peaceful understanding had developed between them.
Out of respect for the scent-marked boundary, we avoided stepping over it. Whenever we left camp, we crossed the boundary opposite the den. The wolves appeared to respect Charlie’s sector, at least when we were close by. We put our belongings inside with the door zipped shut when we were gone, just in case. But the wolves’ restless curiosity and the temptation to explore our campsite ultimately proved too difficult for them to resist.
One day, to verify our suspicion that the wolves were inspecting our area in our absence, we trekked away from the den by our usual route. Once out of sight in the trees, we hurried through a low notch that led us to the back of the ridge, then climbed to the crest in a breeze that allowed us to remain downwind. After a thirty-minute wait, Alpha and Beta hesitantly walked halfway to the tent, stopped to reassure themselves that we were out of sight, then slowly approached and sniffed all around the doorway. Mother, with Denali, Omega, and the two teenagers following single file, joined Alpha and Beta, stopping now and then to look back to where we had disappeared. Their cautious posture clearly showed that they knew they were trespassing in Charlie’s territory.
Just as the group became fully engrossed in a sniffing inspection of the tent, we rushed down the ridge, yelling at the top of our lungs and loudly beating a saucepan with a metal spoon that we had carried just in case our suspicions proved correct. Charlie, in the lead, voiced his indignation with angry barks and teeth-baring snaps and snarls directed at the invaders. Led by Alpha, the pack fled.
As he growled and barked his disgust, Charlie renewed his scent. The wolves seemed embarassed. Even when he faced the wolves and directly barked at them, they refused to face him and looked away, pretending to be occupied with some distant object while Mother disappeared into the refuge of the den, where she still kept the pups out of sight.
If they chose, the wolves could have shredded the tent and all our belongings in minutes. But our staged departure, intended to show them that they were not safe just because they couldn’t see us, seemed to have the desired effect. Alpha lost his proud pose under Charlie’s indignant protests and climbed the den ridge. With his back to us, he appeared to scan the horizon for prey, but his embarrassment was evident as he peeked over his shoulder now and then at Charlie. It was an hour before he returned to rejoin his family as if nothing had occurred. From then on, although we always left some small object outside the tent as a test whenever we left camp, the wolves seldom disturbed it.
In spite of their enduring curiosity, the wolves’ high level of intelligence and strict code of social behavior reduced their temptation to invade Charlie’s territory or to attack our tent when we were out of sight. The hierarchical structure of a pack lends the group cohesion as well as discipline. One of the many ways a wild wolf pack differs from a captive one is that in order to survive, a wild pack must respect their neighbors’ hunting territory. Charlie’s claimed area was apparently regarded the same way as a neighboring pack’s home ground would be.
At the end of June, after nine weeks at the den, we erected the antenna and radioed Margaret at 6 P.M., the time she always listened in case we called. “We’re ready for our resupply,” I told her through the static.
“I’ll meet you in three days,” she replied.
On resupply day we rose at 4 A.M. and filled light packs with essential overnight gear and our camp garbage. To lighten our loads, we carried bivvy sacks instead of the tent and left our sleeping bags behind. Instead we elected to sleep in our clothes in the breathable nylon body-length green sacks. With our extra equipment inside the tent, we zipped the door, hoping the wolves would leave everything alone. Although concerned about the safety of our sleeping bags, we risked leaving them, knowing we would return with two spares.
Bill had his doubts about the wisdom of our plan. “I don’t trust them,” he said, casting a sideways look toward the wolves’ den. But my optimistic nature carried the day.
We left camp at 5 A.M., as Alpha and Mother watched closely. We had gone only two hundred feet when Charlie suddenly sat down, faced the den, and howled. All the wolves hurried to join Alpha and Mother while Alpha returned Charlie’s howl. The drawn-out, mournful notes filled the meadow with sadness.
To convince Charlie that we would return, we went back to the tent and showed him that our belongings were still inside. But he was adamant. He leaned against the fabric as if to seek its security, and no amount of food bribes would persuade him to leave.
“I never expected him to bond this closely to the wolves,” I said. “What should we do? We can’t leave him here, alone with the wolves, while we go for the resupply.”
With the pack still watching, I stroked Charlie’s head and assured him over and over that we would return in a few days. But he only nudged the tent door, telling us he wanted inside. Bill unzipped the door, and Charlie immediately curled up in his favorite spot, across my sleeping bag. I lay alongside him, quietly explaining why he should leave with us. After another hour, he sat up. When I gently tugged at his leash, he consented to follow us, but after a few feet he turned to face Alpha, who was standing in front of his family and whining softly. Charlie replied with a few yips, then turned to accompany me with his head and tail down.
When Yukon climbs on top of the log, Klondike sees her chance to send her sister off balance.
Suddenly, at the sound of splashing, we turned to see Denali and Beta crossing the stream. They trotted along a thin trail through scattered willows to parallel our course, only two hundred feet away as we hiked down the valley. Once the two wolves set out with us, Charlie stepped in front of Bill and me and strode ahead, tail held high, with a happy, confident spring to his step. He had resumed his role as our leader.
“There must have been some sort of conversation,” Bill said as we followed Charlie.
“I’d love to be a wolf for a day, just to figure out what the wolves and Charlie tell each other,” I said.
As we trekked toward our meeting place with Margaret, we speculated about Charlie’s reluctance to leave. We wondered what would happen in the fall, when we were set to return to our home in the Cascades before beginning our winter journey. Charlie clearly wanted to be with his wolf friends, but although he had tried to prevent us from leaving, he was so completely bonded to Bill and me that he would never have stayed without us. And we would never have left him in the wilderness. Our bond was permanent and inseparable.
We caught fleeting glimpses of the two wolves as they traveled with us down the much shorter route to the Dempster Highway. Although the journey was easier than our route in, and involved no bushwhacking, it still took three eighteen-hour days to reach Margaret, who had parked the truck in an abandoned quarry close to the roadside.
She was disappointed to learn that Charlie’s eagerness to return would preclude our camping with her for a few days, as we had originally planned. But she understood Charlie’s need to return to the den and our anxiety over the safety of our tent.
Sitting on the tailgate, enjoying enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes away, we lunched on peanut butter sandwiches, Charlie’s favorite. We regaled Margaret with tales of the wolf family and our many adventures. Denali and Beta were close by but invisible in the surrounding undergrowth.
When we told Margaret of the aerial hunters, she said she had seen the same green plane landing several times at Fort McPherson. “There was a pilot and two American passengers,” she told us. “The locals told me the trio hunted wolves and sometimes bear from the air.”
While Margaret drove back to Fort McPherson, we trekked with heavy packs up a valley and took another, quicker route we had noticed on our downward journey. We traversed a narrow ravine that cut through a ridge and skirted an enchanting beaver pond, with water gently lapping at its edges, where three adult beavers and two kits watched us cautiously. As we left the pond, we disturbed a moose and calf, who after a startled look splashed away across a bog an
d disappeared into the willows. The new route led us directly to the den area.
Meanwhile, Denali and Beta continued to parallel our course. As we crested a low pass, I remarked that the wolves must know every square inch of the region and probably wondered on the way down why we were taking the long way. An exuberant Charlie led us at a brisk pace. Even with heavy loads, we took only two days to return due to the much shorter distance and Charlie’s energetic pace, fueled by his desire to return to his friends.
Along the way on the edge of a boggy area, we saw a large patch of cotton grass, its white fluffy heads on foot-long stalks in full bloom. Although Charlie bounced with impatience and tugged at his leash when we stopped to pick the delicious roots, we insisted on gathering enough to make a small meal.
An hour from the den, howls of welcome greeted us. In unison, Denali, Beta, and Charlie called back, the tuneful acknowledgment linking the wolf family and our little group. A half mile from the den, Alpha suddenly appeared. With a certain proud majesty to his stride, he led us all home as Denali and Beta followed close on his heels. Charlie, his tail fanning his delight, pulled on his leash, urging us to hurry.
At the den, Mother, the teenagers, and Omega greeted the traveling pack mates and Charlie with tail wagging and yips of pleasure.
But all was not well with our camp. A foot-high hole in one side of the tent, through which a sleeping bag had been dragged into the meadow, was the most obvious damage. The bag had been ripped apart, scattering feathers in all directions. A large hunk lay in a feathery heap just outside the den entrance.
The culprits appeared unconcerned. Once again showing respect for the boundary line, now that we had returned, they were perfectly well mannered, with an air of utter innocence.
We opened the tent door to confront a disaster. Everything lay in a crumpled mess. Charlie, who had already renewed his scent marks, sniffed all around and inside the tent. While we began the task of sorting through the jumbled items, he sat facing the den. In indignant tones, he loudly voiced his protest with hard-edged barks followed by a stern stare-down. The wolves showed no reaction, but we were sure they understood the message.
