Three Among the Wolves: A Couple and Their Dog Live a Year With Wolves in the Wild

by Helen Thayer

  Considering the rough treatment our neighbors had bestowed upon our belongings and the fact that wolf jaws can crack large moose bones with ease, we were thankful that our gear had survived the ordeal at all. We replaced the ruined sleeping bag with a new one. We could live with the deep teeth marks on the saucepan handle, we quickly decided, and we wouldn’t miss the chewed-off corners on the sleeping pads.

  The rest of the damage was relatively minor. Three pairs of socks were shredded well beyond further use, and a shirt missed its collar, buttons, and one sleeve. Powerful jaws had crunched a spare compass and two spoons. A pair of sneakers had been reduced to small pieces of fabric, each no larger than a dime. We added a water bottle with the bottom gnawed off to the pile of items committed to the garbage sack. Although we tried to mend the tent as best we could, we finally gave up and unpacked the spare.

  My naive notion that the wolves would leave our belongings alone in our absence had certainly been dispelled. Bill was kind enough not to point out how wrong I had been.

  After three hours, we had once more returned everything to reasonable order. It took Charlie more time to recover from his indignation. But later he relaxed and appeared to have forgiven the trespassers, as seemed to be the rule here no matter what the disagreement. Neither Charlie nor the wolves harbored grudges.

  As the shadows deepened and the sun disappeared beyond the mountains, we cooked a dinner of rice with our precious diced cotton grass roots sprinkled on top. We followed up with hot chocolate and half an apple pie. Margaret had somehow persuaded a local Gwich’in woman of legendary baking fame to make it for us.

  It felt good to be back among the wolves.

  Escape

  AS THE EARLY-MORNING DEW covered Wolf Camp One in a damp blanket, Alpha departed alone, presumably to scent-mark the ridges to the south. An hour later, while Bill was returning from the stream with the clean breakfast dishes, I shook the sleeping bags and spread them over the tent to air.

  Suddenly Charlie rose from resting alongside the tent and strained to get as close to the den as his leash would allow. Denali and Beta looked apprehensive too. All three animals gazed intently at a far-off crest to the south. A breeze drifted toward us.

  “Are they catching the scent of prey?” Bill wondered aloud.

  “Maybe,” I answered, “but why are they so anxious?”

  Then we heard two short, high-pitched barks. Denali and Omega bolted toward the sound, while the rest of the pack spun to face south. In minutes, an agitated Beta returned and nudged Mother’s shoulder as he ushered her into the den. Omega and the teenagers guarded the entrance, watching the ridge. Charlie voiced a warning growl.

  “Must be danger close by,” Bill said.

  Alpha and Denali, shoulder to shoulder, streaked toward the den. Panting, the two disappeared, along with all the other wolves, into the safety of the dugouts or behind boulders.

  Charlie, for his part, hid behind a boulder beside the tent and softly barked an alarm. Then we realized: Hunters! We ran to the tent, jerked the aluminum poles out to collapse it, then pulled it and its contents behind Charlie’s boulder, crouching there with him.

  A long half hour later, he slowly relaxed. The wolves reappeared. Although still vigilant, they seemed less fearful. Alpha and Denali trotted to the ridge but returned in an hour, and the others resumed normal activities.

  We re-erected the tent, behind the boulder this time. To ease our concern we hiked to the ridge with Charlie, hoping to detect the cause of the panic. To avoid being seen in case hunters remained in the area, we approached the ridge from the east, scrambling and climbing to the top. Sure that Alpha had detected hunters on his scent-marking tour, we scanned the southern heights with binoculars. A troubled Charlie stared and growled at something far away. At first our human eyes couldn’t reach across the distance. Then, just as we were about to give up, we saw two tiny figures on the tundra heading away, the faint outline of rifles slung across their backs.

  “I wonder how close they were,” Bill said.

  “We didn’t hear a shot. Perhaps they never saw Alpha,” I replied, looking around at the incredibly rough terrain, which could easily conceal a cautious wolf. The men disappeared. Charlie stopped growling.

  “Let’s see if we can find more signs of hunters,” I said as I put the binoculars back in their case.

  We swung east around a brutally rugged ridge to follow a shallow valley until it abruptly ended at a sheer wall of loose, gray rock. Two miles from camp, we climbed yet another ridge and found numerous cigarette butts scattered among the footprints of heavy-soled boots. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground. The hunters had obviously scouted from the ridge for some time. Looking back over the mountainous landscape between us and the den, we could see why Alpha had most likely been invisible to the hunters.

  A chilling wind picked up as we headed back. Storm clouds billowed from the northern horizon. We scrambled as fast as the mountains allowed to avoid being caught in a storm in such hazardous footing.

  Three hours later, as the light faded before the approaching storm, we reached camp in time to see Yukon, who had claimed ownership of a golf ball–size rock, being chased by Klondike, who was determined to steal it for herself. Alpha greeted Charlie with a few yips and wagged his tail, while Charlie replied in kind. Ignoring the weather, everyone relaxed. The danger of hunters had passed, and normal life had resumed. Charlie wandered over to the stream for a long drink, then climbed into the tent to sleep.

  After checking that all the tent guy lines were secure, Bill and I joined Charlie inside to escape the wind. Dark clouds dipped low over the mountains. Soon torrential rain forced us to zip the door. The wolves quickly forgot their games and found shelter.

  Troubled by the idea that hunters, although separated from the den by several craggy ridges, had been actively searching for our wolf friends, Bill and I discussed the day’s events as Charlie slept with his head on my lap. We were awed that Charlie and the wolves knew something was wrong even before Alpha sounded the alarm. It had been a clear demonstration of these animals’ ability to sense each other’s emotions, even when out of sight of each other.

  When Beta had shoved Mother into the den and Omega and the teens stood guard at the entrance, it showed us that the wolves were still committed to defending their pups against other human intruders. Even though we had lived close to the family for several weeks, the wolves still had a healthy fear of humans, and when threatened by hunters, they had sought to protect themselves. Because of the alarm the hunters had caused the wolves, we wondered if Mother might delay bringing the pups out of the den. We hoped not. Every time we returned to camp we looked to see if she had perhaps brought them out in our absence.

  To the sound of rain and wind, we cooked dinner and slid into our sleeping bags, intent on staying warm while we caught up on our journal notes. But first we had to look for Bill’s reading glasses. Such things as gloves, socks, and eyeglasses disappear into the jumbled void of a tent’s contents with exasperating frequency, we have found. Even though Bill testily claimed that they had to be in the tent’s side pocket, just where he put them, the pocket was empty.

  After going through just about everything, I triumphantly found the glasses—squashed but still usable—beneath Charlie, who had watched us placidly during the search but never moved a muscle. Only as a last desperate measure had I slid my hand beneath his heavy body. “Charlie, you knew they were there all the time!” Bill exclaimed.

  While Charlie did not reply to Bill, at least not in this particular instance, he frequently expressed himself to the wolves with howls, yips, and tail wagging. When an energetic activity was in progress near the den, Charlie usually became an interested bystander. But after his first try, with the teens, met with no invitation, he never again attempted to join the activities. Instead he often initiated his own game of chase with Bill and me, just as he often did at home, as if to show the pack, which always stopped to watch.

 
Whenever he indicated to us that it was time for a game, we let him off his leash to allow him room to maneuver. He would race away then turn to head straight at us, dodging at the last moment, racing around the tent and heading for us again, barely avoiding our outstretched hands. It was impossible to catch him. Sometimes Bill tried to outwit Charlie by diving headfirst to cut him off, but it was my husband who always ended up sprawled on the ground, with Charlie making another daring pass.

  Cautious Mother watches us with suspicion and keeps her pups hidden.

  The wolves’ response was one of intense curiosity as they gathered to watch the spectacle. Once Charlie discovered he had an attentive audience, he was spurred to new heights of ambush. He hid behind the boulder beside our tent, and when we pretended we didn’t know he was there and walked by, he leaped out, racing past us at full throttle. When exhaustion ended the game, we clipped Charlie’s leash back on. He usually got a drink of water and then slept hard, just as the wolves did following a strenuous game.

  At times Charlie made it clear that he wanted to be free of his leash. But he generally accepted it, as if he understood that we could not allow him to roam freely among the wolves. In our adventure, his safety came above all else.

  One day, though, we were tempted to take the risk. The three of us were hiking through a secluded valley of willow and spruce a little west of the den, scouting the slopes above for Dall sheep. It was midafternoon, and after seeing a group of eight sheep and lambs who looked down at us with only mild interest, we were about to return to camp when Charlie barked to be let off his leash. We guessed that he wanted closer contact with the sheep.

  At first I was adamant that we not break our rule of keeping him secured to the leash at all times, except when playing with us in camp. But as his pleading intensified and the sheep wandered out of sight, I began to consider letting him off just this once, thinking he would lead us back to camp. He wouldn’t chase after the sheep now that he couldn’t see them, I reasoned.

  Bill agreed, sure that Charlie would stay close to us. But the moment he was free, he ran partway up the slope and at full speed followed the rocky trail the sheep had taken. He was soon out of sight in spite of our calls.

  We stumbled across the uneven ground and up the slope to the narrow trail, hurrying as fast as the terrain allowed, which was nowhere near the speed at which Charlie had traveled. By now we were yelling at the top of our lungs, frantically trying to persuade him to return. We rounded a turn in the trail just in time to see him disappear as he chased the sheep over the next ridge. We quickly crested the ridge, but there was no sign of Charlie or the sheep.

  We were distraught. We climbed down into the next valley, unsure which direction Charlie had taken. An hour went by with no sign of him. With tears streaming down my face, I followed Bill until he finally stopped and turned to face me. “We’re never going to find him in such a rugged wilderness,” he said.

  But we kept calling him anyway, with voices that were almost hoarse, and talked about where to turn next. I was reluctant to return to the den, but Bill argued that Charlie knew where the den was, and unless he ran into trouble with strange wolves, he would return. We sadly turned back. Bill put his arm around my shoulders, trying to convince me that Charlie was okay. But his words sounded hollow, and I was inconsolable.

  As we walked back, we kept calling. In an hour we reached the outskirts of the den area, at which point we became quiet lest our uncustomary loud voices disturb the wolves, who were lounging around the den. I was so upset that I hardly glanced at the teens and Beta, who lay close to Charlie’s scent-marked boundary. Bill was glum and silent.

  Suddenly a large black form crested the ridge above us and there was Charlie, calmly trotting downward to meet us with no sign of fatigue. We rushed him. I hugged him tight while Bill stroked his back. We were so giddy with relief we couldn’t be angry. I cried tears of joy. Then Charlie calmly led us back to the tent and set about the serious business of licking his paws clean, while Bill clicked his leash firmly in place.

  Although his calm return reminded us that Charlie was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, we knew we had broken an important wilderness rule. Many times, as we hiked in the Cascade Range, we had encountered hikers frantically searching for a lost dog. Often, in spite of trail rules that require dogs to remain on leashes, an owner releases a pet with the misguided notion that the animal will be happier. Many such animals, attracted by a wild scent, leave the trail and are never found; they fall victim to coyotes roaming the mountains. Now we understood the panic of those pet owners.

  In relief, we sat outside the tent, sharing peanuts and allowing our nerves to settle, while Charlie begged for food until we filled his bowl. We wondered just how far had he chased the sheep and whether he had heard us calling him. But all that really mattered was that he was with us again.

  Pups

  CLEAR SKY THE NEXT MORNING heralded a glorious sunny day. All the wolves except Mother left to hunt. When they returned three hours later, Alpha carried the leg of an adult moose. Denali and Omega followed, each dragging portions that were so heavy they had to straddle the precious meat with their front legs. The teenagers followed, accompanied by Beta, the wise old wolf, who appeared to urge the young ones on as they struggled with bulky loads. Beta carried nothing. We assumed his job was to supervise the teenagers, who hunted with increasing frequency as the summer progressed.

  The moose carcass was a bloody, grisly sight. Most of the skin had been torn off, and the head was missing. The hunters’ bellies were distended with food they had eaten at the kill site. Once at the den, Alpha left his load for Mother, and the rest left theirs in the shade. After Mother ate her fill and drank from the stream, she returned to the den while the rest of the pack relaxed and slept. Three hours later they all rose and gorged themselves again.

  Around midnight, Denali and Alpha trotted away. They returned around 2 A.M. with an uneaten hare and a partly devoured beaver, which they left close to the den entrance. Mother came out and sat down alone to enjoy the bounty at her door. Apparently unable to eat much more, she left most of the beaver for the two teenagers, whose hostility as they competed for the food was at first subtle, then more serious as the beaver disappeared. They snarled at each other while gulping the last pieces. Part of the beaver’s furry skin served in a tug-of-war game the next day.

  Now we knew that the wolves sometimes caught beavers. The sight of the limp beaver’s body saddened us. We hoped it was not from the marsh we had visited.

  We awoke early the next morning to the sound of snarling and crunching. The pack, including Mother, was devouring the rest of the moose. Omega darted back and forth, snatching meat whenever the opportunity presented itself. He appeared to have perfected the art of stealth. Sometimes a neighbor growled into his face as he grabbed a piece, but his quickness allowed him to escape with his prize intact.

  After observing the activities for most of the night, we returned to our sleeping bags. The sound of wolves yipping happily awoke us. We forced our reluctant, sleep-deprived bodies from the tent to see what was going on in the neighborhood.

  What we saw made us promptly forget our lack of sleep. Before us was the sight we had been longing for: Mother had two pups out on full display.

  Their short, round bodies were covered in fluffy gray fur. They stood on stubby legs with feet that appeared far too large. Their little ears pointed upward, their tails were short and thin, and their eyes were still blue. It was the second week of June, so the pups must have been four weeks old. Alpha nudged them toward the stream. They clearly had no desire to go anywhere near the water. They wobbled back to Mother on unsteady legs, only to have her push them toward the water again. But the pups had made up their minds: They were not going close to the stream, at least not today.

  Charlie was fascinated. He made gentle whimpering sounds and wagged his tail as he bounded to the end of his leash to meet the pups. Given their feeble eyesight at this age, the
y at first didn’t see him. Then one round furball looked up, paused a moment to figure out what Charlie was, then tottered toward him. We started toward Charlie to lead him away from the pup in case Mother and her kin became upset. But before we could reach him, he had already bent to nuzzle the new wolf.

  The sight we long for: Mother brings her two pups out of the den.

  We stopped in midstride. The meeting was going well, and the adults didn’t seem distressed. Mother walked slowly toward Charlie and stopped fifteen feet away. Charlie saw her and nosed the pup in her direction. The little fellow adjusted his eyes, saw his mother, and wove his way back to her as fast as his short legs would take him. He immediately reached for a nipple and had a milk break. Then Mother returned the pups to the den while the rest of the family stretched out in the shade. As for Bill and me, we were overjoyed to have finally seen the pups. Until now we had worried that Mother would be too nervous to allow her pups so close to us.

  Wolves are born blind and deaf. They can hear a week after birth, but their eyes don’t open for two weeks, and even then they don’t see well. Over the next few weeks their eyesight improves. We suspected that Mother had taken the pups out of the den now and then over the previous week, while we were away from our camp, but had been uncertain of our trustworthiness until now. Apparently we had gained her confidence.

  The gestation period for wolves is sixty to sixty-three days. This small litter was far below the average of six pups. Mothers have eight teats, so a small litter of only two would receive plenty of milk, eliminating the competition that results from larger litters.