by Jim Dutcher
Like their forebears, wolves of today are seekers. In North America they are embarking on a new voyage of discovery into territory they once knew but lost more than half a century ago. As a handful of gray wolves were reintroduced into Yellowstone and Idaho, a few intrepid others were crossing the Canadian border into Montana. Some 2,000 more clung to the northernmost slivers of Minnesota and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. From these seed populations, wolves launched expeditions into Colorado, Utah, Washington, Oregon, Nevada, California, and Wisconsin.
A wolf seeker is embodied in a special type of individual called a disperser. Some wolves are content to spend their lives in the pack in which they were born. Dispersers are not. They can be male or female and are usually two or three years old—old enough to have reached adulthood but young enough to yearn for something new, something they can only imagine. Pulled by the unknown, dispersers set out alone with the ultimate goal of finding a mate and their own territory—driven, perhaps, by the simple joy of discovering someplace new. With only their four feet to propel them and no map, disperser wolves can travel staggering distances.
In 2009 a pup was born to a pioneering wolf pack that had set up home in Oregon. The pup’s mother was a disperser—an adventurer in her own right. She had crossed the rapids of the Snake River from Idaho, found a mate, and settled along the Imnaha River in northeast Oregon. As the first in a new state, the Imnaha Pack was the subject of a great deal of study and public scrutiny. Fish and Wildlife officials fitted a few of them with tags and tracking collars so that their movements—and their impact on livestock—could be closely monitored.
By the time he was two years old the Oregon pup had been captured, fitted with a GPS collar, and given the identification OR-7. Unfortunately, as a new pack in hard-line anti-wolf territory, the Imnahas were also subject to aggressive management and public hatred that led to the killing of several pack members by the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Perhaps the disruption and strife inflicted upon his family drove the young OR-7 to travel. Or perhaps he was impelled by his own internal desire. Whatever the reason, in September 2011, OR-7’s GPS collar indicated that he had crossed the Cascade Mountains, thus becoming the first confirmed wolf on the West Coast of the lower 48 states since the last Oregon wolf was killed in 1947.
OR-7’s journey had just begun. He turned southward, lingered in the Soda Mountain Wilderness, forged past Crater Lake and across the Klamath Basin. In late 2011 he made history again, becoming the first wolf to set foot in California in nearly a century. For the next three years, OR-7 flitted back and forth between California and Oregon until at last he found a mate and settled in the Rogue River Valley, near the California-Oregon border, to become the alpha of his own pack. All told he wandered well over 1,000 miles, and his adventure captivated the people of his adopted home state, many of whom followed his movements on a fan site. The conservation group Oregon Wild held a competition to name their new celebrity. In 2012, Oregon’s school students voted to name him “Journey.” As of 2017, Journey, a wise old wolf of eight years, remains the alpha of the Rogue Pack.
In many ways Journey was a lucky wolf. His travels took him through the sparsely populated Cascade Range, where he could wander in relative safety. The Imnaha Pack that stayed behind in ranching country was not so fortunate. Blamed for livestock loss, the last four Imnaha wolves were killed in 2016. In general, though, the modern landscape of America is an unforgiving place for predators with a thirst for travel. Many wolves, like those in Yellowstone, are relegated to small islands of protected land surrounded by cattle country and thousands of unfriendly humans. A wolf’s natural urge to wander can lead it onto dangerous ground in very short order. Such was the fate of Yellowstone wolf Number 253.
Although he had an official identification, everyone knew him as either Limpy or Hoppy—his three-legged gait made him one of Yellowstone’s most easily recognizable wolves. By the time wolf-spotters noticed him as a juvenile, he had already sustained the injury that left him partially crippled. Limpy was a young member of the famous Druid Peak Pack, born in 2000. Observers admired his tenacity on the hunt, keeping up with his parents and helping to take down elk without his front right leg ever touching the ground.
In 2002 young Limpy was struck with wanderlust. I find it remarkable that of all the Yellowstone wolves, the one with the hobbled foreleg decided to go on a long trek, limping 200 miles through western Wyoming, all the way to Morgan, Utah. I imagine him as the wolf incarnation of John Wesley Powell, who lost an arm in the Civil War and went on to lead the first expedition down the Colorado River, through some of the most unforgiving land in the country. Powell’s notes from the journey convey that interplay of curiosity, fear, hope, and determination that propelled him forward:
We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls ride over the river, we know not. Ah, well! We may conjecture many things.
Limpy had that kind of indomitable spirit, that yearning to seek out the unknown. As one reporter said, “His heart seemed stronger than his leg.”
Limpy may also have been searching in vain for a female wolf, but it would be uncharacteristic for a wolf to turn his back on the highest population of available females in the country to look for a mate where no traces of his kind remained. It appears he really was gripped by the desire to explore. In any case, his stint as the first wolf in Utah in 70 years was short-lived. Of all things, one of his good legs found its way into a coyote trap. U.S. Fish and Wildlife officials collected him and released him at the northern edge of Grand Teton National Park. Instead of striking out on his own again, Limpy, now operating on two and a half legs, crossed the territories of several hostile wolf packs and returned to his old home and his birth pack. Back among the Druids of northern Yellowstone, he settled into the rank of beta wolf. Together he and the famous alpha pair, 21 and 42, became known as the Druids’ “Big Three,” largely responsible for the pack’s incredible success.
The drive for wolves to stay in their family, their pack, is a strong one. In most wolves it is stronger than the urge to break off alone, but Limpy wasn’t like most wolves. There’s no exact count, but over his lifetime he must have covered well over a thousand miles. Even as he entered his eighth year, he was still given to wander. In the end, his spirit of exploration proved fatal.
In 2008, Limpy left his family and the protection of Yellowstone once more, and he headed southeast into Sublette County, Wyoming, where stores sell T-shirts depicting a wolf in crosshairs with the slogan “Smoke a Pack a Day!” For his entire life, Limpy had been a stalwart deer and elk hunter. No matter how deep into cattle country he roamed, and despite an injury that could drive him toward easy prey, he never attacked livestock. From a ranching standpoint, Limpy was a model wolf, but in Sublette County, someone shot him all the same.
Opponents of wolf recovery insistently stoke fears over the animal’s insatiable hunger for sheep and cattle. The truth is, fewer livestock animals die as a result of wolf predation than by storms, injury, disease, or even attacks from other predators. But statistics don’t seem to matter to those who cling to the 19th-century mind-set that the only good wolf is a dead wolf. When a wolf dies at the hands of man, it is almost never an official act of last resort. Killing wolves is a quick and easy appeasement to ranchers and hunters who didn’t want them there in the first place. Changing livestock management practices and implementing nonlethal predator control requires cooperation, money, time, and political will, whereas half a dozen wolves can be shot from a helicopter in an afternoon.
Official wolf culling is just the tip of the iceberg. We also kill wolves recreationally, regardless of their impact on livestock, and we pass laws to minimize the penalties for illegal poaching and maximize the body count. We shoot and trap entire packs that choose to live in wilderness, far away from people and ranches. If wolves can
’t live in wilderness, where can they live? Even as we hold wolves to a near-impossible standard of behavior, most of them actually manage to live within our anthropocentric rules. But we shoot them anyway.
In Wyoming, people believe in the traditional values of the American West: bravery, independence, perseverance, and self-reliance. Yet I doubt that the hunter who shot Limpy, wolf #253M, took even a second to pause and realize that the creature he was about to kill was the embodiment of all the qualities he admired: an adventurous spirit, full of courage and curiosity. If he had, would he have pulled the trigger?
Lakota
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIND COMPASSION
JAMIE
IT WAS THE END OF DECEMBER when I arrived at wolf camp for the first time. Just a month earlier I had a job and was living in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. Now here I was, sitting next to Jim in his Volkswagen van as we wound our way over a mountain pass toward life in a tent without electricity or running water. I’d call that a leap of faith.
The closer I got to my destination, the less anxious I became. The land was so remote and unfamiliar, but the scenery was spectacular, with the jagged, snowcapped mountains towering over a broad, wide-open valley. We drove along the sparkling headwaters of the Salmon River northward. At the town of Stanley we took a sharp turn onto a dirt track across miles of sagebrush toward a dark forest of lodgepole pines and the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains. As we steadily climbed in elevation, the dusting of snow became nearly a foot deep, so that we had to stop and hike the final mile into this new home of mine that Jim called wolf camp.
With our gear strapped to our backs, we left the scrubby sagebrush behind and entered an alpine glen with ice-crusted creeks and stands of pine, willow, and aspen. As we approached, I saw a small cluster of white tents peeking through the trees. I have to admit I was relieved to see that it wasn’t the pup tent in the forest that I had feared. In fact, I was amazed at how substantial and organized the camp was. Jim and his small crew had created a comfortable outpost. It was basic, of course—just a couple of wall tents and a large circular yurt—but it looked cozy and secure.
Jim told me that whenever he returned to camp after being away for a few days, he liked to announce himself to the pack. He stopped and cupped his hands to his mouth and howled. For a few seconds there was only silence, then a strange sound began to rise from the forest behind camp. At first I thought it was a person calling back to Jim from a distance, but other voices quickly joined in. It literally stopped me in my tracks and left me standing in the snow, mouth agape. The wolves were howling in response. It was an otherworldly sound—joyous, mournful, calming, and exhilarating all at the same time. It wasn’t at all like the clichéd wolf howls from the movies. At a distance, the sound seemed to come from everywhere, floating on air. Had I not known only 5 wolves were present, I would have guessed that the number was closer to 15. I later learned that wolves purposefully avoid singing in unison. Each wolf varies its pitch to achieve a perfect dissonance, perhaps to make the group sound more numerous. Whatever their reasons, the effect is beautiful. I’ve heard wolves howl too many times to count since then, and that sound never stops thrilling me. But I’ll remember that first time forever.
At first I didn’t even try to settle in or unpack. I wanted to meet the wolves. Strangely, I found myself suddenly nervous, feeling like the new kid at school. They were waiting for us, whining in expectation, eager to greet their friend Jim and this stranger he had brought with him. I found myself worrying if they would like me. Would I be worthy of their trust?
We entered through a double gate, and the wolves began to gather around me excitedly. Jim suggested I crouch down so I wouldn’t get knocked over. I did as instructed, and was immediately engulfed by a soft, fluffy tornado with tongues. Wolves tend to inspect anything new by sniffing and licking—and that included my face. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but the urge to smile was overwhelming. At one point one of the wolves even managed to get his lower canine tooth stuck up my nose. That was a bit disconcerting. Finally, having inspected me to their liking, the wolves moved on to other pursuits.
The only wolf I did not see on that first day was the one called Lakota, the pack omega. Jim assured me that I would meet this shy and special member of the pack when he was ready. Lakota was naturally shy around strangers, he explained—that part of his personality probably contributed to the other wolves pushing him into the omega position, low wolf in the hierarchy. Lakota probably also recognized that the other wolves would be excited by my arrival, and they tended to relieve their tension by picking on him.
That night Jim prepared dinner and we sat by candlelight in the cook tent, drinking wine. Now that I had finally met them, Jim began to tell me all about each wolf’s personality: magnanimous Kamots; watchful Motomo; Jekyll-and-Hyde Amani; and, of course, meek and mild Lakota, whom I had yet to meet. All these stories made me wish I had been there from the beginning of the wolf project, yet at the same time they filled me with excitement as I thought about what lay ahead. At one point our conversation must have gotten a bit raucous, and the wolves started to howl, excited by our laughter. We let our dialogue drop and just shut our eyes and listened to them sing in the darkness.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING we still had not seen Lakota, and Jim and I began snowshoeing together, searching among the dense willows and fallen pines. I could see that Jim was a bit concerned, but he told me that the pack’s territory was large and that he had sometimes searched for days for a wolf who wanted to be alone. The rest of the Sawtooth Pack was still interested in my unfamiliar presence, so for a while they followed us in single file like schoolchildren on a field trip. Eventually they lost interest in what we were doing, and one by one they wandered off to play or snooze. As soon as they were out of sight, we heard a rustling in the willows, and out crept Lakota. He had been following us the whole time.
One of the first things I noticed about him was his posture. He kept his tail tucked, his shoulders hunched, and his head lowered as he moved uncertainly toward me. It wasn’t until he reached me that I realized he was a huge wolf, one of the biggest in the pack, but the way he carried himself made him look smaller.
Lakota approached me and timidly licked my face. I ran my hand down his back and through his new winter coat. His skin was riddled with small bumps and scabs where the other wolves had nipped him, and he had small scars on his muzzle where the fur would not grow back—signs of how a dominant wolf sometimes grabs the muzzle of a subordinate.
During my first few days at wolf camp, Lakota and I would find time to be together, meeting clandestinely in that same meadow where we first met. Gradually his trust grew and he began to relax. Then one day he took his paw, gently placed it on my shoulder, and gazed at me with his deep amber eyes. We sat that way for quite a while. From that moment on he would forever hold a special place in my heart.
I’VE ALWAYS FELT COMPASSION FOR underdogs and vulnerable creatures. I think that emotion is what attracted me to the job I had, caring for animals at the National Zoo. Once I joined Jim at wolf camp, this instinct of mine turned to a protective feeling toward the sweet and beleaguered Lakota. I could see how deeply he cared for the pack and how joyful he felt when they allowed him to start a lighthearted game of tag, and I could see his pain when one of them decided to bully him.
Pack rallies were an especially trying time for Lakota. A “rally” is the term biologists use for the high-energy gatherings that wolves engage in. Often wolves rally before they head off on a hunt, like a sports team psyching itself up before a game. Sometimes they occur for no reason that we can discern and appear to be celebrations of pack solidarity. Frequently the charged atmosphere of a rally provokes dominance displays in which one wolf asserts its authority over another. During such rallies Lakota would slink among the others and pay his respects to Kamots, with his tail tucked and his head nearly scraping the ground, but Kamots was
seldom aggressive toward his brother. More often it was Amani who would rush at Lakota, snarling and flashing his teeth and making a big show of authority. Lakota would flip over and surrender. Although Lakota was rarely hurt in these displays, his cries were painful to hear. Amani would stand triumphantly over Lakota, making the omega beg to be let up. Once he was satisfied that his point was made—that he was the more dominant wolf—Amani would let up and Lakota would slink to the sidelines.
The pack rally usually culminated in a group howl, and then it was heartening to see Lakota joining in. The way a howl starts is a curious thing to behold. Sometimes it didn’t seem entirely voluntary. It was as though the sound just welled up inside them and had to pour out whether or not they wanted it to. As the other wolves howled, I’d watch Lakota throw his head back tentatively and begin howling away. He had a beautiful voice, too, and I sometimes felt that he was singing the blues and letting his heart pour out, lamenting his unfortunate status.
Being the omega wasn’t in Lakota’s control; the other wolves had forced him into that position. All the same, wolves seem to be born with certain qualities that lend themselves to the role. No other position in the pack requires as much talent for diplomacy and appeasement. The better an omega is at coaxing the others into play and relaxing hierarchy for a while, the better his or her life will be. Lakota knew he was at the bottom of the pecking order, and in his way he was good at it. His role as omega was to keep the mood of the pack light, and he did it well. There was never any doubt that he belonged.
