by Jay Cassell
There was no sign of the passage of time in the overcast, only the dripping timber and the snow, thinning slowly as the temperature eased upward. The tracks began to fade. Always seemed like a simple job to track an elk until it came down to the tracking. What with the underbrush and deadfall, it was hard to find marks even in good tracking snow. As the snow slowly faded away, I found myself watching the ground more than I was watching the woods, an excellent way to bump into the bunch before I saw them. At last, the marks disappeared into a thick patch of huckleberry, and I could see it was no use.
The focus on the moment suddenly evaporated, and I realized I was hungry. A check of the watch showed close enough to noon.
Six hours on that bunch. Out about seven miles from camp. Over this direction, that’s seven miles from the nearest Forest Service trail, too. And it’s past time for lunch.
I picked a log that looked almost dry and sat down. The menu for the day was a blue grouse sandwich, one of the world’s great unknown delicacies, and a Mound’s bar. When I’d finished, I pulled out the dry socks, another of the world’s great luxuries, and gave my feet a little attention. The boots had kept the water out below, but the incessant runoff down the pants had finally found the tops of the first pair of socks. I poured half a cup of water out of each boot, wrung out the used socks, and put on the new ones. Both feet were appreciative.
“Least I can do, guys,” I thought down their way. “We’ve got about ten miles more to do before we get back to camp.” Hearing no cries of outrage, I laced up and headed into the afternoon.
As it turned out, the afternoon held no elk for me. I took some encouragement from an encounter toward evening when two huge bull moose drifted within thirty yards of me, so close I could hear the rumbling of their guts processing the day’s browse. Neither of them saw me, smelled me, or heard me as I slipped away.
“If I can do that with moose,” I thought, “I ought to be able to get within rifle range of a bull elk.” The elk, however, were not inclined to give me the chance.
In the middle of the day, the snow had changed to sleet, then a light rain. The silver of the day faded into shades of gray and black as the last snow soaked into the ground, and night came by slow degrees.
Every season, the little discoveries happen again. As the darkness deepened, I was surprised as I had been surprised so many times before at how the human eye accommodates itself to night. I played the rods-and-cones game as I picked my way, looking away from where I wanted to go so I could see what was there, and it occurred to me that there was some deeper significance in the exercise if I would only stop walking a minute and consider it. Not too much later, I caught a shin on a dry stub sticking out of a spruce log and decided to give up the philosophical inquiry for the more useful illumination of a flashlight.
It was about eight when I suddenly broke out of the timber onto the gravel road. Only a mile left on even terrain. I turned off the flashlight and forced my legs back to lengthen the stride, the rain still pattering down on my hood, mixed now with sleet and an occasional sloppy flake. A walking tune began running through my mind. “Gray skies all of them gone; nothing but blue skies all day long . . .”
There is a special, bittersweet lonesome in the last mile of the day. Out before light, back after dark, a long day in the black timber beyond the reach of humanity, with only the tiny voice in your head to break the white-hot focus on each second, each sound, sight, and scent. And so I swung along at a good pace through the night, savoring this last moment and looking forward to ending it.
At last, I saw the buttery light winking in a distant window, and in five minutes, I pushed open the door. The warmth of the room was mixed with the thick, rich smell of browned meat and cooked onions.
“Thought you might have decided to spend the night out,” the Professor commented sarcastically. “Being such a beautiful evening.” Then, after a significant pause, “Fresh tenderloin on the back of the stove.”
Stowing my rifle on the woodpile, I shed my raincoat, then turned back to the kitchen.
“So, whose tenderloin is it?”
“The elk’s, of course,” the Professor smirked.
Obie came to my rescue. “Cosetti’s. Nice bull, too.” I looked over to Cosetti in the corner. A face etched with the effort of a long, hard day and a smile like a three-year-old with a handful of candy. I loaded a plate with fresh elk, onions, cottage fries, and salad, perhaps the best meal that was served west of the Mississippi that night.
“Well, come on; let’s hear the tale.”
It was half an hour in the telling, wandering like a hunter’s track out into the dark wilderness around us, past the private landmarks known only to the camp—the Rintimacki wallow, Langston’s grizzly place, the spot where the Professor killed the big bull. Seventeen miles it went, almost around to the country I’d been hunting. The Professor had finally cut tracks in a patch of snow on a north-facing ridge, just enough trail to give him a feel for where they were going. After an hour of tracking and guessing, they had heard clattering in the timber up ahead, two bulls mixing it up on the other side of a low ridge. The Professor motioned Cosetti to sit down, then cow-called. Both bulls came at a trot. Cosetti took the bigger one with a neck shot at forty yards.
“It was something, let me tell you!” His eyes were wide again, as he looked out the window into the night, still seeing the two bulls coming through the trees. The excitement of that moment carried the conversation for another thirty minutes or so while Obie took my shift on the dinner dishes and I wiped down my rifle.
With the story well told and congratulations passed around, talk turned to plans for the next morning. There was guarded optimism. We had narrowed the possibilities to a reasonable number. All we had to do was keep at it. The strategy session ended as we all crawled into our sleeping bags. Obie shut down the lantern, and I watched the yellow flames play around the mantles as the light flickered and faded out.
I stared into the darkness and absorbed the luxury of being horizontal in a nest of down. On the windowsill, the invisible alarm clock ticked off the seconds of the night against the silken background of the north breeze in the tops of the pines outside, a fitting lullaby for a cabin full of worn-out elk stalkers.
As I waited for the ache in my legs to subside, I considered my luck. The place and the moment were humble enough by any standards of the outside world, but they had an intrinsic value that was beyond price. It all had to do with the quality of the effort spent getting here. The occupants had earned their berths on the cots around the room. And, tomorrow, they would earn them again. Beginning about 4:00. Just a little rest first. The ticking of the clock slowly faded, and I settled down to savor the last simple pleasure of the day, the sleep that only twenty miles in the timber can bring. My feet figured they had earned it.
Wolf Hunters
CHRISTOPHER BATIN
If looks could kill, then the wolf was ripping me apart, limb by limb.
At 40 yards, its hungry yellow eyes fed ravenously on every blink and breath I took. Yet it was the sharp bite of those black pupils that pierced through to my very core.
Never have I been so intensely scrutinized. The gaze of a deer or an elk envelops you superficially like lightly falling snow. Their eyes mirror thoughts of escape, or uncertainty at what they see.
Not so with this wolf. Its riveting gaze mirrored something far more unnerving: predatory intelligence. Those two eyes blazed with the intensity of firestorm that viewed me as both predator and prey. I, too, was facing the most challenging prey of all: another predator. At the thought, my spine and arms tingled with excitement.
It boiled down to which predator would blink first.
The wolf ’s wedge-shaped head dropped slightly to keep me in focus between spruce branches. Easing the rifle to my shoulder, I kept my gaze on the wolf and became semi-aware of the world around me. Our boat bobbed slightly in the slow current of western Alaska’s Innoko River. Through my peripheral vision, I could
see my moose hunting partners looking downriver and to the other side, oblivious to the trophy on the left bank. There could be no sudden move or speaking to gain their attention.
The wolf was as solid as the massive spruce trees that surrounded it. It stood three feet high at the shoulder. Its muzzle pointed toward me like a broadhead lance loaded in a catapult. How many times had that snout and those two-inch canines clamp down on the those of a 1200-pound bull moose? The wolf would use its 110 pounds and six feet of body as an anchor to keep the moose from rearing up and slashing away defensively with its axe-like front hooves. If the wolf can hang on long enough, the remainder of the pack hamstrings the moose. Within seconds, the wolves begin eating the moose alive.
I eased up the rifle and found the wolf in my scope.
“Wait! Don’t shoot!” the other hunter in the boat hissed as he saw the wolf. I eased off the trigger squeeze. He swung around and scrambled for his rifle, breaking my gaze. I blinked. The wolf had vanished. I did not see the wolf turn and run. Neither a leaf rustled, nor twig move to indicate its presence. I gritted my teeth and engaged the safety, while searching the spruce thickets for a sign of those blazing yellow eyes. Nothing.
The other hunter was a greenhorn who wanted a wolf, but didn’t want to pay the price of constant vigilance. We both returned home, empty handed. I cherish the moment because to this day, that experience was my closest encounter with an Alaska wolf. It also marked the beginning of my 28-year apprenticeship as an Alaska wolf hunter.
Wolf hunters are tough, both physically and mentally, and for good reason.
Like the predator he pursues, the wolf hunter is often as reviled and hated as he is praised and honored. Many despise him because he is killing a symbol of their idea of wilderness. On the other hand, ranchers, hunters and victims hail him as a hero, feed him dinner, and learn from him. This human in wolf ’s clothing helps keep Nature’s most efficient canine predator check.
Wolves and wolf hunters were once widespread across the United States. Our history is earmarked with the bloody annotations of wolves attacking humans as well as killing countless deer, elk, pets, and livestock. The need for wolf control was as real at times as it was imagined.
Today, wolves and American civilization have difficulty co-existing. As with snowshoe hares and lynx cycle, when the hares drop in numbers, the predators also disappear. Likewise, the wolf hunter today in the Lower 48 is as scarce as the wolf. An occasional obituary will list the deceased as “wolf hunter.” Among sourdoughs, this title is the equivalent of a Ph.D. in outdoor skills and survival, hunting strategy and ruggedness of spirit.
Wolf hunters still thrive in Alaska, however, and Richard Gardner is living proof that ruggedness is a prerequisite for the chase. Growing up in Ohio, he moved to Alaska over two decades ago. Each winter, this 43-year-old father of two spends several months running over hundred miles of marten traplines and hunting wolves in the glacial ravages of Alaska’s Delta River and Black Rapids Glacier area. The wind-chill factor in this windy hell can remain at 50 below for days at a time.
Several years ago, he telephoned and asked if I could break away for a week. He had just finished snowshoeing 20 miles into town. The snowmobile he had been riding had blown an engine, and the other machine he was using at his cabin 50 miles inland had busted a ski. He needed someone to travel with him, repair both and bring them back. The next day, we were both heading into the Alaska wilderness on his last, remaining snowmobile.
About 40 miles in, he showed me a windswept portion of the Delta River. The site was unsettling, because through the crystal clear ice at our feet, you could see the current tumble over boulders beneath us. It was here that Gardner related his tale:
“I could see where the wolves had been chasing moose along this section of river, so I was following their tracks when the ice began to crack. It was 34 below, so I knew the ice was safe for travel. The ice continued to crack and boom. I noticed an upswelling of groundwater, and observed the ice wasn’t very thick below me. But it was too late.”
He explained how his snowmobile suddenly broke through the river ice, immersing him to his waist. The river water immediately froze on his jacket and sleeves. He fought off the sudden numbness and scrambled to work the track onto the broken slabs of floating ice. He revved and pushed his machine out of the river, before clawing his way out of the icy water. He rolled in the snow to absorb the extra water, and, with numbed fingers, built a fire and dried out. He kept hunting and trapping the area and eventually returned home that season with two wolves.
That’s wolf-hunter tough.
Alaska’s 40,0000 wolves make it the last bastion for wolf hunters. Don’t confuse today’s wolf hunter with the aerial hunters of the past or those who have used poison to take their prey. The new generation pursues wolves the old-fashioned way: from the ground. And a mid-winter wolf hunt is one of the toughest hunts in North America.
Wolf hunters endure—almost relish—the raw adversity of a winter wolf hunt because of its unpredictable and varied hunting environments. I’ve accompanied wolf hunting guides across hundreds of miles of wilderness, hanging on to a sled that bucked and darted across the frozen tussocks like an iron bronco. We’ve kept food and water under snowmobile cowlings to keep them from freezing rock solid in 30-below temperatures. I’ve weathered winter storms in old trapper shacks as the green and red curtains of northern lights blazed overhead. I’ve read the names and kills of hunters dating back 60 years, carved into the cabin walls. I’ve dug up C-rations buried in the thick, sawdust floor of these cabins, and read yellowed books from the 1930s, running my fingers over their pencilled annotations in the side margins. The wilderness environment, and its history, are integral parts of winter wolf hunting.
Those who desire more hunting time hunt wolves in the spring and fall. I recall one Alaska caribou hunt where I had a rare opportunity. Like mosquitoes hovering just out of reach, two wolves kept just outside the 150-yard safety buffer of several hundred migrating caribou.
The pair snuck through the timbered fringe, waiting for a chance to take a wayward or careless animal. I positioned myself to take the 200-yard shot without spooking or hitting the caribou that surrounded me. In addition to the wolf eyes always on the prowl for potential danger, there are thousands of caribou eyes watching for the slightest movement within their safety zone. Spook the prey, and you spook the predator. As the wolves stopped a marshy clearing, I fired. I still don’t know if the single shot spooked the caribou, or if it was me running up to my trophy as excited as a schoolboy heading home to his first day of summer vacation.
Most wolves are taken incidentally to hunting other species. I accompanied Mike Lencoski a moose hunt when he took a handsome black wolf while floating in a remote Alaska river. His hunting partner, Steve Armington, bagged an equally rare trophy, a wolverine, while hatching over a moose gut pile. There was no great lead into most wolf hunts. The animal suddenly appears, and you shoot. Such “luck” can occur on do-ityourself hunts, but usually requires the local knowledge of a registered guide.
Only a handful of Alaska wolf-hunting guides specialize in hunting wolves. Don’t expect to meet any members of this elite, yet prestigious group at fancy corporate banquets or tea parties. Look for them in single-light café in remote Alaska villages, or huddled around oil heaters in aircraft hangars, waiting for those few precious hours of daylight to fly to their hunting camps. Insulated bibs and bunny boots make their already husky physique even more intimidating. Weathered by extreme cold and sun, their leathery brown faces peer out of parka ruffs lined with wolf or wolverine, the only fur that their breath will not freeze. This eclectic bunch only socializes with wolf hunters or trappers. The reason for this preference is easily understood. Few others are found in Alaska’s February winter wilderness in sub-30-below temperatures.
Why Hunt Wolves?
A wolf adheres to a singularity of purpose: to kill. And killing is a means to an end: food for itself and the pack. A wolf
that doesn’t kill is akin to a human who doesn’t think: both are immediately destined for extinction. A wolf is Nature’s perfect predator—often more cunning than man.
Wayne Heimer has hunted wolves off and on as a Dall sheep biologist with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. One April, before the grizzly bears emerged from hibernation, Heimer was required to shoot five Dall sheep ewes that would be later sent to a laboratory or analysis. He harvested the animals and stacked them on a mountaintop for helicopter pickup before returning to his alpine camp. Heimer sensed something was wrong that night, out couldn’t finger the problem. The next morning he awoke and jumped a black wolf. By the time he removed the rifle from his pack and fired, the wolf was passing 400 yards. Heimer missed. He knew why the wolf was there and looked for others, but they too were long gone. It was too late anyway.
“The pile of sheep had disappeared,” he said. “There was no meat. Nothing but hair and a few gnawed-on skulls. Four hundred pounds of sheep consumed overnight.
“A wolf will kill anything: the strong, the weak,” says master guide Jim Bailey, a veteran wolf hunter. He watched a wolf pack consume an entire frozen moose in less than a week. He has also seen wolves defer to brown bears feeding on moose, preferring to wait their turn at scavenging, rather than risk losing their lives.
The Call of the Wild
Wolf hunter Sid Cook was investigating an area of Prince of Wales Island, where evidence indicates that a hunter was probably attacked and eaten by a pack of wolves, yet the evidence was inconclusive. Cook, a lifelong Alaskan, said he was in the same area when a pack of wolves surrounded him.
“When wolves are so close and start howling, to communicate to each other, they sound fake,” he said. “The echo, the reverberation isn’t there. But they were wolves, holding just in the timber, surrounding me as I walked through the trees. They were howling and yapping to each other, communicating as hunters. I loaded my rifle and prepared for an attack, but suddenly, the wolves disappeared. It was as frightening as it was eerie.”
