Wild Man Island

by Will Hobbs

  “Only a month or so, we think. They started up at the northern end.”

  “Is it a big deal, wolves on the island?”

  “It’s a very big deal. They haven’t been on Admiralty for as long as anybody can tell. My people—we’re Tlingits—have been at Angoon for a couple of thousand years at least, and this is a new one for us. It’s exciting, because the wolves are going to change the ecological balance, and probably for the better. The deer are too thick for their own good. They would be stronger and healthier if they had the wolf as a predator.”

  “What about the bears? Don’t they snag the deer?”

  “Not that often. They get a few fawns the first couple days after they’re born. After that, even the fawns are too fast. Plus, the deer tend to stay up high all summer, in the open where the grass is. They can see the bears a long way off. They don’t come down into the forest much until the snow forces them down, and that’s when the bears are going into hibernation. The bears mostly get the old deer and the sick ones.”

  “So the wolves should do real well on the Fortress of the Bears.”

  “Definitely. Say, do you know why Admiralty is called that?”

  I shrugged. “Because the bears rule?”

  She laughed. “Fortress of the Bears is the Tlingit name for the island. Kootznoowoo. But you’re right. Bears rule, that’s what it means.”

  “So the Fish and Wildlife Service reintroduced the wolves?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No, we had nothing to do with it. We figure that they swam from the mainland about a mile and half to Grand Island, and then another mile and a half to Admiralty on the Glass Peninsula. That’s where they were first spotted. From the very beginning we worried about dogs from Angoon. Dogs can go feral and live off the land. It would be a shame for a small wolfpack like this to interbreed with domestic dogs, and it could happen. They’d be hybrids after that, not wolves.”

  “Is the dog you’re after from Angoon?”

  “Nobody from the village has ever had a dog like that. It appears to be a purebred Newfoundland. We’re not really sure, but we think it belongs to a legend.”

  “What do you mean, legend?”

  “A big black dog was seen a few years ago with a man people say lives in the woods. It was a very brief sighting. There’s a lot of debate about whether the man really exists.”

  “Who’s he supposed to be?”

  “A hermit. People call him the hermit of Admiralty Island.”

  19

  IT WAS TIME FOR SHAYLA to follow with the kennel cage. She started to say I should wait by the helicopter, but I was much too involved. I offered to carry the kennel cage, and she agreed. “When the time comes, and I ask you to keep a low profile, how low can you keep it?”

  “Pond scum,” I assured her.

  The biologist shouldered her backpack. “Okay then, let’s get going. We’ll walk just inside the trees. Keep your eye out for a strip of orange survey tape. Gary’s going to flag the spot where we should watch and wait.”

  I was dying to find out what she knew about the wild man. I caught up and walked alongside. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “So, about that hermit? Do you think it’s just a legend, or is he for real?”

  “That’s a fascinating question,” she replied. “Over the past eight or ten years, there have been only a handful of sightings. A couple of them were highly credible, and one was by the man I replaced in this job. He’s the one, a few years back, who saw the big black dog with him.”

  “He got a good look?”

  “Good, but brief. They disappeared in the trees.”

  “And you spotted a Newfoundland running with the wolves you’ve been watching?”

  “About ten days ago. Actually, we darted him back then.”

  I was so surprised, I lost focus and stumbled over a tree root. “Once you’d caught him, why didn’t you take him off the island?”

  “We were trying to kill two birds with one stone. You see, we turned him loose after sewing up a radio transmitter inside his body, just under his last rib.”

  “You’re kidding. What for?”

  “We were hoping he would lead us to the hermit’s hideaway. We assume he must have one. But since we released him, the dog has never stayed in one place for more than a few hours. Gary and I have been tramping all over the southern end of the island, keeping tabs on him, mostly from up high where the walking is easier. We would have tracked him from an airplane or the helicopter, but we were afraid of tipping off the hermit. It could be his hiding place is on this end of the island.”

  “Is the wild man a fugitive or something? Is he dangerous? Is that why you want to find him?”

  “As far as anyone knows, he’s perfectly harmless. As to whether he’s a fugitive, that’s another question. There are several theories.”

  “Wait a second. I don’t get it. If you catch the dog today, you’re going to fly it to Juneau, right?”

  “Right. And while we’re at it, we can drop you off at the airport. You’ll be on a jet home in no time.”

  “Sounds great, but how does that help you catch the wild man—the hermit?”

  “It doesn’t. We’ve decided to give up on that for now. It’s more important that we prevent the dog and the wolves from mating.”

  “Okay, okay, I got that…. Now, tell me about those theories. One is, he’s a fugitive?”

  “That’s one school of thought, and the most popular. Some people think he must be an escaped convict, and others think he’s a guy who owes jail time in the Lower Forty-eight but never served it. A tax evader or who-knows-what. Alaska’s always been known for that sort of thing—good place to adopt a new identity, start over, more or less hide out. This would be an extreme case, of course.”

  “What are the other possibilities?”

  “That he’s an extreme survivalist. Hates the government, is waiting for the end of the world, that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t sound like you go for any of those theories.”

  “I don’t. A few of us science types have our own take on this. We have a theory that he was an archeologist.”

  As soon as she said the word “archeologist,” my mind went this way and that. Struggling to keep my voice level, I asked, “How does that one go?”

  “It’s just a wild guess. Ten or eleven years ago, there was an archeologist who drowned off the shore of Chichagof Island, across the Chatham Strait from Admiralty. He was by himself. Apparently he fell out of a boat that he rented to go fishing. That type of accident happens every so often up here. Only half the time do they find the body. They never found his.”

  An archeologist, I thought. It had been so close I couldn’t see it. Just because you’re an archeologist doesn’t mean you have to teach at a university, like my father did, and just because you’re an archeologist doesn’t mean you can’t be crazy. “I don’t follow,” I told her after what had been a lengthy pause. “Why can’t a guy who falls out of a boat haul himself back in?”

  “I didn’t explain that the boat is moving. The fisherman is trolling—let’s say for salmon. He stands up, loses his balance, goes over the side. Now he’s in the freezing Pacific, watching his boat get farther and farther away. It’s that simple.”

  “So in the cold water, he’s history. But what makes you think the hermit is that archeologist?”

  “The first time he was ever sighted, he had a spear in his hand, that’s all. Someone in our office thought to link him with the archeologist. Some archeologists know how to make stone points, that sort of thing. It’s just speculation, but it’s intriguing to think about.”

  “If he survived the accident, why didn’t he come for help? Why would he hide out, become a hermit?”

  “That’s the part where you really have to make a few leaps. It’s all pretty far-fetched.”

  The bulky kennel cage was beginning to feel like a ton of bricks, even though it wasn’t that heavy. Rather than stop for a rest, and risk this conversat
ion getting sidetracked, I switched hands and said the next thing that popped into my head. “Wait a second. You think he faked his own death? Is that it?”

  “It could be done,” she replied. “Let’s say somebody wanted to do that. When they find your boat with your fishing line in the water and the motor in gear, it’s going to look like one of your typical southeast Alaska boating accidents. What a perfect way to disappear, if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

  “But why would he want to disappear? Who was the archeologist? Does anybody know?”

  “His name has slipped my mind. It was so long ago the newspapers reported it. They said he was from the Lower Forty-eight. A college professor.”

  “You figure he wanted to leave it all behind, to become a hermit?”

  She looked over her shoulder at me and she chuckled. “You’re pretty into this.”

  “It’s amazing to think about. I just can’t figure out why anyone would want to be a hermit. That’s crazy. Especially on an island like this.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I do know that some people live and die by convictions so strong that most people can’t even comprehend them. Maybe the hermit of Admiralty Island is one of those.”

  All of this had me reeling, trying to reinterpret everything that had happened between me and the wild man. Maybe what had been going on was very different from what I thought was going on. He could have been just as weirded out as I was. I might have been the first person he talked to in ten or eleven years.

  Shayla called a rest break. We were both winded from talking while we were climbing. The biologist’s eyes happened to go to my feet, to the wild man’s cedar bark sandals. For the first time, she really noticed them. Her dark eyes were awash in speculation. I thought that if I kept talking, she might not ask. “I still don’t get it,” I said. “Why were you trying to catch him? Was he doing something wrong?”

  Shayla was slow to answer. “You just asked a very tough question, Andy. If we ever do catch him, it’s going to be a real shame. It will be very hard to explain to the people in Angoon, for example. They’ll think it’s senseless. The short answer is, Admiralty Island National Monument has a new superintendent. It really bothers him that, for all these years, someone has been hunting, fishing, camping on the island without permits or permission….”

  “So?”

  “I know. That doesn’t sound like a big deal. Admiralty is public land, which means it belongs to all of us, but there have to be rules and regulations.”

  I immediately thought of my father. I could picture him, with all his prehistoric skills, maybe wanting to try it for himself in some wilderness somewhere. Maybe he would have, for a while at least, if he hadn’t had a family.

  “Still, that’s lame,” I said. “They should make an exception if you’re willing to live in the Stone Age.”

  She shrugged, and we tramped on. A few minutes later Shayla was pointing. “Look,” she whispered. “Up ahead. Gary’s survey tape.”

  Shayla eased her backpack to the ground and removed a huge pair of binoculars. “Leave the kennel cage here for now. Let’s belly up to the edge of the trees and see what we can see.”

  Through the branches, as we crept close, I made out the huge mound of red flesh on the tundra. I squinted at a blur of motion nearby. I saw the black dog and the gray wolf.

  So did Shayla. “We’re in business,” the biologist said. “This is good. From their behavior, I’d say they haven’t mated yet. Here, take a look.”

  I couldn’t believe the magnification. I could see the gray wolf’s black lips against the white hairs on her muzzle and lower jaw. Her ears were white inside and rimmed with darker fur, and her yellow eyes were set off by black eyelids. I could see the dark tip of her tail. The wolf and the Newfie were licking each other’s faces, and now they were rubbing cheeks, and now they were mouthing each other’s muzzles. “Isn’t she magnificent?” Shayla whispered at my shoulder.

  “Totally,” I whispered back, thinking they both were. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Hidden. Waiting for the right moment. He’ll want the dog a little closer.”

  I could only wonder where the wild man was. I had sent him here. He could have walked right into the middle of this.

  No, he was much too cautious for that.

  If only he’d gotten here in time….

  What was I thinking? Whose side was I on?

  I really didn’t know.

  Shayla nudged my elbow. “Tell me what you’re seeing.”

  “I see the dog tearing off a piece of meat…. She’s kind of moving away…. She’s looking at him sideways, looking back at the trees. Now she’s edging closer to the trees. This is getting good…. He’s coming over to her with the meat, kind of holding it up high.”

  “Courtship behavior.”

  “He’s putting his mouth next to hers.”

  “Offering food.”

  “But she kind of jumps away. She won’t take it.”

  “She’s suspicious. It’s got human scent all over it. It’s tainted. She knows better.”

  The Newfoundland ate the meat as the wolf, tail down, retreated closer to the trees. “I think she’s about to take off,” I whispered. “Here, you look.”

  “No, you. You might never see something like this again.”

  I thanked her, and had just shifted my view back to the dog when a gun suddenly went off. It wasn’t a rifle blast, it was more of a pop, like from an air gun. I spotted the tranquilizer dart right away. “Did Gary hit him?” Shayla asked urgently.

  “Right in the shoulder,” I reported. I tried for a glimpse of the wolf’s reaction, but she had vanished. I still couldn’t see the location of the shooter. Rivers was staying hidden.

  I passed the binoculars to Shayla. Even without them, I could see the dog staggering. Then he dropped.

  20

  “GRAB THE KENNEL CAGE, ANDY.”

  By the time we got there, Rivers was out on the tundra, sitting cross-legged and making notes on a laptop computer. I checked out my old friend, the Newfoundland. He was out cold. The blue material I’d wrapped around his neck was long gone. The wound on his ear had healed and the one on his neck looked much better. I felt pretty bad about him going to the pound.

  After a minute I tore myself away and walked toward the carcass. The ravens were busy. They were keeping an eye on me, but they didn’t think I was much of a threat. Shayla was at my shoulder. She seemed about to ask me something. I had a feeling it would be about my sandals and whether I knew more than I was saying about the hermit. “So this is legal?” I asked instead. “Killing bears on the Fortress of the Bears?”

  She bit her lip. “That’s a sore spot with me. Just between you and me, I can’t believe it’s still going on.”

  “I mean, the bear’s all mutilated.”

  “That’s how they do it, to get what they need for their bearskin rugs. The fur, the claws—it’s trophy hunting, pure and simple, but it’s legal. Sometimes all they’re after is getting a photograph of themselves next to the dead bear.”

  “They should have to take out all the meat, and then they should have to eat it.”

  “That would discourage them, all right. Not many people consider brown bear fit to eat. That’s why Alaska Fish and Game doesn’t require them to take out the meat. Most years they allow around ninety bear kills on Admiralty. The skull is missing because the hunters are required to turn them in, partly so the game wardens can keep track, and partly so they can study them. From the teeth they can tell the age of the bear.”

  “I’m confused. You aren’t a game warden?”

  “They work for the state. Even though it’s federal land, the state takes care of hunting and fishing licenses and so on.”

  “Let’s load him up,” called Rivers as he was stowing his laptop computer away in his backpack.

  “Will do,” his partner replied cheerfully. “I’m sure Andy is anxious to get started home.”

  “Am I eve
r,” I agreed.

  Just then, at the edge of my vision, there was motion. The biologists had seen something too. We all turned our heads, and there was the man in bark. With his eyes on us, he’d been inching toward the dog. Now that he was exposed, halfway between the forest and his dog, he hesitated like a runner caught between bases.

  Rivers bolted toward the Newfoundland but the wild man was even faster. With several huge bounding strides, he cut off the biologist’s approach, then stood up to his full height, which was considerable. The wild man held his massive arms and hands up high, raking the air like a bear, and then he roared, horribly and convincingly, like a brown bear. His scarred features left little doubt that he meant to defend his dog.

  Rivers’s right hand went to the pepper spray at his hip, but instead of pulling it out, he shrank toward his partner. When he did, the wild man spun back to his dog. He went to one knee, removed the tranquilizer dart, scooped up that big Newfoundland in his arms, and stood. For a moment he paused, and his eyes found mine. He looked hurt, he looked bewildered.

  Suddenly, without a backward glance, the wild man ran into the forest, the huge dog in his arms.

  I turned to Shayla. She was dumbfounded, and so was Rivers.

  “Well,” Shayla said at last, “I believe we just met the hermit of Admiralty Island.”

  “Up close and personal,” her partner added. He was still shaking his head.

  I didn’t say a word. As we made our way back to the helicopter, the biologists were so preoccupied they didn’t seem to notice I was there. Rivers was saying that this was going to turn out for the best. The hermit was going to keep his dog real close, maybe even tie him for a while, and that would make it easy to track him and find his hideaway.

  Shayla agreed. The thing is, neither one of them sounded victorious. They sounded sad.

  All the way back to the helicopter, I was turning it over in my mind, all of it. One helicopter ride and I’d be at a telephone talking to my mother. It would all be over.