When Is a Wolf Not a Wolf?

AS I LOOKED about me at the stark and cloud-topped hills, the waste of pressure-rippled ice, and, beyond the valley, to the desolate and treeless roll of tundra, I had no doubt that this was excellent wolf country. Indeed, I suspected that many pairs of lupine eyes were already watching me with speculative interest. I burrowed into my mountain of gear, found the revolver, and then took stock of my situation.

It did not seem very prepossessing. True, I had apparently penetrated to the heart of the Keewatin Barren Lands. And I had established a kind of base, although its location—on the lake ice, far from land—left much to be desired. So far, I had adhered strictly to the letter of my instructions; but the next paragraph in my operation order was a stickler.

Para. 3

Sec. (C)

Subpara. (iv)

Immediately after establishing a permanent base you will proceed, by means of canoe and utilizing waterways, to make an extensive general survey of the surrounding country to a depth, and in a manner, which will be significant in statistical terms, in order to determine the range/population ratio of Canis lupus and in order to establish contact with the study species….

I was willing enough to carry on as per instructions, but the ice underfoot had a solidity about it which suggested that canoeing would have to be deferred for several weeks, if not forever. Furthermore, without some alternative means of transport, I did not see how I could even begin the task of moving my mountain of gear to a permanent location on dry land. As to establishing contact with the study species—this seemed out of the question at the moment, unless the wolves themselves decided to take the initiative.

It was a serious dilemma. My orders had been drawn up for me after detailed consultation with the Meteorological Service, which had assured my Department that “normally” the lakes and rivers in the central Barrens could be expected to be clear of ice by the date of my arrival.

My orientation course in Ottawa had taught me that one never questioned information emanating from another department; and if a field operation based on such information went awry, it was invariably the fault of the fellow in the field.

Under the circumstances there was only one thing I could do. Despite the discouraging reaction I had had to my first radiogram to Ottawa, I had no alternative but to seek new orders once again.

Briskly I went to work uncovering the portable radio and setting it up on top of a pile of boxes. I had not previously had time to examine this instrument, and on opening the Instruction Manual I was a little taken aback to find that the model with which I had been supplied was intended for the use of forest rangers and could not normally be expected to work over ranges of more than twenty miles. Nevertheless I connected the batteries, rigged the aerial, turned knobs and pressed buttons according to instructions—and went on the air.

For some reason known only to the Department of Transport, which licenses such mobile transmitters as mine, my call sign was “Daisy Mae.” For the next hour Daisy Mae cried plaintively into the darkling subarctic skies, but without raising a whisper of a reply. I was almost ready to accept the pessimistic statement in the manual and give up the attempt as hopeless when I caught the faint echo of a human voice above the whistle and rustle of static in the earphones. Hastily I tuned the set until I could make out a gabble of words which it took me some time to identify as Spanish.

Since I realize that what I must now recount may strain the credulity of some of my readers; and since I have no technical knowledge whatsoever about radio, I can do no more than put forward an explanation given to me later by an expert, together with the assurance that no mere biologist could possibly have invented the sequence of events which followed. The technical explanation embraces a mysterious phenomenon known as “wave skip,” whereby, because of a combination of atmospheric conditions, it is sometimes possible (particularly in the north) for very low-powered transmitters to span considerable distances. My set outdid itself. The station I raised belonged to an amateur operator in Peru.

His English was easily as imperfect as my Spanish, so that it was some time before we began to get through to each other, and even then he seemed convinced I was calling from somewhere near Tierra del Fuego. I was beginning to feel exceedingly frustrated before the Peruvian finally agreed to take down the substance of my message to my Chief, and forward it by commercial means to Ottawa. Recalling recent admonitions I kept this message to the ten-word minimum, which was probably just as well, for those ten words, inadequately understood in Peru, and no doubt thoroughly corrupted by double translation, were sufficient to cause something of a crisis—as I was to learn many months later.

Perhaps because of its South American origin the message was delivered, not to my own department, but to the Department of External Affairs. External could make nothing of it, except that it seemed to have come from Tierra del Fuego and it appeared to be in code. Hurried inquiries embracing the Ministry of Defense failed to identify the code, or to reveal the presence of any known Canadian agent in the Cape Horn region.

It was only through fortuitous circumstances that the mystery was ever resolved. Some weeks later one of the secretaries at External who was in the habit of lunching with a senior man in my department told him the story, and, in the telling, casually mentioned that the inscrutable message was signed VARLEY MONFAT.

With commendable and rather surprising acumen, the senior man had identified me as the probable originator of the message; but this only led to the posing of a new and even more disturbing mystery, since no one could be found who would admit to having authorized me to go to Tierra del Fuego in the first place. The upshot was that a series of urgent messages were dispatched to me through the Canadian Consul in Chile, instructing me to report to Ottawa at once.

None of these messages ever reached me, nor could they have done so even if they had been sent by a more direct route, for the battery in my radio was good for only six hours’ use, and the only station I was ever again able to raise before the batteries went dead was broadcasting a light music program from Moscow.

But to return to my narrative:

By the time I had finished my business with Peru, it had begun to grow quite dark and the surrounding hills seemed to be closing in on me. I had as yet seen no sign of wolves; but they were understandably very much on my mind, and when I glimpsed a flicker of distant movement near the valley mouth, I became even more wolf-conscious.

By straining my hearing I detected a faint but electrifying sound—one that I instantly recognized, for, though I had never before heard it in the wild, I had heard it several times in cowboy films. It was unmistakably the howling of a wolf pack in full cry, and, equally unmistakably, the pack was crying full in my direction. At least one of my problems appeared to have been solved. I was about to establish contact with the study species.

The solution of this problem led directly to the discovery of several new ones, not the least of which was that there were only six rounds in my pistol and I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember where I had stowed the reserve ammunition. This was a matter of some moment, since I knew from my extensive reading on the subject that the number of individuals in a wolf pack can vary from four to forty. Furthermore, judging from the volume of sounds being made by the approaching animals, I suspected that this pack numbered closer to four hundred.

The subarctic night was now hard upon me, and the wolves soon would be too. It was already so dark that I could not see them clearly enough to estimate their actual numbers or gauge their probable behavior pattern. I therefore decided I should retire underneath the upturned canoe, so that the presence of a human being would not be readily apparent, with its consequent tendency to induce atypical behavior in the beasts.

Now one of the cardinal tenets of biology is that the observer must never allow his attention to be distracted; but honesty compels me to admit that under the present circumstances I found it difficult to maintain an attitude of correct scientific concentration. I was particularly worried about my canoe. Being lightly built of canvas over thin cedar staves, it might, I suspected, be easily damaged by rough usage, in which case I would be completely immobilized in the future. The second thing which was bothering me was so unusual that I must give it special emphasis, if only because it demonstrates the basic illogicality of the human mind when not under proper disciplinary control. I found myself fervently wishing I was a pregnant Eskimo.

Since I could no longer see what was happening, I had to rely upon my other senses. My ears kept me informed as the pack swept up at full speed, circled my pile of equipment once, and then rushed straight for the canoe.

A terrific chorus of howls, barks and yelps very nearly deafened me, and so confusing was the noise that I began to experience hallucinations, imagining I could hear the deep-throated roar of an almost human voice above the general tumult. The roar sounded rather like:

FURCRISAKESTOPYOUGODAMNSONSABITCHES!

At this point there was much scuffling, an outburst of pained yelping, and then, miraculously, total silence.

I had been trained for years to make accurate deductions from natural phenomena, but this situation was beyond me. I needed more data. Very cautiously I put one eye to the narrow slit between the gunwale of the canoe and the ice below. At first I could see nothing but wolf feet—scores of them; but then my glance fastened on another pair of feet—a single pair—which could have belonged to no wolf. My deductive abilities returned all of a rush. I lifted the side of the canoe, stuck out my head, and peered upward into the bewildered and rather apprehensive face of a young man clad all in caribou furs.

Scattered around him, and staring at me with deep suspicion, were the fourteen large and formidable Huskies which made up his team. But of bona fide wolves…there was not one in sight.