In Praise of Wolves Read online

  That Brigit had been subjected to harassment at the onset of the breeding season was not abnormal, for only rarely will a second female in a pack be allowed to mate. To prevent such a union, the Alpha male and the Alpha female keep a close watch on their companions and are quick to subdue any other female that appears to be seeking the interest of a subordinate male. The vigilance of the Alphas is especially acute during the height of the estrous or female reproductive cycle, a time during which they will be quick to punish subordinate bitches for even the most minor transgression. In this, Alphas are often helped by the other males, who, despite any latent breeding desires that they might themselves have, are so committed to pack discipline that they subjugate their urges and follow the examples set by the Alphas. This is one of the inherent ways in which wolves control their populations and thus keep their numbers in balance with their food resources.

  What was unusual in Brigit’s case, however, was the intensity of her persecution and the length of its duration. Hitherto, during extensive studies of wild wolves as well as of four other captive packs, I had noted that although the estrus could last more than a month in the absence of pregnancy, the mere presence of an undisputed Alpha female considerably shortened the cycle of a Subordinate, sometimes even appearing to inhibit it altogether. In the former case, lower-ranking females were harassed only during their curtailed sexually active time; in the latter situation, I had noted that in the absence of estral hormones subordinate bitches were not regarded as breeding competitors and were therefore left in peace. Why, then, was Brigit still being harassed? To try to find an answer to this question, I reviewed first the characteristics of the pack’s home range, which earlier that afternoon I had toured with Jim Wuepper, the young man who keeps the wolves.

  The enclosure consists of a two acre quadrangle located just outside the town of Ishpeming, a community of some eight thousand people that lies 177 miles west of Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. The land occupied by Shawano and his companions is part of a ten acre lot bought by Jim and his wife, Kaye, for the express purpose of keeping wolves. The Wueppers and their seven year old son, Jason, share the property with the pack, for their pleasant bungalow home is located less than fifty yards from the eastern perimeter of the sanctuary. Here, too, lives Chico, a large, shaggy dog of mixed breed who watches the approaches to the house from the vantage of his own kennel near the entrance driveway and who is quick to advertise, with deep barks, the arrival of strangers.

  During our inspection of the enclosure, while Jim was telling me how he and Kaye had come to settle on the outskirts of Ishpeming, I carefully examined the pack’s habitat and noted that it contained all those features that wolves require for their well being and contentment. In fact, it was the best of its kind that I had seen to date. The dominant trees were conifers, but there was a scattering of birches and other deciduous species as well as shrubs and bushes. The land sloped and rose haphazardly, containing hillocks and isolated rock outcrops of respectable proportions that offered sentinel heights much prized by wolves. Dead-fall trees and branches were not constantly removed from the enclosure and these obstacles provided variation and challenge for animals that delight in romping and climbing when they are not engaged in more serious affairs. Last, but of vital significance, I had seen that the terrain offered areas of clay-sand soil ideal for the digging of dens. So, all in all, this habitat was a miniature representation of typical wolf range that would not in itself be expected to cause serious behavioural modifications during the breeding period, a time when even the best regulated wild packs undergo considerable stress.

  After this brief review, aware that a reassessment of the enclosure could not yield the answer I was seeking, I began marshaling my knowledge of wild packs in general, of these captive wolves in particular, and of the people who are so committed to them. And as is my habit when seeking to understand any of the numerous conundrums that nature tosses my way at regular intervals, I started at the beginning, recalling the first of these events that were to combine to bring me to the U.P., as this part of Michigan is most often called.

  During an evening in December 1979, not long before Christmas, the telephone rang as Sharon and I were still sitting at the dinner table discussing our plans for the forthcoming holidays. Upon answering the ring, I was greeted by a man who identified himself as George Wilson and who in the same breath informed me that he was calling from “Marquette, Michigan, the Queen City of the U.P.,” a statement that ended with a dry chuckle. Rather inanely, because I didn’t quite know what else to reply, I said, “Oh? How interesting . . ,” But before I had time to collect myself and phrase a more suitable comment, George plunged into the reason for his call.

  “Well . . . here! Let’s get down to it. . . I’m halfway through your book The North Runner. My brother Bill gave it to me today: he said, ‘Here, you’ve got to read this man.’ Well, anyway, I’m reading it. I’m halfway through it. You know, I used to keep wolves and I’m still involved with the pooches. I’m a filmmaker . . .”

  I get many letters and more than a few telephone calls from people who have read my books and are kind enough to want to let me know that they found some interest in my work. But this was the first time that a total stranger had called intent on dragooning me into the service of his own special conservation project. Despite the stubborn streak that develops in me when I feel I am being pushed in a direction I have not personally selected, I found myself interested in George and in agreement with his views. I even shared his goal, which was to present the wolf to the general public in a realistic, sympathetic way, avoiding show-business exaggerations and steering clear of the rigidly dogmatic approach taken by most biologists.

  I explained to George nevertheless that I was too busy just then to consider new work, although I might manage to do so at some later date. Undaunted, George continued to talk about wolves at some length and by the time our conversation ended, I had promised to visit him in Marquette after he returned from London, where, at the invitation of the British Broadcasting Corporation, he was going to attend an international symposium of wildlife filmmakers.

  Christmas had faded into the New Year and winter had turned into early spring before I heard again from George Wilson, this time by mail. a little note written, as he himself said, “in intellectual shorthand.” He was back, I read; there followed a few succinct lines describing his welcome in London by the BBC and by a number of people whose names meant nothing to me. But included with the note was a veritable mass of other material, some of it referring to George’s experiences with his own wolf pack and some dealing with the making of wildlife films. Buried amid this material was a postscript that said: “When you come, telephone me. We’ll meet you in the Soo (Sault Ste. Marie). Wolves mated. Small pooches expected May.”

  As matters turned out, I was too busy to go to Michigan in 1980, but George continued to send his succinct memos, to which I replied. And we telephoned each other from time to time, trading wolf information while discussing the animals in a general way. Thus began a long distance relationship that gradually developed into friendship, even though we were not to meet in person until more than three years after our first telephone conversation.

  In December of 1982, again shortly before Christmas, George called to chat. As usual we discussed wolves, but on this occasion my friend referred to a particular captive pack with whom it appeared that he had developed a close rapport, although because of his penchant for switching from topic to topic without preamble, I was unable to determine where in Michigan the wolves were located, or who really owned them, believing initially that they were under his care. By then I knew George well and had realized that the only way to bring him back to a topic was to ask for specific information and to interrupt firmly whenever he wandered off the subject, a habit due, I believe, to his keen brain, which always seems to be working overtime. In due course, I learned for the first time about Shawano and his companions and about Jim Wuep
per. I found myself growing extremely interested in the wolves and in those people who were so obviously committed to them.

  As he had done at the end of all telephone conversations, George again urged me to visit him in Marquette. As usual, I was too busy and I again refused so that we concluded our talk by exchanging season’s greetings. Afterwards, however, I found that I could not stop thinking about George and the wolves. On the third day after our conversation, I felt compelled to go to Michigan to meet this energetic champion of wolves and to spend a little time with the lshpeming pack. I was also curious about Jim Wuepper and especially about his reasons for keeping wolves. There and then I telephoned George and gave him the news. He seemed delighted. Then he immediately began to plan the book about wolves that he expected me to write after our visit! Apart from flitting blissfully from subject to subject during general conversations, George appears to have trained his mind to reject the word no. He simply ignores refusal and continues talking and planning as enthusiastically as ever. I was therefore not surprised that he took no notice of me when I tried to tell him that I was far too busy to consider another book at that time. In the end, not wishing to increase the earnings of the telephone company shareholders, I let the matter drop, naively believing that I could deal with it on arrival in Marquette.

  Having decided to go to Michigan, I went to my desk calendar to pick suitable dates for the journey. I was aghast by what I had taken on for 1983! I had to put the finishing touches to a book; I had to write an article on winter camping for a Toronto magazine; Sharon and I were due to go to Massachusetts in early March to do shark research; on our way back from the coast, we had committed ourselves to call on an elderly lady who has been operating a sanctuary for beavers in upper New York State for more than fifty years; in early May, I was due in Washington, D.C., to meet with officials of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to begin research for another book; then my publisher had arranged for me to go on a seven day, cross Canada tour to promote my latest published work. And there was more! I had three books to structure and outline; a neglected correspondence file that bulged with letters from readers; a second book was to be published in June and I was to go on another promotion tour. What should I do? My first move was to consult Sharon. My wife has an incisive way of dealing with problems, and although she scolds me occasionally for taking on more work than can properly be managed, she is good at peering into dark tunnels and seeing the distant daylight. Listening quietly until I had finished explaining my predicament, she asked if I couldn’t postpone the trip to Michigan until autumn.

  I told her that I felt impelled to go in the spring. I had been putting off this journey for three years. I felt I couldn’t put it off much longer.

  “Well, we’re due back from Massachusetts and New York on March 25. Why don’t we spend two days at home you’ll have to rest for a bit then leave on the twenty-eighth, it’s a Monday. We can spend a night in Sault Ste. Marie and drive the rest of the way on the morning of the twenty-ninth. But I don’t think we can stay longer than a week,” was Sharon’s verdict.

  When we eventually arrived in Marquette in accordance with Sharon’s timing, I still did not have the heart to tell our friend that this was to be a brief, one-time visit and that, on no account, as we both had firmly repeated to each other, would I allow myself to become involved with writing about wolves that lived almost five hundred miles from our home.

  George, who seems to know everybody everywhere, had booked us in to the Tiroler Hoff Motel, located just outside Marquette on the Carp River Hills, a charming establishment with a grand view of Lake Superior (icebound at that time). The proprietors gave us a truly royal welcome. Here, later that afternoon, we at last met George Wilson; over six feet tall, if somewhat stooped, of Aztecan features and serene presence, he arrived bearing gifts: a flowering plant for Sharon and a bottle of Courvoisier cognac for me – he had read in one of my books that I enjoy a tot of this elixir on special occasions. Sharon instantly hugged him; I shook his hand; our long-distance friendship blossomed wonderfully. George is a very special man. His warm personality, his lively sense of humour, and his effervescent enthusiasm for the cause of wolf conservation touched us both deeply. Beyond these things, if it had not been for his stubborn refusal to take “no” for an answer, this book would never have been written!

  Brigit, alpha-female and her daughter, Denali behind her. Photo by Jim Wuepper

  No real naturalist assumes that he knows all about any

  mammal species. If he ever reaches that point he is

  promptly disillusioned by acquaintance with an individual

  that behaves as no others of his kind have acted before. . . .

  Victor H. Cahalane, Mammals of North America

  2

  On the afternoon during which Sharon and I were introduced to Shawano and his pack, we arrived with Buck LeVasseus, producer-cameraman for WLUC-TV Marquette, a man greatly interested in wildlife and conservation. He wanted to film our meeting with the wolves. With this in mind, Buck came equipped with a video camera and a large tripod and began setting up just outside the enclosure as we approached the fence. The wolves became nervous, retreating into the trees. Standing silently between Sharon and Jim Wuepper, I readily identified Shawano as the leader by his behaviour and by the way that he carried himself. His movements were assured; his general demeanour broadcasted confidence tempered by caution and proclaimed that he would study the new developments in his territory before deciding his next moves. In like manner, I was soon able to determine the social standings of the other members of the pack. Although it is normal for such sensitive and intelligent animals to be reserved in the presence of strangers, Shawano’s subordinates were displaying a greater degree of apprehension than I might have expected. Hard upon this observation it struck me that the manner of our arrival must have inhibited the wolves. This caused me some annoyance; I should have anticipated the effects of our visit at a time when the pack was still gripped by the excitement and tensions of the breeding season.

  Instead of coming quietly, preferably in Jim’s car, the sound of which was familiar to the wolves, we had driven into the yard in three separate vehicles. The clatter of the combined engines announced our approach even before we had turned into the Wuepper property. Then, instead of going into Jim’s house, there to wait until the wolves had been given time to adjust to our noisy invasion of their domain, we had immediately approached the enclosure. Chico’s noisy barks also heralded our arrival, the dog having become equally excited. No wonder the pack reacted as it did! Tame wolves will readily accept most strangers if these are properly introduced by the humans in whom they have reposed their trust, but these animals were only semi-socialized toward people and more inclined to react like their wild kin, as George Wilson had told me long before our arrival in Michigan. I had stupidly allowed myself to be carried away by my eagerness to see the pack. That after thirty years of experience with wolves I should have been guilty of such a gross error of judgement was humiliating. Of more concern, however, was the very real possibility that my blunder would cause Shawano to distrust Sharon and me now and in the future, in which case our journey would be wasted, for wolves literally follow their leader. In such an event, I would be denied the opportunity to study the pack’s behaviour and compare it with that of wild wolves, which was another reason why we had journeyed to the Upper Peninsula. Fortunately, Shawano was good enough to forgive my trespass once he had the opportunity of “reading’” me.

  Jim brought my self-recrimination to an end by opening the box of raw chicken he’d brought, taking out a piece, and holding it aloft, Shawano and his family observed keenly, and soon afterwards the leader trotted forward, followed more cautiously by the others. While the Alpha was still some fifteen paces from the nine foot high fence, Jim threw the first piece of meat. It sailed high over the wire and Shawano went into swift action.

  Running toward us, the big wol
f leaped, stretching his lean body to the fullest, his muscles and sinews bunching fluidly and becoming visible even through the dense coat of creamy-fawn hair. Up and up he went, his great jaws gaping, his amber eyes fixed on the descending target. It was like watching a slow-motion movie, although in reality the entire action did not last more than a few seconds; but the picture of that lithe wolf leaping so wonderfully for the food is still as vivid today as it was at the time. And I can still hear the great thunk of his jaws closing on the prize while it was still a foot or so higher than the fence!

  Shawano landed facing us, but turned about quickly. It was then that I noticed Thor, who had moved from a position beside a spruce and was at that moment rushing toward his leader. Now, I was sure, a fight would take place, for no Alpha wolf that I had ever observed would have permitted a subordinate to approach at such a moment. Shawano ran toward Thor without emitting the usual growls of warning, a silence I interpreted as a sure sign that he was going to attack immediately. Then, to my utter astonishment, when the distance between the two wolves had closed to about ten feet, Shawano literally threw the chicken at the Beta male, whose jaws opened and closed on the offering as noisily as the Alpha’s had done moments earlier. “This,’” I thought, “is highly unusual?”

  Jim, seemingly quite unconcerned by the extraordinary behaviour, reached into the box, took out another piece of chicken, and heaved it over the fence. Again Shawano rushed forward, leaped as mightily and gracefully as before, snapped up the food, and turned. This time his mate, Denali, ran toward him. Again at about a ten foot distance, he threw the chicken at her. She fielded it as easily as Thor had done and retreated into the trees to eat in concealment. Jim threw a third piece of chicken; Shawano repeated his moves, on this occasion throwing the meat into the jaws of Toivo, who had also anticipated the gift and was running to get it. Only then did Shawano take the fourth piece of chicken and keep it for himself, trotting away to join the other three wolves. Brigit was left to get her own food, which Jim threw to her. For some minutes after this the only sounds to be heard were the champing of fangs in meat and the cracking of bones.