Note to reader: This is last piece in a three-part installment that focuses on encounters with wolves I had during a walk in the Brooks Range. This column begins on the 18th day of the walk in a mountain pass that separates the Alatna River from the Noatak River.
Rain fell steadily, loosening truck sized boulders from the mountains and swelling creeks. The wind began to howl, tearing open the fog and revealing the rocky slopes of serrated peaks. I packed up camp, limped around a narrow lake and hiked down into a canyon.
A small grizzly eating blueberries appeared 200 yards above. The rain matted down its fur, making it look like a person in a bear suit. There was no cover and we were heading in the same direction, so I traveled alongside watching. It stayed fixated on berries.
The remains of a large Dall sheep ram protruded from the earth. I grabbed a horn and was surprised by how spongy it had become. I apologized and left it alone.
I was tired of the abundance of bear sign, bones and carcasses, so I climbed out of the canyon. Numerous bands of caribou fled as I edged along the slope.
When the wind and rain increased, I became more edgy. The topography flattened out a bit and the creek rushed deep and brown. I forded waist-deep water using a broken ski pole as a brace against the current.
The traveling became easier, but I grew more anxious. At any moment I expected a bear or something worse to explode from the brush and come for me. As I crossed the creek one last time, a grayling bumped against my calf and darted away. I climbed out onto a low ridge and followed it down toward the wide expanse of the Noatak Valley.
“I’m here,” I said, and something exploded in me. The next thing I knew I was doubled over, having trouble breathing and emotionally wrecked.
A haunting swell crept across the tundra. For a second I was confused what I was hearing. Then it was clear.
Wolves, four gray and one white, sat on a knoll nearby. I clambered back to my feet and began walking toward them. They were quiet for a few moments, and then the big white wolf rose from its haunches and let loose. Regardless of what they were actually telling me, in that moment I believed they were welcoming me.
I fought my compulsion to go nearer when they became visually uneasy. I thanked them and apologized before hiking away.
Not long afterward, I made it to a lake where my friends Ed and Ben were scheduled to fly in with boats and food in two days. I left my pack and hiked through the willows, past scatterings of bones and bear poop, to the eroding bank of the Noatak River.
Briefly, without feeling the least bit symbolic, I knelt and dipped my hand into the current.
A fat ground squirrel investigated camp at dusk. I picked up a large rock and debated killing it. I ended up deciding the animal’s death was unnecessary. Also, I didn’t want blood to attract bears. It was a decision I would regret when bad weather would delay my friends’ flight.
In the morning two grizzlies, one dark and the other blond, traveled steadily across the hillside. A pair of loons drifted on the lake, occasionally diving to hunt fish. Ptarmigan croaked in the nearby willows.
At the head end of the valley, Mount Igipak, the tallest peak in the western Brooks Range, peeked out from the clouds. The pulsations grew louder and reverberated deeper. I ate half of a Clif bar, the last of my food. I passed the day picking the tart and less-than-abundant crop of lowbush blueberries and trying, unsuccessfully, to figure out how to catch a pike.
The following afternoon I worked the hillside for berries and listened anxiously for the drone of a floatplane, but only heard the pulsations.
I was on my hands and knees picking berries when I was startled by a rushing sound. I rolled over and yanked out my pistol, figuring it was a bear.
Ten yards away, six exhausted bull caribou, tongues lolling, sprinted by without so much as looking at me. I followed the youngest with the pistol sights just behind the shoulder. I thought about ending my hunger. Instead, the six continued running and I bitterly ate a blueberry.
A howl rose out of the valley. Seconds later it was answered by the rest of the pack. They howled back and forth until they were united. I guessed they were feasting on a caribou, probably a companion of the bulls I’d just seen.
That evening, resolved that Ben and Ed weren’t coming, I made a half-hearted effort to find the kill. I was so hungry and weakened I would have eaten just about anything. Creeping through the willows was physically and mentally exhausting. It wasn’t long before I gave up and sat on a tussock.
A howling roused me from despair. I looked back to see the white wolf pacing back and forth and studying me.
I wasn’t sure what I believed the howling meant anymore. I didn’t care. It was enough just to listen.
• Bjorn Dihle is a Juneau writer. He can be reached at bjorndihle@yahoo.com.
