The Timber Wolf at Home
The War between Ranger and Canis Lupus Over the Deer
of Algonquin Park
By
W. Lacey Amy
Illustrated
with Photographs by the Author
From
Outing Magazine, 1913, Volume 62
The
timber wolf has no squatters’ rights. Untold generations of him have roamed
Algonquin Park, in Northern Ontario, without hindrance or contest of his
claims, but for fifteen years the forces of the law have been turned to his
dispossession. Through the rigors of that Northern winter a score of determined
men have only to keep warm and wield the hand of Cain against the wolves that
find a tidbit in every thicket of the Park, And wolf-hunting in Algonquin
Park, less than two hundred miles north of Toronto, is too kingly a sport to
justify its reservation for the ranger.
The pleasure of
wolf-hunting to the ranger is not in the excitement of the chase, but in the
stiffened gray body that lies at his feet. Even the fifteen dollars bounty does
not change the wolf from enemy to game. I have seen more joy in the face of a
ranger at the sight of a bare shank of poisoned venison that would kill a dozen
wolves than when he is rolling up the wolf skin to present for his
fifteen dollars. The man who lives where the deer look mildly at him over a
nearby shrub is apt to think more of his wards than of the Government check.
In the late fall, before the ice is formed, the
rangers make their rounds by canoe, fastening their strychnine-filled venison
by nails to the fallen timber on the islands. Later they come periodically in
pairs across the ice to examine the bait, traveling their ten to twenty-five
miles a day on snowshoes and always watching keenly for the snow-covered mound
that means a dead enemy. But in these days the “tricks” of commerce have
interfered so much with the potency of the white powder that missing bait
without the bodies of the diners rouses the suspicions of the rangers.
One old fellow looked in disgust on his fifth bait
cleaned to the bone without a dead wolf in sight. Seizing the colored bottle,
he emptied into his hand enough of the powder to wipe out the wolf species,
dipped his tongue into it, and grunted angrily. “Just as I thought,” he
growled. “Alum!” As we were twelve miles from the nearest antidote I gave
thanks.
There is need for war on the wolves of Algonquin
Park. Around parts of three of its sides extend wild lands where they roam
unmolested, and the game protection of that two thousand square miles brings
them down in packs that grow little smaller as the years pass. When the
shooting season opens around the Park the deer turns at the crack of a rifle or
the bay of a hound and makes straight for the haven he has learned to trust.
Deer will light their way toward the Park in the face of hunters and dogs with
a determination and daring that speaks well for law enforcement there. And once
inside the Park a revolver would bring them down in scores.
After the deer comes the timber wolf. During the
early part of last winter a ranger, in his trail down the west side of the Park,
counted the tracks of fifty-two timber wolves going in and but two leaving. The
wolf lives on the deer. One ranger alone found last winter the carcasses of
thirty-one deer that had been pulled down. Some of these had been partly eaten,
but others had not even been bled. A string of dead deer will mark the track of
a pack of wolves that have been killing for the lust of blood. And the pursuit
of those that escape seriously interferes with the fecundity of the does.
The danger to man of the timber wolf of the Park
is not yet decided. Within reservation years no man has been attacked, but
that is probably because other food is so plentiful and easy to capture. Even
the rangers are learning to respect where they hate. The visitor to the lone
winter-resort hotel shudders at the mention of the wolf and hugs the grate or
the bedclothes when the dismal howl comes through the darkness. But until last
winter the rangers vied with each other in expressions of contempt—even while
it was noticeable that not one of them would linger afield when the sun was
sinking and the ringing yelp came over the neighboring hill. One of the oldest
rangers admitted to me that he has never got over the shudder that goes down
his back when he hears a wolf, and he has poisoned and shot more wolves than
any other ranger in the Park.
Early last winter one of the most scornful of the
rangers was induced to alter his opinion. Crossing Lost Dog Lake one late
afternoon, he saw three wolves coming rapidly toward him across the ice. Being
unarmed, but thinking to give them a scare, he dodged behind some brush on a
small island he was passing and awaited their approach. His part of the program
went off splendidly. Just as the wolves were alongside he rushed toward them
with a terrible yell. But the wolves failed to catch the cue. Instead of
running wildly away, they stood still and waited.
The ranger’s rush slowed down noticeably, and one
of the wolves, a huge fellow with a limp ear, sat down with ennui. The rush not
only slowed down but swerved aside and made for the nearest shore. And the
wolves rose and followed. Every now and then the leader seemed to make up his
mind to end the thing right away, but his rush toward the ranger was
fortunately always stayed by a variety of shrieks and gesticulations that kept
the ingenuity of the ranger hard at work until the shore was reached.
By that time the man had worked up such a respect
for the timber wolf that he was undecided whether to climb a tree or risk a
dash under the darkening branches for the next lake where his shelter-house was.
The wolves were evidently as much afraid of him among the trees as he was of
them, and after a long, challenging howl, loped off northwards.
At any rate, the wolf has proved his delight in
frightening man. An employee of the hotel, while fishing through the ice of
Cranberry Lake, was witness to the pulling down of a deer by a pack of wolves.
Filled with the expressed contempt of the rangers, he succeeded in driving the
animals from their prey. But when he set off for the hotel the wolves kept at
his heels, and through that mile of bush they were never more than twenty yards
away, retreating before him, stopping when he stood still, and rushing on as
he dashed away. And it was not the length of the walk that soaked his shirt
long before he reached the hotel.
On one of our longer trips, during the time I
spent with the rangers in the chase of the wolves, we had taken with us the
superintendent’s team of Great Danes. As we lay in the shelter-house one night,
the howls of the wolves all around us made sleep impossible, and as we hitched
up in the early morning light they were so close that the dogs could scarcely
be controlled. When we started the wolves collected just over a ridge and kept
pace with us through the trees within two hundred yards. After traveling some
time in this way, there came an unaccountable silence, and a few minutes later
the howls broke loose a half mile distant. Again for a moment there was only
the sound of the harness bells and the scrunch of the snowshoes.
Of a sudden the howls came again with renewed
vigor, and this time they were making straight for us at full speed. In a few
seconds they were just over the ridge again and still coming furiously on. The
dogs were tugging madly to be free, for they have learned to hate the wolf as
fiercely as the ranger. Obviously it was wise to be prepared. Three of us stood
with rifles ready, while the driver of the dogs loosed them from the traces and
held them in hand. Thus we faced the oncoming animals. At that moment there was
no contempt in our feelings. I think I felt even more than respect.
The hideous howling came through the trees, on and
on, climbed the ridge at undiminished speed—and, just as we were sighting for a
shot, suddenly ceased. For three uncomfortable minutes there was dead silence,
save for the controlled whining of the straining
dogs. Then the clamor broke loose again—but at our backs. The wolves had come
almost within sight in front and had
then passed silently around us to give another scare from behind. Three times that morning they repeated the
performance, until we could read in their howls derisive laughter.
At one place we crossed their trail, and to me
there was but the one wolf mark. But the rangers read more and by following a
few yards we saw it divide into eight or ten. The pack had stepped so
accurately in the tracks of the leader that the novice would see but one wolf.
Frequently in our hunts we came across this method
of travel. Sometimes the single trail would break into a half dozen or more
without apparent reason, and a few yards later merge again into the one. Once
we followed for two miles across a lake a track that deceived even the rangers.
Only where the pack had started to enter the bush did we discover that four
wolves had been traveling as one. The largest of the pack had come last and
had covered with his huge paw the little unevennesses of the others.
Sometimes the fright instilled into newcomers
threatens serious results. Two lumbermen one evening, dropped from the train
that passes through a corner of the Park and made through the bush to a lumber
camp. The train crew had saturated them with wolf yarns until they were
prepared for the worst. When darkness fell and the wolves began to howl they
made a record up the nearest tree and sat for a long time waiting to be
surrounded. Forced down by the bitter cold, they ran a hundred yards and hit
the branches once more. Still there were no glistening eyes from the darkness,
and at last they became so chilled that a chance seemed worth taking. Dropping
to the snow, they gathered enough birch bark and dry boughs to make a circle
of fire in which to stand until daylight. The next morning the first wolf track
they crossed was more than half a mile away. A wolf howl is always very close
to the tenderfoot.
One night, as we lay in a shelter-house near the
railway, the howling of the wolves far up the track was suddenly interrupted
by a blood-curdling shriek from the
other direction. For five minutes, during which we wondered what new animal had
come to visit us, the howls and shrieks kept up an animated dialogue. Recognizing
at last something human in the sound, we dressed and made toward it, Down the
track we found a man huddled against an old shed that did duty in summer as a
station, and when we called to him his shrieks only redoubled. He had dropped
from the bumpers of a freight train at the approach of a brakeman, and the
wolf howls had driven him almost insane with fear.
What reason, other than to frighten, induces them
to gather around the shelter-houses where the rangers lie, I cannot determine.
On a dark night we were awakened by a single bark as if from someone’s pet dog
that had got lonesome. But an instant later came a terrible howl at the very
door, and a chorus joined in all around the shack. Three or four had selected a
big rock that stood right beside the window, evidently with the intention of
giving us the full benefit of the music. Without striking a light one of the
rangers seized his rifle and stood by while I noiselessly opened the door. On
the instant the noise ceased with a sudden “yelp.” only to resume as soon as
the cold forced me to close the door again. Twice we tried, but it was no use.
Then the howling started across the stream in an
old lumber yard, and, thinking to creep close enough to shoot, we skirted some
thin ice and entered the piles of old lumber and slabs. All around us the
wolves howled and barked, but in the darkness we could see nothing. For a
moment the sky grew brighter, and the ranger’s rifle spoke immediately. With
the crack every howl ceased, and, the light fading, we returned to the
shelter-house whence the chorus had drawn us.
The next morning we followed the wolf tracks to
the ice. There they had spread out in fear of the thin ice, each one of
thirteen making his own track. All around the deserted shanty of a summer
camper they had wandered, some of them even jumping to the roof, but not one
had entered the open door. In the lumber yard we found our wolf—a bit of rotten
slab leaning in the snow. But the huge leaps of the fleeing wolves showed how
badly we had frightened them.
In Algonquin Park the cunning of the wolf
develops. As soon as he leaves the wilds of Quebec his education begins. There
is reason to believe that only the newcomers take the bait. A pack of eight
were tracked across the Ottawa River into the Park. They had carefully skirted
a small settlement in their way, but a few miles farther on the pursuing
rangers came upon the entire eight piled dead around a place where bait had
been. Not one had gone a dozen yards after eating.
On the other hand, the Park wolf treats the bait
and traps with every indignity. At one place, evidently a favorite visiting
place of wolves, a new ranger set a trap in the snow, carefully prepared with
all the precautions of mushed venison and burnt paper. Three days later he
found the trap still unsprung, but around it and right on top the wolves had
befouled the spot in a most insulting manner. The trap had taken the place of
the rock for the moment.
Frequently we were afforded proofs of their
contempt. Sometimes in their travels they would sheer to one side around a
bait, not even stopping to look at it, and often they used it as the center for
their gambols.
The new wolf will not cross the railway track. I
have followed the trails of packs that have stopped at the steel, run alongside
for a mile or two to find an opening, and then turned back to the north. But
the oldtimer is not above using the beaten snow between the rails for his path.
In spite of the numbers of wolves within the Park
they are not often seen. So acute of sight, hearing, and smell are they that it
is only when breaking out on a lake that one is apt to catch more than a
glimpse of them. The crunch of the snowshoe carries so far in the dead silence
of that region that man has little chance. During my trip I saw no more than
half a dozen, and all but two were gone as soon as seen.
I fired at one from eleven hundred yards, but only
the snow and the animal’s gait were disturbed. Another I saw one morning from
the shelter-house, leisurely trotting across the lake, like a good-natured
collie. That it deceived me has become one of the local jokes. The ranger I was
with jerked his rifle from the wall and fired through the doorway, and the
wolf, three hundred yards away, leaped into the air and then began to throw
himself around in the snow. Another bullet straightened his course for a
neighboring island, where we found him dead with his head resting against a
tree.
But while the wolf is seldom seen, he misses
nothing. Frequently we would backtrail and find that a pack had been following
us within a few yards. Once, after discovering this, we made a circle, and
round and round that circle we followed each other. Finally the wolves leaped
into the circle, and although we went around two or three times more we could
not see that they had left it. Probably they were watching us from inside in
wonder.
After we had returned to the shelter-house one day
for the noon meal we started out again within an hour. Just behind a rock
within a few yards of the house we saw the marks of several wolves that had
followed us and then spent some time gamboling almost within touch. Another
time, at the beginning of a long trail northward to Island Lake, we came upon
the trail of a big pack just beyond Joe Lake, tracks “steaming fresh,” as one
of the rangers put it. Presently the tracks came to a mysterious end, but we
picked them up over a log to one side where every wolf had leaped sideways
without previously shifting his feet. Not having time to follow, we passed on.
The next day we returned over the same trail, to
find that the pack had fallen in behind immediately after we had passed, had
followed us to the place where we had lunched, had waited there while we ate,
and then had dropped in behind again when we resumed our way. Where they had
leaped the log they had retired only to the top of a rise close by and had
stood to watch us over the top of a log. Then they had come straight down and
followed our trail.
The old story of the hard lot of the wounded
member of a pack is not borne out in Algonquin Park. On the contrary, we had a most striking demonstration of unselfishness
and affection between the members of a pack.
We had made a long round over thin ice to examine
some distant baits, and one of the rangers had remained behind at Linda’s Lake shelter-house
to dry his clothes after an unrehearsed dip. When we returned at dusk the
shelter-house was empty, and, our mate failing to return within a few minutes,
we started out along his trail. Before we had gone far we heard his call, and
later, in the candlelight of the shelter-house, he told us a story that has
made the wolf less repulsive to me.
While he was in the midst of his lunch, sitting
where he could see over the lake, a big buck and two does dashed from the woods
about nine hundred yards along the shore. A minute later a pack of eleven
wolves came slowly along their trail, their noses to the ground and their tails
wagging playfully as if engaged in a pleasant game. Before the ranger could
get his rifle three others broke cover a hundred yards nearer.
At the first shot one big fellow halted suddenly
and then commenced to run in a crazy circle. His two mates had leaped into the
air and disappeared into the bush, while the first eleven started madly across
the lake. Suddenly the wounded wolf raised his nose and uttered a peculiar,
ringing yelp. Immediately the whole pack turned and galloped fearlessly back.
The ranger emptied his magazine at them without effect—he admits he had buck
fever—and the pack did not hesitate until it had surrounded its wounded
brother. Then, in a compact body, the latter in the center, they trotted
across the lake.
Thinking the wounded wolf would not last long and
that the tracks would be easy to follow, the ranger finished his lunch before
starting in pursuit. He came upon their tracks into the bush on the far shore,
after skirting the treacherous ice, and all afternoon, mile after mile, he
followed the eccentric curves and circles, evidently the course of the one the
pack was protecting. Here and there the snow was trodden as if the wolves had
closed up on their injured mate to direct him into a straighter course. As the
afternoon went on he knew he was getting closer, although he could hear no
sound; at times the wolves had leaped away as if in fear, but had always
returned to urge their mate to harder efforts.
Across Owl and Raven lakes the trail led, and then
darkness was too close to risk further pursuit. An hour’s steady tramp by
compass toward the shelter-house covered the distance that had taken four hours
along the winding trail of the blood marks.
Of the strength of the wolf we had a striking
example one day after we had followed the trail of dead deer left by a
bloodthirsty pack. The largest of the wolves had broken away into the woods,
and on its trail we started. While one of the rangers followed the big marks up
over the hill two of us proceeded along a ravine toward a nearby lake in the
hope that the pack had come around to it. As we went along a sudden scurry
ahead directed our eyes to where a deer’s head was slowly sinking to the snow.
When we reached it life was extinct. At the same
instant the ranger above us shouted that the wolf had “jumped” a deer there not
one hundred and fifty yards away. The latter had been lying down, and when
startled by the wolf had at first tried to escape in high leaps, the wolf
rapidly overhauling it in long, low bounds. Later the deer had let itself out.
But it was too late. We could read in the snow where the wolf had caught up,
had run alongside a couple of leaps, and had then closed in. A splash of blood
showed where the deer had been hamstrung at the first gash as clean as a knife.
Another bound or two to the side, and then the wolf was on the deer’s back.
In that next bite
the backbone of the deer had been broken, the terrible teeth of the wolf
sinking so deep that the flesh could be lifted from the kidneys. The throat of
the helpless deer had then been attacked, but at that instant we had interfered.
With a score of
determined, experienced men seeking its destruction there would seem to be
little chance for the timber wolf in Algonquin Park. But so cunning does he
become, and so simple is escape in that land of wooded hill and hollow, that
the warfare is having but slow effect. And however many fall, there are more in
the wilds of the North to take their places. For miles their howls carry
through the clear silence of that northland; and yet, in their cunning, they
have pulled down deer within three hundred yards of a hotelful of guests
without being heard.
Some day the wolf
will be exterminated within the Park, but it will never be by the war within
its borders. Only thick settlement all around—thick enough to cut off the
manless territory to the north across the Ottawa River—will insure protection
for the deer that swarm the Government reserve in thousands. In the meantime
the wolves gambol amidst a never-ending feast, matching their wits against the
rangers, the victims of a guerilla warfare, not of sport.
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