Nick Jans - A Wolf Called Romeo

Copyright 2014 by Nick Jans

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhco.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Jans, Nick, date.
A wolf called Romeo / Nick Jans.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-547-85819-7 (hardback)

1. Romeo, 2009. 2. WolvesAlaskaBiography. 3. Human-animal relationshipsAlaska. 4. PoachingAlaska. I. Title.

SF 422.82. R 66 J 36 2014

636.9773092dc23

[B]

2013048435

e ISBN 978-0-547-85821-0
v1.0514

All photos courtesy of the author, with the following exceptions: , Park Myers in court: Michael Penn/Juneau Empire

Lines from Henry Bestons The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod reprinted with permission, estate of Catherine Beston Barnes.

In memory of Greg Brown

19502013

A friend to all living things

For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings, they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time.

HENRY BESTON

The Outermost House

The hard work of writing, though solitary, is never done alone. I am indebted to all who encouraged and aided me in this book, seven years in the living, and three in the making. Special thanks to Harry Robinson for being so generous with his memories; to Corry Donner, who read every word not once, but many times with a keen eye and good judgment; to my wife, Sherrie, who pushed me toward the telling and lived the story along with me; Tina Brown, Joel Bennett, and Vic Walker, steadfast friends throughout; Laurie Craig, map artist nonpareil; Susan Canavan at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, who believed; and Elizabeth Kaplan, agent extraordinaire, who guided me. Special thanks to researchers Dr. Vic Van Ballenberghe and Patrick Walsh, who reviewed the manuscripts scientific content. I also offer heartfelt thanks to many who shared their experiences and knowledge, including John Hyde, Michael Lowman, Ryan Scott, Neil Barten, Doug Larsen, Matt Robus, Lem Butler, Chris Frary, Pete Griffin, Ron Marvin, Jon Stetson, John Neary, Kim Turley, Denise Chase, Lynn Schooler, Nene Wolfe, Arnie Hanger, Elise Augustson, Sue Arthur, Harriet Milks, Alaska State Trooper Dan Sadloske, Dr. William Palmer, and dozens more Ive no doubt overlooked. I extend my profound respect to the many researchers who have illuminated the world of wolves, and to the Inupiaq hunters, especially Clarence Wood and Nelson Greist, Sr., who tried to teach me what they knew.

Are you sure about this? my wife, Sherrie, breathed. She glanced over her shoulder toward the comforting glow of our house on the lakeshore, then gazed ahead where a black wolf stood on the ice in the gathering twilight. Bundled against the Southeast Alaska cold, wed taken along just one of our three dogsour female yellow Lab, Dakotah, whod always been perfectly mannered and under voice control around wildlife, from bears to porcupines.

Despite some understandable jitters, Sherrie was so thrilled she was about to jump out of her skin. After all these years of trying and not seeing, there it was: her first wolf. Perfect, I thought, and easier than it ever should be. But as we walked farther out on the ice, things changed. The wolf, instead of watching from the tree line as he had several times with me, angled toward us at a trot. Then he broke into a bounding lope, snow flying beneath his paws, jaws agape. I drew Sherrie toward me and reached for Dakotahs collar. My vision sharpened, and synapses crackled. Id seen my share of wolves over the years, some point-blank close, and hadnt quite shifted into panic mode. But anyone who claims he wouldnt get an adrenaline jolt from a running wolf coming straight in, with no weapon and no place to run, and loved ones to defend, is either brain-dead or lying.

In a few heartbeats, the wolf had closed the distance to forty yards. He stood stiff-legged, tail raised above his back, his unblinking stare fixed on usa dominant posture, less than reassuring. Then, with a moaning whimper, Dakotah suddenly wrenched free of the two fingers Id hooked through her collar and bounded straight at the wolf. A tone of desperation sharpening her voice, Sherrie called again and again, but there was no stopping that dog. The Lab skidded to a stop several body lengths short of contact and stood tall, her own tail straight out, and as we watched, mouths open, the wolf lowered his to match. With the two so close, I had my first clear idea of just how large the wolf really was. Dakotah, a stocky, traditional-style female Lab, weighed in at a muscular fifty-six pounds. The black wolf towered over her, more than double her weight. Just his head and neck matched the size of her torso. A hundred twenty pounds, I figured. Maybe more.

The wolf stepped stiff-legged toward Dakotah, and she answered. If she heard our calls, she gave no sign. She was locked on and intent, but utterly silentnot at all her normal happy-Lab self. She seemed half-hypnotized. She and the wolf regarded each other, as if each were glimpsing an almost-forgotten face and trying to remember. This was one of those moments when time seems to hold its breath. I lifted my camera and snapped off a single frame.

As if that tiny click had been a finger snap, the world began to move again. The wolfs stance altered. Ears perked high and held narrow, he bounced forward a body length, bowed on his forelegs, then leaned back and lifted a paw. Dakotah sidled closer and circled, her tail still straight out. The eyes of each were locked on the other. With their noses a foot apart, I pressed the shutter once more. Again, the sound seemed to break a spell. Dakotah heard Sherries voice at last and bounded back toward us, turning her back, at least for now, on whatever call of the wild shed just heard. We watched for long minutes with Dakotah softly whining at our sides, staring toward the dark, handsome stranger who stood staring our way and whining back, a high-pitched keening that filled the silence. Half-stunned, Sherrie and I murmured back and forth, wondering at what wed seen and what it meant.

But it was getting darktime to go. The wolf stood watching our retreat, his tail flagging, then raised his muzzle to the sky in a drawn-out howl, as if crushed. At last he trotted west and faded into the trees. As we walked toward home in the deepening winter evening, the first stars flickered against the curve of space. Behind us, the wolfs deep cries echoed off the glacier.

With that first close meeting one evening in December 2003, a wild black wolf became part of our livesnot just as a fleeting shape in the dusk, but as a creature we and others would come to know over a span of years, just as he came to know us. We were neighbors, that much is certain; and though some will scoff, I say friends as well. This is a tale woven of light and darkness, hope and sorrow, fear and love, and perhaps, a little magic. Its a story of our time on this shrinking world, one I need to tellmost of all, to myself. Late at night, it fills the spaces between heartbeats, nudges me awake. By speaking, I hope not to be rid of it, nor even to understand, but just to set down all the facts, the musings, and unanswered questions as best I can. Years from now, at least Ill know that I did more than dream, and that once upon a time, there was a wolf we called Romeo. This is his story.