“We went into the wilderness in the late autumn and prepared the base camp. I made preliminary investigation and identified the wolf pack I would study – a pack some twenty strong – and the outline of their territory, where they would remain as long as the food supply permitted. Then it was necessary to wait, for wolves seldom hunt the moose until winter. In open water an adult moose can wade out so far that the pack must swim to reach him, and that is not a pleasant prospect for the wolves. But in winter the water is frozen, the beaver keep to their lodges, the snowshoe hares are insignificant meals for pack strength, and then there is the moose.
“Well, winter came.
“Charles and I followed the wolf pack. It was a time of great physical hardship and exhaustion, of dogged perseverance. Often we were away from the cabin for weeks at a time, as the pack ranged over the outer limits of their land, describing a wide and predictable circle which allowed us to anticipate them and often wait for them. This was necessary for they travelled far faster than we could follow. I learned many things but my main goal was to witness the confrontations between the pack and the moose. Seldom did I manage to be present at the actual kill, although often we arrived before the remains were devoured. This was important. It was absolutely essential that I gather data about the victims – to do an autopsy on the remains. This was no simple matter. For one thing, a healthy wolf will eat about fifteen pounds of flesh a day and, if we were far behind the kill, there was little left to examine. On the other hand, when we managed to arrive before their first hunger had been satisfied, the pack was understandably reluctant to surrender their feast to science. These were wolves of the wilds, they had not yet learned fear of man, and to shoot them would have completely ruined the natural balance existing there. The pack regarded us with curiosity and, when they sensed no fear in us, with respect. Undoubtedly they saw us as fellow carnivores, but not as rivals, as they would have another wolf pack or a fox, and territorial defence seldom extends beyond the genus. So my findings were difficult and not extensive, but I persevered and gradually certain aspects of the relationship began to take form.
“Have you ever seen a moose, full grown in the forest? The wolves had a healthy respect for their prey, and it is understandable. Seven feet tall at the shoulders, weighing a ton and a half, unpredictable in mood and often changing from docile grazing to a thundering charge without a period of transition . . . they are formidable indeed. Often a moose in deep snow can outdistance the wolves with that awkward, long-legged stride. More often they choose to stand defiantly against the pack and invariably the wolves move on in these cases, searching easier prey. I witnessed this several times and came to the conclusion that the pack tested at least ten moose for every one against which they pressed the attack. This conclusion led me to predictions which only sufficient autopsy examinations could prove and I pressed on, faithfully inspecting gnawed bones, scraps of hide, uncoiled lengths of intestine. Eventually it was enough to convince me my predictions were correct -that the wolves’ depredations were essential to the moose’s survival as a species; that they systematically culled the old and the infirm and left the finest specimens to benefit from limited winter food supplies. Invariably my examinations of the remains showed the same results. The victims suffered from bone disease, cysts in the lungs, tapeworm. Their teeth were worn with age and an abundance of ticks implied they suffered from a weakened condition due to innumerable other diseases. And every victim I examined, discounting calves, proved to be more than seven years old – beyond their prime. Without the wolves these old moose would have lived for a good many years yet, consuming vast amounts of food and depriving the young members of the species.”
Claymore had begun to talk rapidly, warming to a subject dear to him. Now he paused, glanced sideways at me, and shrugged; smiled thinly.
“But all this is common knowledge now,” he said, apologetically. “I must not bore you with this. Another aspect of vanity, eh? In my day it was just coming into acceptance and I shamelessly feel pride in my own small role in bringing it to light; in bringing it, perhaps a trifle sooner than it would have been. Still too late, of course. Too late against ignorance. I fear we shall both live to see the day when the last wolf is mangy and cowed in a zoo, when these exhibits are labelled extinct, or the museum equips an expedition to seek the last remaining pack. Perhaps. Still, they fight for survival. This is the first necessity. On the day a creature ceases to flee or to snarl, then it must die . . .
“But enough of this rambling theory. Theories hold true for all, but I must tell you my own experience.”
I waited. When again he spoke his tone had changed. He still spoke with intensity, but it was a subjective quality now and there was terror lurking restrained in the timbre of his voice . . .
“There came the day when circumstances forged the links of events – events engraved in the receptive awareness of aroused sensations. There were two separate disasters, insignificant in themselves but combining to form a sum greater than the parts. The first disaster came when Charles broke through the ice. We had travelled far from the base camp, skirting the frozen lake, and night came. We stopped to make our camp. I regretted the delay and was impatient to continue for the pack had not killed in several days and they were lean with hunger. I knew they would press an attack very soon, and hoped to be present. I was standing in the trees, looking in the direction the pack had taken, when I heard Charles cry out. I rushed back. A segment of the bank had collapsed beneath him and he had crashed through the ice. I saw his head bob in the cold water, one hand gripping the jagged splintered edge. I threw myself flat to spread my weight and grasped him; managed to haul him from the icy waters. He was gasping and shaking. The instant the air touched his clothing it began to crackle and harden. Fortunately we had already made the fire and I helped him to strip his clothing off, wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a stiff shot of brandy. For a long time he lay still beside the fire, shivering, his eyes pressed closed. Finally the chill left him and I saw he was all right. But he had a strange look in his eyes. The first words he spoke were, ‘My rifle . . . I’ve lost my rifle.’ Well, I assumed he was worried about the loss alone, and offered to replace the weapon when we returned from the field trip, but that was not what troubled him. He had lost his pack, including the tent, but it was the rifle which distressed him. He said that he would have to return to the cabin – to get his other gun before we continued on. I argued. Fate brought out my stubbornness, an ally of disaster. But Charles couldn’t conceive of going on without a weapon. I felt greatly frustrated. I knew the wolves would kill soon, and could not bring myself to miss the opportunity to witness the kill. I refused to go back. He refused, at first, to continue – did not even want to stop the night, but to go back in the darkness. He had completely changed. It was as if he had lost a vital organ instead of a rifle and all his taciturn confidence had vanished. Objectively, it was more interesting, a strange twist of the personality of a man who has come to rely on something apart from his own body. But subjectively I could not tolerate it. I could not bear to miss the opportunity ahead. I became angry and Charles, completely out of character as I’d known him, hung his head sullenly and accepted my abuse. I even, I fear, spoke of cowardice. Even this did not sting him to reply, other than to mutter, shaking his head, that a man could not stay in the woods without a gun. I carried no weapon, of course. But I saw no danger. I recalled his own assurance that he’d never known wolves to attack a man. ‘Not a man with a rifle,’ he mumbled. ‘But these wolves don’t know what a rifle is, how can that make a difference?’ I asked. He shrugged. ‘Maybe we might smell different without a weapon,’ he said. He kicked at the ground and swung his head from side to side and behaved like a spoiled child. But I was adamant and, after a long while, he reluctantly agreed to go on in the morning. Very reluctantly. And even then he continued to mutter about how impossible it was to go on without rifle and tent. I let him ramble on after he’d agreed; got into my sleeping bag beside the fire. His bag was lost but there were sufficient blankets and my groundsheet and he wrapped up in these. He was still muttering when I drifted into sleep.