Thomas Prescott Superpack (43 page)

Chapter 30

I mentally gulped and said, “Did you say
wolves
?”

In fourth grade I was on a field trip to the zoo, and let’s just say there was an incident involving a seven-year-old Thomas Prescott and the wolf exhibit.
I vaguely remember a teacher screaming, “Thomas, how did you get in there?” I believe I responded, “I want to pet the doggies.” Long story short, I ended up on television, the zoo was closed “indefinitely,” my teacher was fired, I got seventeen stitches, a wolf was “put down,” and I wet my bed every other night until I was twelve.

She nodded.
“Yep, wolves.”

I thought back to all the wildlife exhibits in the adjoining room.
There had been no mention of wolves. I asked, “Why wolves?”

“There used to be lots of wolves in the North Cascades.
But over the course of the last sixty years they have slowly been eradicated.”

No thanks to me.

She added, “They’re an important part of the ecosystem.”

“I didn’t think they were still endangered.”

“Well, in Canada and other parts of the Americas they’re thriving.
There are more than 50,000 wolves up in Canada, and they have made a comeback in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Idaho. And most recently they were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park. But here in Washington and a couple other states where they used to roam free, wolf populations are nearly depleted.”

I nodded along.

“Wolves became nearly extinct in the lower forty-eight states in the early part of the twentieth century because settlers believed wolves caused widespread livestock losses. They were constantly targeted by large-scale predator eradication programs sponsored by the federal government. By the time wolves were finally protected by the Endangered Species Act of 1973, they had been exterminated from the lower forty-eight states.”

I did not know that.

She nodded along to herself and said, “Wolves—more than any other species—can be credited with keeping the other hunters in check. They are what we call a super-predator, which means they eat other predators. They keep the deer population down, elk, caribou. There are countless other animals that rely on wolves to eat. Birds, small rodents; other carnivores that aren’t capable of kills on their own.”

“Why do people have to vote for whether or not they can be reintroduced to the area?”

“Wolves are—and always will be—an extremely controversial animal. There’s an old saying: ‘Wolves can live with people. People can’t always live with wolves.’”

She was preaching to the choir on this one.

She continued, “Wolves have always had a mystique about them.
Think about it,
Little Red Riding Hood
,
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
, even
The Three Little Pigs
. It’s more myth than anything else, but it’s ingrained in each of us at such a young age that it’s hard to separate the animal from the lore.”

“You missed the part about the werewolf.”

She smiled. “That one started in Europe. They believed the devil was personified in the form of a werewolf—half-man, half-wolf. These terrifying creatures were supposed to live in the forests and to feast on human flesh at night.”

“Can we talk about Ebola?”

She laughed. She had a big dimple in her right cheek.

“It isn’t all bad.
Wolves are revered by many cultures. In Native American mythology the gray wolf represents the figure of the master and sage; its teeth are a talisman, ensuring courage and liberty. There is a dual aspect to the symbolic value of the wolf, on one hand dark and terrifying, on the other hand, benevolent and life-saving. In some cultures it accompanies souls to the hereafter. Hades, the Greek god of the Underworld, wore a wolf skin. And Etrusan, the god of death, had the ears of a wolf.”

I nodded, like I’d known Etrusan personally.

She asked, “Are you familiar with Etrusan.”

“I follow him on Twitter.”

She laughed again and I switched the subject before she got going about the Aztecs. I said, “So tell me about Ballot Measure 217.”

“After they reintroduced wolves to Yellowstone and parts of Idaho, there were some ramifications on the surrounding communities.
In the following years, a few states passed bills that would prohibit the introduction of the gray wolf. Washington was one of those states. A bill was passed in 2006. Defenders of Wildlife and other such organizations have been fighting to have it repealed each of the last three years.”

“So the repeal passed?”

“In November.
Third try.”

Ellen Gray must have felt strongly on the issue to get it on the ballot on three separate occasions.

I took a step forward and said, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Riley. Riley Peterson.”

I introduced myself.
Then I added, “I’m not really a bounty hunter.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured as much.”

I smiled meekly.

Riley said, “I’m about to go feed them if you want to tag along?”

“Feed who?”

“The wolves.”

Well, that depended entirely on if she wanted to watch a thirty-three year old man piss himself. But I was just the least bit curious to know if I’d conquered this little phobia of mine. Plus, Park Ranger Riley made me tingle. Well, not me. It.

I said, “Why not?”

She walked past me to a wooden cabinet and opened one of the doors. She slipped a couple things in her pocket, then turned around. She had two PowerBars in her hand and said, “Want one?”

“Sure.”

She handed me a bar, which was Banana, and asked, “So do you, like, play for the Seahawks or something?”

. . .

I followed behind Riley until we reached the snowmobiles. Another snowmobile was parked near the other two now, only facing the opposite direction. A faded bumper sticker on the front read, “I love Chachi.” I’d only known Riley for going on eleven minutes but I still found this fitting. 

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to ride shotgun or if I were expected to drive one of the other sleds—as Riley referred to them.
Riley took it upon herself to clear up this matter. She turned and said, “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to hop on.”

I hopped on.

The fit was tight. There wasn’t anywhere to put my hands, so I folded them in my lap. Riley tilted her head up and said, “Better hold on.”

I shrugged and wrapped my arms around her midsection.
She was just a tiny little thing underneath the large jacket. Riley turned around and said dryly, “I meant hold on to the
hand holds
.”

Whoops.

I undid my hands and looked down at the thin bar jetting from both sides of the snowmobile.
I took hold of both and said, “Sorry.”

She turned her head around and said, “Don’t be.”
Then she gave me a soft wink.

Riley hit a red button, the engine coughed, caught,
then purred. She gunned the throttle and the snowmobile shot forward, slicing through the open area behind the building crisscrossed in fresh tracks and day-old tracks nearly wiped clean by Mother Nature. Riley followed an invisible path, zipping around trees, plowing through valleys, skirting around boulders.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I would learn a substantial amount of information about Park Ranger Riley Peterson.
For one, she wasn’t a park ranger at all. She had her masters degree in biology. She had thought about becoming a vet but didn’t think she would thrive in an office building. And two, she was a diehard Seahawks fan. She rambled on about their season, who was playing well, who was dogging it, why the front office were “a bunch of retards,” why they should have “just kicked a field goal,” why Hasselbeck should get hair plugs and so on and so forth.

We came within a stone’s throw of a raging river and stopped. Riley hopped off the snowmobile and said, “I’ll just be a second.”
She started trudging through the snow. She came back two minutes later with two vials filled with river water. She said, “We check the pH a couple times a week.”

I nodded, then asked, “What’s the name of that river?”

“The Snohomish. It starts up in Canada, runs for about ninety miles, and eventually empties into the Sound.”

I found this interesting, but I wasn’t sure why.

She continued on for another couple minutes about the different species of fish and other animal life that inhabited the river. I felt like I was on a field trip and I would have to fill out a handout when we finished. 

We picked our way through a dense portion of trees, then popped out into vast whiteness.
Literally a lake of snow. The only thing breaking the horizon was tall metal fencing girdling the perimeter. The fencing was about eight feet high, with the top couple feet curving inward, resembling something of a lowercase “f.” Within this haven, sitting at the far back right corner, was a small brick building.

Riley brought the snowmobile to a halt and said over the engine, “This is the den.”

Impressive.

“And exactly how big is the den?”

“Well, it isn’t actually a den—that’s just a stupid name Herb came up with. The fencing extends into those trees down there and down the slope. About seven acres. We want the wolves to have as realistic an experience as possible before we release them into the wild. It increases their chances for survival dramatically.”

“When did the project start?”

“December first. We’re doing a soft release with this pack, mainly because there are pups involved. We plan to release them into the park the second week of January.”

She explained that a hard release was when you simply took the wolves and literally dumped them in a new area.
A soft release let the animals acclimate to their new climate in an enclosure, usually between one and three acres (their’s was larger than normal) with the full release several weeks later.

“Who’s in charge of the project?”

“Well, once the red tape was cleared it was basically me, Herb, and the Professor. Herb and I are in charge of the feeding and the tracking. The Professor pretty much does everything else.” 

“Who is the Professor?”

“Professor Koble. Guy in charge of the project. Half these wolves he had a hand in rescuing. He’s different.”

I nodded.

She decided to elaborate.
“These wolves are his life. He used to be a professor, but he quit and tracked wolves for fifteen years. I don’t think he ever felt accepted by humanity. But the wolves, I think he felt like they never judged him. You should see him interact with them; it’s like he’s one of them. It’s incredible, really. I don’t know what he would have done if the repeal hadn’t passed this year.”

Well, he had Ellen Gray to thank for that.
I hope he sent her a thank you card.

Riley lifted up in the seat.
She released the throttle with her right glove and leveled it against the horizon. She lifted her chin with a smile and said, “There they are.”

I followed her gaze.
There were eleven in all. A couple were snow-white, two were black, and the rest were a different shade of gray. The sight of them sent shivers down my spine.

 
Riley slowly eased the throttle and we started forward. The wolves were positioned on a ridge a quarter mile into the enclosure, and all eleven heads snapped in our direction. Twenty-two eyes watched our every move. Just studying. Watching. Scouting. Strategizing. Planning. To kill me.

Riley parked the snowmobile outside a gated entrance and we hopped off.
I looked back over my shoulder towards the wolves, but there was no trace of them. They’d vanished. 

Riley unchained the fence and pulled the large gate aside.
She drove the snowmobile through the opening and to the small brick building.

I asked, “What is this place?”

“It’s the barn.”

“The barn?”

“This used to be a bunker of sorts for soldiers during the war. A refuge, really. They traversed these mountains on cross country skis way back when. The place hasn’t been used for years. We converted it into a holding stall for the project.”

“A holding stall?
For what, the wolves?”

“Not exactly.”

We entered the building, a musty draft washing over us.
The smell was strong, similar to what a petting zoo might smell like. A small outer room was filled with equipment. I guessed it was used to track the wolves. Riley confirmed this.

Two sets of cross-country skis leaned against the wall.
Riley noticed my eyeing them and said, “Sometimes it’s easier to get around on the skis than a snowmobile. The trees are pretty thick in this area.”

I nodded.
A gun was lying on one of the small counters and I picked it up.