Wolf: Defining the Dispossessed

The gray wolf loped across a pasture 100 yards off the gravel road. Wood Tick stopped the truck as the three of us froze in awe at the size, the mere presence, of the lone wild one. He'd gone as far as our stretched necks could reach when I yelled, "Out of the truck!" Anything for a few more moments. He was focused; soon disappeared. I turned back towards the truck, stunned to see two more wolves behind us, only 50 yards away. They stood, watching us. I slowly moved towards them for a closer look. One turned and sped up the side of the mountain; the other soon followed. Wolf mystique: now you see them, now you don't. Carole and I were ecstatic as we climbed into the truck, deep in the throes of our incredible luck. To get a long, close look is rare. Wood Tick was beside himself. He'd just seen his first wolves at short range and didn't have his rifle. "I could have saved 100 deer," he said. He didn't know that wolf season was due to end at sunset that very day., as the MT game commission would decide against extending the season one more time -- it was mating season.

It has not been easy sharing a domicile with a wolf-hater. I'm hard pressed to find anyone in this neck of the woods who supports their re-introduction. Coming from Colorado, the Montana vitriol has been a shock. But I've listened; stretching my ears to hear the stories, struggling to understand. I also accompanied Wood Tick most everyday of bow and rifle season last fall. To hear him tell it, the populations of deer and elk have been decimated by wolves. He and most Montana hunters say the reintroduction never should have happened. It's true that populations of deer, elk and moose are down in Montana. Some say they have disappeared entirely from certain areas. There's something happening out there in the woods, but I don't believe it's all wolves.

In the second season since wolves were de-listed from the Endangered Species protection, hunters in Montana shot 166 wolves, 75 percent of the statewide quota of 220. That's not counting the bounty of the "SSS Club: Shoot, Shovel, Shut-Up." I've heard stories of locals who collect tails. Make no mistake: for every wolf legally shot more have been poached. While the official wolf season grows in quotas and time spans, a $600,000 predator-prey study is under way at the University of Montana. So far it has shown that mountain lions are the biggest elk calf predator in the area, followed by black bears and wolves (tied). That study continues, as everyone waits for the science to catch up with the guns on the ground. Wood Tick and I didn't see many elk this past hunting season; but we also saw no wolves, and only a few tracks, and no carcasses of eaten game.

The high elk and deer populations were past reflections of an unnatural order; years of nursing populations for hunters. While those who wish should be able to feed their families with wild game, the issue goes  beyond statistics. The wolf represents some deep, dark force for men who struggled to lay claim on the  west. Around these parts (NW Montana; Libby-Kalispell) those who scorn lobo proudly show off new 'wolf guns,' their hatred laced with excitement. Some believe that dumping wolves and grizzlies is the government's way of pushing marginal white people off the land and into towns; forced to buy mass-produced meat, plunked onto Styrofoam, wrapped in cellophane.

Humans have always defended food sources. A best friend shoots ravens who threaten her chickens. Coyotes, lions and bears are domestic farmer targets. In these parts people farm the forest. Wood Tick feels justified in protecting 'his' elk, deer and moose, which translates into his way of life. But there's something else at work here, that borders  the cosmological. Wolf as a lightening rod for people's powerlessness. Wolf symbolizes "Other," fear of what can not be controlled. I've grown accustomed to wolf diatribes sprinkled  with the n-word. You'd think the alpha female wore a burka.

I recently sat at a table where middle-aged white men discussed soaking sponges in bacon grease and throwing them where they spotted wolf tracks (they're eaten, expand and animal dies a slow death); rubbing hamburger in an artificial sweetener that kills canines; soaking horse shit in antifreeze. The dominant ones can not stand the wild ones; while they proclaim membership in the kill club they are scared to death of grizzlies wolves and lions, the very essence of their wild home. Meanwhile, management of wildlife becomes the new evolution. Down in Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, where the wolf option has been turned down, sharp shooters with night scopes and silencers quietly shoot an elk herd that has grown beyond the park's healthy sustainability.

Wolf in the not-so-wild west has added complication to a not-so-natural world. They howl as I ski through the forest, stop me mid-glide, mesmerized. My psyche longs to hear them, see their sign. I also thrill to see elk and moose, cougar and bear. I believe vehemently in the right to sustain one's self and family from the land; to own guns for protection, food and sport. The once-exterminated have returned to their natural lands to find more prey base than should have been possible. Meanwhile, I wonder if Wood Tick would actually shoot a wolf? He adores canines; doesn't shoot what he can't eat.

Wolves can not help that their reintroduction climaxed in a larger context of a frazzled, fear-laced world. In the midst of a disintegrating status quo, what does the wolf teach us about ourselves? Wolf calls us to task,  forces us to recognize the biological, physical and spiritual implications for the wild west we fervently love ... and need.

Lupercalia: Season of the Wolf

We had just finished a walk on water to a small island; frozen steps across a white world. The only humans were ice fishermen sitting in lawn chairs a half a mile away, ice augers at their sides. I stepped off the bank, into a half foot of snow and drew a ten foot heart with my footsteps -- a valentine to my two companions. Perhaps that's why the magic ones showed up. Valentine's day is the ancient celebration of heat; Lupa, the wolf, the symbol of the instinct to breed. I'd noticed their fist-sized tracks in the snow for weeks, dotted with urine scent marks and digs.

 We'd driven several miles from the heart when we spotted him running across a field. Wolf? Could it be? We jumped from the truck, awestruck at his size and grace; watched until he strode out of sight. I turned back to the truck and there stood two more up the road, side-by-side. I began to walk towards them. One fled, one stayed. Our eyes locked, her expression and demeanor were curious; nary a hint of hostility. I moved closer and she disappeared into the thick-pined hill.

Valentine's Day is the remnant of Lupercalia, so named for Goddess Romina, the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome; so named, before then, for the holy recognition of sexual heat that drives instinct. The Pope banned the church elite from participating in Lupercalia Festivals in 492 AD. Eventually, like most holidays now in existence, the pagan celebration was tamed and integrated into church, thus, Saint Valentine's Day.

Bird songs have lengthened and become more melodic; urine is tinted with blood. Mating is on. The forest is full of lust. This morn, as I laid in morning's darkness, a low, lonely howl seeped through the bedroom walls. "Lest (lust) you forget me," she implied. Not a chance.

Goddess and the Groundhog

Ever so gently, the world stirs.
New bird songs are in the air.
Ice recedes from the riversides.
The sun feels hotter upon the skin.
The soul smiles in response longer days.

It is Candlemas; Imbolc to those with Celtic pasts ... the ancient Feast Day of Brighid, Goddess of Poets, Healers and Smiths. She lives deep within old memory, her presence woven this day into whirligig crosses of straw and rushes; hung by the door for protection. 

I revel in the richness of this time, the kick-off to the sensual perfecta: Imbolc, Lupercalia (Valentine's Day) and Spring Equinox. As the earth thaws and awakens, so do the bodies that inhabit the planet. Imbolc is the time of foreplay. The great tease. The taste of spring in the midst of winter. She dares us to trust in summer's return.

People once lit candles to give thanks for the sun's return on what was considered the first day of spring.  At sundown I will strike a match and burn the once-aromatic Solstice evergreen that symbolized life in winter's dark. I will find moments to place my bare feet on the still-cold earth. And I will take a jar of pesto from the freezer. Made from last season's crop of fresh basil, tonight I'll dollop the taste of summer onto pasta.

Any one whose ancestors came from Europe can lay claim to Celtic influence. On a day when the country awaits word on Pennsylvania's Punxsutawney Phil and his shadow, I prefer to mingle with the Goddess  ... to follow the dictates of olden times ...  "Go down on your knees, do homage, and let blessed Brigid enter the house."