- 12th Annual Young Alumni Essay Contest
- Schaal Prize: “Ad Mensam," Rebecca Hammock ’17, ’19M.A.
- 2nd Place: “The Absence of Silence," Ben Testani ’20
- Honorable Mention: “The Sacred Cat Rug," Jacqueline Cassidy ’15, ’16MSM
- Honorable Mention: “Now and Then," Meg Spesia ’19
- Honorable Mention: “A Pronouncement," Erik Carlson ’16
- Honorable Mention: “Forecast," Chris Parker ’22
- Honorable Mention: “The Glory," Mary-Kate Corry ’16
It is early June in the North Woods. I sit at the fore of a canoe that carries three. My classmates and I are paddling out to a small island in the middle of Plum Lake to record the plants we find growing there. We are college students attending Scientist Summer Camp — at least that’s what I call it. Officially, it is a Practicum in Field Environmental Biology. But long days of bird-surveying and insect-collecting invariably turn into longer nights of bonfire revelry, so I think “Scientist Summer Camp” is more to the point.
We are following a hunch. The depths of Plum Lake should be an impassable barrier for hungry deer. The protected island might be a refuge for wildflowers, evidence of a cascade of ecological interactions playing out before our eyes.
I am first onto land and first to realize that our hunch is dead wrong. Strewn across the ground are patches of taupe fluff, leading from the shore into the island’s dark understory. It takes a moment for me to recognize what this material is: the fur of a white-tailed deer.
So much for “refuge.”
Among the fur is another substance, darker and twisted into ropes. Excrement. Dung. Scat. It is held together by matted hair and interspersed with bits of bone. I cannot overstate the horror of this finding. Large piles of scat are made by large animals, and a large animal in the North Woods is not likely to be man’s best friend.
Still, we press on. We naively think ourselves full-fledged field biologists. Our hunger for discovery outpaces our drive for self-preservation.
Under the canopy we find the rest of the deer. First a femur. Then a jaw. Then the remaining skeleton, mangled and pulled apart like a turkey after Thanksgiving dinner. Behind the carcass is a cavernous hole obscured by deadwood.
“Whatever’s in there probably killed that deer,” Erin says.
“Looks like it could be an old beaver lodge,” Mike replies.
“Yeah, sure. A beaver killed a deer,” Erin snaps back. “Go throw something down there.”
A toss, a plop, a splash of water. Maybe an old beaver lodge after all.
A sweep of the island doesn’t reveal any hidden monsters, so we call for the field station’s large mammal expert, Dr. F. When he arrives, Dr. F pulls a pair of latex gloves over his hands and beyond the cuffs of his Green Bay Packers jacket. Then he stoops down and performs a thorough examination of the droppings.
“Well, it’s definitely canine,” he says. “Older than it looks, too. Whatever left these must’ve chased the deer out here a few weeks back. The lake was still frozen over.”
“So is it coyote or wolf scat?” I ask.
“Borderline.”
When I press him further, Dr. F won’t give a straight answer. Whether it’s because he’s actually unsure or he can sense a reckless overeagerness in my questioning, I don’t know. But I have already made up my mind: A pack of wolves took down a deer on this island. And I am intent on finding them.
The gray wolf, Canis lupus, is a subject of controversy in the northern Great Lakes region. After being hunted to near extermination in the lower 48, wolves became federally protected in 1978. They have since rebounded, despite an oscillating protection status and several state-level wolf harvests in recent years. Hunters blame the return of wolves for declining deer takes. Ranchers accuse them of killing livestock. Environmentalists say they balance the ecosystem.
Personally, I am ambivalent about the status of wolves. I am certain of only one thing: An ineffable mystique permeates timber wolf country. It changes how you carry yourself, how you interpret the land around you. I know this because I can feel it, and I am not the only one. The wolf hunter-turned-conservationist Aldo Leopold claimed that wolves can be perceived in the smallest of events, from “the rattle of rolling rocks” to “the way shadows lie under the spruces.” In the days following my discovery on Plum Lake, Leopold’s Sand County Almanac becomes my daily companion. And whenever I am not required to be in class, I am out in the forest in search of the pack.
On one occasion I slip around the field station’s north gate into the neighboring national forest, thinking wolves may prefer this lonely corner of the woods. The going here is slow. Thick vegetation limits my vision forward, backward and above. I only half-trust my trusty compass. But soon I learn to read the terrain, to recognize game trails carved out by foxes and deer and, I hope, wolf, and they lead me along the path of least resistance.
If the woods are thick, the clouds of mosquitoes are thicker. Add in the black flies, deer flies and horse flies, and it’s a veritable plague. Every step adds another dog tick to my tally. At least there are no land leeches, I think. But of course there are aquatic leeches. So I pull my socks over my pants as I plod through mud puddles and vernal pools. I leave deep tracks in soft soil all over the forest in a miniature reenactment of Paul Bunyan’s mythical journey, only his footprints were bigger than mine and gave rise to the uncountable lakes that surround me now.
Soon I encounter tracks of another kind. Four toes. Central pad. Sharp-clawed indentations. Is it big enough to be a wolf? I’m not experienced enough to know. I consider consulting Dr. F again, but I don’t want him to know I’ve been sneaking off property. Instead, I choose ignorance and follow the paw prints until I lose the trail.
On another occasion I drive out to the gravel pits at dusk. These look like good denning grounds. Along the tree line I spot a large dirt mound punctured by a dark opening. I can’t see in, so I duct tape my phone — flashlight on and camera recording — to a long stick and plunge it into the chamber. When I check the video: Hundreds of crane flies but otherwise lifeless. This den is already abandoned.
While the wolves prove elusive, the pursuit provides its own reward. Each step in the wilderness is a step towards a thrilling discovery, if only a small and personal one — not fit for the pages of a scientific journal, but treasure to be stored in the vaults of my memory — like the image of a bright orange shelf mushroom on rotting pine or the speckled flash of goshawk wings taking flight. Forever after I will have trouble staying on hiking trails. The good stuff always seems to be lurking beyond the official path.
Summer in the North Woods is short and this one is nearing its end. I resolve to look for the wolf pack one last time. I drag a canoe down to Tenderfoot Creek, which spans the 7,500-acre property from north to south, and set off upstream under a full moon. Along the way I scan the banks, hoping the wolves are thirsty for a midnight drink. Instead, all the action is on the water. A beaver appears around every bend. The thwack of its tail-slap rings out each time I startle one. Then a poor-sighted muskrat swims up to investigate. He collides headfirst with my aluminum vessel then carries on with his evening. Not the wildlife encounter I was hoping for, but remarkable nonetheless.
An overpass indicates I’ve reached the property line. I hop onto land and lie down in the middle of the gravel road. This is the last time I will take in the quiet solitude of wolf country. Scientist Summer Camp cannot last forever. Soon I will be back at school. Back to working long hours in a fluorescently lit laboratory. Back to spending late nights among library stacks instead of aspen stands.
In this moment I decide to make a direct appeal to the wolves, something I have avoided all summer so as to not cause undue stress to the pack. I tilt my head to the moon and let out a long, raspy howl. It is, in Leopold’s words, “an outburst of wild defiant sorrow,” a desperate plea for acknowledgment from a creature that prefers to remain hidden. When I get no response, I howl again. Then I listen. I repeat this until I am certain: I will not hear back from the wolves tonight.
In fact, I will never hear them. I will never see them. I will never return to this place. But I know the wolves are out there somewhere. Their descendants will be there as long as humans care to make space for them. And when I am back in my normal life, working at the lab bench or studying in a quiet place, I only have to close my eyes, picture the moonglow on Tenderfoot Creek, and I will be among wolves once again.
Nicholas Deason’s essay was one of two second-place winners of this magazine’s 12th annual Young Alumni Essay Contest. Deason lives in San Diego, where he is a new father and newer graduate of the doctoral program in biology at the University of California San Diego.