April 2 & 8, 2004 The wolf hunt in perspective

With the recent moratorium on wolf hunting and trapping in the townships around Algonquin Park the arguments for and against have been strongly and clearly stated.  Since this is not the editorial page I won’t take sides.  I will provide an interesting old story that highlights the conflict.  The story Wolf Hunt by the well-known North Bay painter Tom Cummings (1904-1996) was written in 1983 and tells about his experience on the prairies in 1914 when he was 10 years old.

Many people know Tom’s prolific and beautiful paintings but don’t know he was an outstanding teacher, poet and author.  He was recognized with an Honorary Doctorate of Letters from Nipissing University in 1990.

I interviewed Tom in 1989 and viewed his major retrospective painting exhibition at the WKP Kennedy Gallery in 1990.  Tom was born in 1904 and his centenary will be recognized in an exhibition of his work and life at the WKP Kennedy Gallery this fall.

I will write a profile on Tom and the Exhibition in a future article.  As a part of the research on his life I discovered that he wrote an excellent little book called Gopher Hills in 1983.  There are a few copies still around and I bought one of several that were listed on line (at www.abebooks.com) at a reasonable price.

Gopher Hills is a remarkably well-written series of stories about all aspects of life on the prairies 90 years ago.  The book ‘touched with more than a bit of humour and fancy' may be reproduced and available for the pending exhibition.   Tom and Mattawa painter Gordon Dufoe who also wrote stories and poetry were friends and one of Tom’s paintings was presented to Gordon at a celebration of Gordon’s life in 1976.

Gordon Dufoe (right) receiving painting by Tom Cummings (left) from Hilda Hurdman. Dufoe Testimonial organized 1976.  North Bay Nugget Photo.

One of the stories is called The Wolf Hunt and tells the vivid adventure 10 year old Tom and his friend Rolf had with Tom’s dad, his friend Bill Meade and his partner Ben.

The story nicely makes points on both the hunting and preservation side of the argument about wolves.  The story is reproduced with the permission of Tom Cummings’ estate.

The Wolf Hunt

In mid-November father and Bill Meade noticed wolf tracks around our barns.  "That’s a big one, fully grown, Bill," father said.  "He was hungry and took to sniffing around the animal smells that come from the barn.  The mice and gophers are all underground at this time of the year.  The frost has the ground solid and they’re safe from creatures like these."

They followed the tracks in the snow southward from the buildings.  "Look at the size.  They’re double the weight of a coyote."

Father pointed, "This one is missing a paw."

They followed the tracks farther out to where they were well separated, and I heard Bill say, "You’re right.  It must have been a trap got him.  Too bad he got away."

There was two inches of snow on the fields.  Bill said, "Let’s take the big sleigh and go hunting."

"How are the hounds?"

"Always ready to go.  They need a run.  Bad for them to loaf around."

"We’ll put the big grain box on the sleigh.  That will give us plenty of room and we can take the boys and Ben."

On Sunday Rolf came to our place and helped harness the team of bays.  We filled the sleigh box with soft straw, spread three buffalo robes over it, and packed it all down.  It looked as if we were planning a comfortable overnight trip in a railway sleeping car and not a serious hunting trip.

Bill brought the dogs from the barn on leashes.  They shivered in the cold air but they settled down when we put blankets over them.  He thought it wise to keep them hidden until we came upon fresh tracks.  Time would be wasted if they took off on an old scent.  Rolf and I had a good chance to study them from a safe distance.  They were Russian wolfhounds and could hardly be called pets.  They were thin creatures all bone and muscle, lacking the good humor of ordinary dogs but quiet and well behaved.  I had seen them run at top speed with their long noses far out ahead and their legs making Xs below.  They were fast, deadly killers when on the trail of a timber wolf, a coyote, or a dog breed which they disliked.  We had been told that Russian noblemen had bred them for hunting fast game and had used them for centuries.  The pair were not registered thoroughbreds but they were well trained and very fast.

I had already seen a big gray wolf at very close quarters the previous week.  I described him to father but discreetly avoided telling mother.  The wolf had been casually sniffing at the animal smells coming from the stable, and I knew that he was hungry.  I came upon him upwind and we surprised each other.  But as soon as the initial start had worn off, we both satisfied our curiosity in a quiet way, he with his head slightly tipped to one side, I straight ahead, tense, and cautious.  Neither of us moved a muscle.  Then he shook his ears in disgust and trotted off.  His eyes were kind, like a good dog’s and the fur around his tawny face was gray and patchy.  He wore his scars with dignity, a torn ear and a cut cheek.

Howling Wolf by Christine Kerrigan from book The Raven Talks About Wolves courtesy of The Friends of Algonquin Park.

I can’t say that I disliked wolves, even in the night when they prowled around the yard or lifted their noses and howled a bit.  Winter life on the farm was painfully dull and any boy worth his salt enjoyed being scared once or twice.

As the horses trotted southward and the sleigh runners squeaked in the frosty snow, we studied the fields until tears came to our overworked eyes.  We could find no tracks that were fresh.  There was nothing but empty silence.  The roads were unmarked and the sleigh began to drag more heavily so we rested the horses and sat without speaking or moving.  The loneliness and the size of the land in winter was frightening.  It seemed as though we were space travellers lost in a white infinity.

We were startled by Bill, who had been standing up in his place up front.  "There they are," he whispered, pointing to a low straw stack a quarter of a mile away. "The horses know.  They wanted to turn.  Quick, let the dogs go."

We pulled away the blanket that covered the dogs and they were out of the sleigh in an instant, running around in circles trying to pick up the scent.  Much time was wasted but the wolves who were watching our approach were in no hurry to give up their warm den.  We urged the team closer; Bill slipped a shell into the breech of this rifle.  The team stopped and we could go no closer.  Then the younger dog picked up the scent that led directly toward the den.  The wolves saw them coming and started running south at top speed.

The chase was on.  We stood up in the sleigh, yelled at the horses.  They charged wildly through the drifts, pelting us with chunks of snow from beneath their hoofs.

After a mile or more the wolves stopped running.  The heavy female was winded and they sat together in the snow facing their enemies.  The dogs waited until we came up.

I shall never forget what followed.  The slow wolf was a silver-gray female with heavy udders.  She was nursing.  Her mate sat facing the dogs as they crouched at a respectable distance, panting and licking snow, resting for the final round.

"Let them do it," whispered Bill.  They were his dogs.

 Father looked at the big male wolf.  "You’re taking chances."

 "That’s what they are for."  Bill was proud of his dogs and a bit annoyed.

 "Why?" said father.  "Now use the rifle." But Bill was stubborn.  The dogs were to be tested.

Drawing of Russian Wolfhounds by Tom Cummings from his book Gopher Hills 1983

Ben said some of the worst swear words I had ever heard him use and turned his back upon the scene.  Rolf and I were fascinated.  We could feel the hopelessness of the creatures about to be killed.  The spectacle of death has drawn fevered crowds to the bull ring, the cock pit, and the arena.  But Rolf and I were only very young boys playing at being hunters. 

The heavy female crouched close to her mate licking snow, a poor, thirsty, hunted thing.

"She was at the barn.  One of her paws is missing." Rolf whispered.

The male wolf sat alone but close to his mate, head back, teeth at the ready, saving his strength, waiting like the dogs.  He was quiet, dangerous, beautiful, unafraid.  While she lay panting he steadied himself.

The young dog darted in and came away whining, one of his delicate legs dangling in the snow, trailing the first blood.

The wily old veteran of the plains was lightning fast.  Father growled, "Use the rifle and end this."  The old dog flashed in and came away with a torn jaw, but aroused and ready for the test.  Again the wolf had been too fast and had avoided the teeth that were seeking his throat.

The young dog, battle tested and angry, but wiser, waited.  Then his older mate lost his senses.  Angry, aroused, he went straight for the gray throat but had his own ripped away in a second.

It was the young dog’s turn.  On three legs, he followed up the momentary advantage his mate had given him, locked his teeth in a vital spot, and shook with all his might.  The wolf yelped with pain and went down.

For a while the victor lay exhausted beside his dead enemy.

The heavy female arose and stood for a minute, uncertain, then trotted off to the east.  As she moved Bill took careful aim, but Ben towered above him in the sleigh and stepped in front of the gun.  His face was burning red.  "Leave her be.  Her udders is full of milk.  She’s nursing pups.  What kind of man are you anyway?"  The shot was never fired.

When the female was a hundred yards away she turned and looked toward the three forms in the snow, then moved off.  She seemed to be heading toward a straw stack to the east in the vicinity of the barns where our young cattle wintered.

The old dog was bleeding to death in the snow.  There was nothing we could do.  When we passed we lifted him into the straw at the back of the sleigh.  His mate followed slowly and painfully.  If his leg was badly broken he too would be put to sleep.  He curled into a ball, whining and shivering from shock, and we covered him with both blankets.

We headed for home.  The horses snorted, fearful of the smells of blood, and broke into a wild gallop, glad to be away from the dreadful place.

When they tired and settled into a steady pace, Rolf approached the injured dog gently, full of sympathy, but he was met by a menacing growl and bared teeth.  He pulled his hand away as the dog snapped at him.

Bill, who was not easily aroused, tried to tease Ben a bit. "Good hunting next year, eh, Ben?" Ben’s temper flared and he raised his fist.  Bill faced him squarely.  I thought they were going to fight.  I had never seen Ben so angry.  Bill continued, "Damn you, Ben.  That was a pair of timber wolves, nearly eighty pounds each.  Did you think they were skinny little coyotes that catch chickens, gophers, and mice? That pair would drag down an antelope, a deer, or a young heifer.  Damn you, they finished my good wolfhounds and that was a female you let off.  You softie.  Wait till the litter she’s nursing grows.  A year come next fall they’ll all weigh seventy pounds each.  Then we’ll have trouble when they come sniffin’ around the barns at night.  They won’t be after chickens either.  You wait till the dead of winter comes when their natural food is all safe in their burrows under the frozen ground.  You’ll hear them, howlin’, prowlin’, mean and hungry."

"That was a good speech, Bill, the longest you ever made."  Father was trying to settle everyone’s tempers with a bit of humor.

Bill continued, "If a man were sick, or hurt himself and was down in the snow, they would tear his throat in a minute."  He turned on Ben again.  "You’re a big soft fool of a man that deserves a licking and I am going to give you one right now."  Father saw what was coming and stepped between them.  "Look here, Bill.  He and I are partners.  Cool off.  Things are bad enough."

Ben didn't speak to any of us for three days.