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I really haven’t felt myself in maybe a decade. I felt myself here in the taiga.











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Any time someone from the Lower 48 goes to Alaska, the instant question that comes up on return is the traveler encountered a wolf.

The answer for me is simply no, and I knew fully well there were very low odds of me seeing a wolf. I live where there are tons of coyotes, and I see one about every six months. They are very good at keeping themselves hidden from people, and from what I’ve read about wild wolves, it is even more true about wolves.

Some members of my family went to the Kroschel Wildlife Center and saw a tame wolf named Isis. (I was told that she would not stop howling during their entire visit!).

My best chance at seeing a wild wolf was at Denali, but there is a catch to that story.

Denali National Park is roughly the size of Massachusetts. It’s full of moose, Dall sheep, caribou, beaver, and porcupines.

You’d think that place would be full of wolves, but it’s not.

In fact, a place that size really can’t hold as many wolves as it does wolf prey. Because wolves are top predators, they just can’t exist in such large numbers, and that fact is true regardless if you’re talking about wolves in Denali, cheetahs in Namibia, or lions in the Gir Forest.

So even in the best of times, there would always be just a few wolves roaming the park. They would be laid on pretty thinly on the land.

But these are not the best of times for wolves in Denali.

The traditional “buffers” that have been set up near the park that prevented legal wolf hunting and trapping near the park were lifted in 2010, and the wolf population went from 147 wolves in 2007 to 49 wolves in 2015.

49 wolves over a land the size of Massachusetts.

49 is still more than the number of wolves living in actual Massachusetts, which may be 0 wolves. It may not be, though. One was killed in Massachusetts in 2008, and one or two  could be lurking somewhere in the Berkshires, where they may mistaken for big coyotes.

But 49 is roughly a third of what the population was nearly a decade ago. My chances of seeing a wolf in Denali were 45 percent in 2010. They were 5 percent in 2015.

One of the best things I did at the park was take a hiking nature tour. My tour guide was very well-informed about wolf issues, and she told us about a wolf following one of her tour groups. There was no fear involved, but when someone in the party pointed out that a wolf was following them, she was certain it was a dog. She was very surprised to see that it was a wolf, and it was close.

The wolf ran off, of course.

But she also told the story of what happened to the East Fork wolf pack. This is the famous wolf pack that Adolph Murie studied. They were the wolves that were featured prominently in The Wolves of Mt. McKinley. This was the pack to which Wags, Murie’s tame wolf belonged.

Right now, the pack exists as only a single female. Her mate was killed on state land near the park entrance. She also had a litter, but I’ve not been able to find out what exactly happened to them. (I was there just a few days after this story came out on Alaska NPR).

I understand that Alaska has to balance interests between outfitters, who want predator control and liberal predator hunting allowances, and the desire of the American people to have relatively intact ecosystems in our national parks.

I get it.

I get that Canis lupus isn’t an endangered species worldwide, and it certainly isn’t an endangered species in Alaska, where the species is still going strong.

But it seems just a little perverse that we cannot maintain those buffers once again. I came thousands of miles to see wilderness where wolves might be.

I am okay with knowing they might be. I don’t have to see them. I just need to know they are there.

We had a small enough tour group that the guide and I got to talk about wolves a bit. She talked about her cocker spaniel and how that dog was far more rugged than she looked. The dog had been on many back country trips, and she wondered how closely related her spaniel was to those wolves.

Pretty close.

But still far enough away.




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I saw several sea otters on my cruise, but I saw them from the ship while it was in motion.

So this is my best photo:


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Steller sea lions on a buoy just off from the Point Retreat Lighthouse. This body of water is called the “Lynn Canal,” which is actually fjord. It was named by George Vancouver, and it was supposed to be called “Lynn Channel,” but transcription error led to it being called a canal. But glaciers made it, not canal diggers.




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Coming to terms

Viscount Gormanston's White Dog

Dogs were my greatest comfort as I grew from the teenage years into adulthood.

I always thought I’d be a dog person, and that I knew a lot about them.

That was my attitude when I started writing this blog, but as I’ve matured and as I’ve seen more of “dog people,” I’ve come to a rather disturbing conclusion:

I’m really not a dog person.

At the worst, I detest the politics of dogs, but I also detest certain cultural memes that go along with them.  The ideas that we have people who somehow communicate with them in one correct way or that getting absolute obedience out of a dog is somehow a sign of one’s connection with them are ones that I find most troubling.

The truth is that I’ll never be one of those people or will ever be someone who pretends to be.

I’ve come to terms with the simple fact that I admire good dogs like I admire art. I can witness their genius, but I’ll never paint anything that doesn’t look kindergarten scribbles.

It’s hard to come to terms with this reality, but it is also liberating in a way.

I don’t have to pretend to know what I don’t know. I don’t have to feign respect for rather odious institutions.

I’ve come to appreciate the wild dogs more. These are the creatures that are every bit as genius as the tame ones, and they breed and propagate outside all the fancy systems and clubs that we have contrived for our own amusement.

I actually don’t know how dog people maintain friendships. It’s pretty much a constant row over some bogus piece of esoterica, and I don’t know how anyone thrives in such a social milieu, much less why anyone would want to join it.

I know I’ve written a few of these pieces lately, but I think this will be the last one.

I’m closing the door, and it’s finished.

I’m tired, and there are more interesting things to write about.

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First fly rod catch

A grayling. Near Denali National Park. At a place called Fishing creek, which was aptly named.


It wasn’t a monster by any stretch of the imagination, but I managed to catch five (all catch-and-release).

But I am much more confident with a fly rod than I was before.

I also got this photo of a northern rainbow.


So it was one of my better outings on this trip.



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