Campbell Church, Jr. writing in The Sportsman, February, 1933

Anchor is dropped at the head of a deep fjord, an inlet stretching encircling arms far into the matchless Coast Range summits. An open powered canoe, with an Oldtown in tow, puts off from the yacht and breasts the swift current of one of the coastal rivers. Aboard are two men and their wives. The action is fast and full of thrills. Stretches of white water follow one another in rapid succession. In climbing the steep grades, where the river foams down sharp pitches, the canoe leans against the dragging waters like a greyhound on a leash. Foot by foot, yard by yard, it creeps forward, shifting from side to side to take advantage of every eddy until finally it gains the lip of the break. Suddenly, as the stern passes the brink, the canoe shoots forward with a sharp lunge and surges on at top speed until it reaches the next rapids.

Deer thread their way up through the timber, startled from rest by the purring motor. White Mazamas, on sun-warmed rocky headlands, stop in their feeding to watch curiously as the canoe passes by, slowly or swiftly as the current permits. Just around the right angle turn of a high bluff, where the water boils and protests angrily against this rude deflection of its headlong rush to the sea, a glossy black bear, surprised at its fishing as the wind is downstream, is shot at twenty feet with a movie camera. His comical look of startled inquiry, his lumbering dash to sheltering timber, makes everyone laugh.

As night approaches and twilight slowly steals upward toward the crimsoning peaks, camp is pitched in a grove of tall cedars, They are in a deep bend of the river, sheltered by a high cliff. Here the wind, rising at sunset, never enters, but can be sensed only by its low, distant murmur. The ground is as clean as a carpet, and soft with innumerable layers of fragrant needles—the accumulation of centuries.

The succeeding day is a repetition in the big sweep of the picture, with incident after incident new and stimulating. The panorama is ever changing. Narrow reaches, gorge-like in their steep frowning sides, give way to wide bottoms threaded by many channels. Here in the valley is a succession of timbered islands and open bars.

Late in the afternoon, in a bank of snow and ice sheltered from the sun, is discovered the partly exposed carcass of a winter-killed deer. Several eagles are feeding on it, and there are many wolf tracks, some of huge proportions. This find eventually leads to an exciting and unusual experience.

Half a mile further on a small tributary enters the river from the east. Here the motor canoe is cached in the timber. Duffel and supplies are loaded into the Oldtown, and one of the men poles it several miles up this shallow stream. The balance of the party follow a well-worn bear trail along the shore just inside the timber.

Where the stream leaps over a sheer twenty-foot cliff and falls bodily into a deep pool teeming with trout, permanent camp is pitched on a grassy shelf a few feet above the water. Exposed to the sun and shielded from the ever-blowing spray by an angle of the cliff, it seems designed for this particular purpose.

A day or two later a stiff early-morning climb of two hours through big timber, which clung to the precipice-like side of the mountain, brought the party to timberline in quest of bear. Bear signs were plentiful, but even more in evidence were the many pathetic little patches of hair, white and brown, where goat and deer had been struck down and devoured by wolves. There was never a bone nor a piece of hide; merely a few handfuls of coarse hairs to tell the story.

An old black bear was discovered, digging busily for squirrels on a rock slide. As the cameraman was stalking this bear for a moving picture, he stumbled upon the tiny dead body of a wolf pup, still warm. It was lying on a patch of snow at the foot of an enormous rock, larger than a house, on top of which a big spruce grew. From a dark hole at its base, fresh tracks of a timber wolf led to and from the little limp body, which bore the imprint of fangs piercing deep into its chest. There were deer bones scattered around on the snow, a skull with one horn attached, a hoof or two. A shoulder, with part of the meat still on, bore unmistakable evidence to the nostrils that it had been torn away from a winter-killed deer—perhaps the very one that had been discovered on the river. It was difficult to explain the dead pup, but everything else was plain at a glance. There was a wolf den under that rock with a litter of pups in it. The men instantly circled it and found several other exits which they plugged with stones, while the girls stood guard at the mouth of the den, talking excitedly. Their vigilance lagged for a moment as they stooped down grieving over the little form of the dead puppy. Suddenly a wolf flashed from that black hole with lightning speed, belly to the ground, almost brushing them as it swept past, and disappeared around a shoulder of the rock and into the brush. At the girls’ frightened call, the two men ran from behind the boulder—but too late. The wolf was gone.

From the fleeting glimpse they had, both girls were convinced that it was only a half-grown pup. A council of war was held. Much discussion ensued. All agreed that there was at least one litter of very young pups in the den. But were there two litters, one half-grown?—and if so, were the two mothers still there? The possible presence of an adult male or males was considered. Only two things were certain, however, wolves there were, and the rock was so huge that it might shelter any number. The next problem was how to get them out.

A fire was built at the largest of the several openings on the opposite side and smoldering green wood was prodded deep into this hole. From the moment the fire was built, the bear hunter of the party stood by in keen expectancy, rifle cocked. Soon smoke came pouring out of the front door. Nothing else appeared. Then the other two holes were fed liberally with smoking embers. The only result was that the smoke poured from the main opening in still larger volume. This method was abandoned as fruitless. It was evident that a direct draft from the three openings on the far side drew through the main tunnel, but to what extent the smoke would penetrate all the possible winding burrows and blind alleys was problematical. A labyrinth of passages and caverns might exist.

There was but one thing to do—beard the wolf in his den. The men flipped a coin and the winner proceeded to action. The fires were drawn and the smoke cleared away. A preliminary survey into the opening proved three things; first, the passage, a mere cleft in the rock, was tortuous, narrow, and pitched downward at a sharp angle; second, there were wolves in the den, for movement could heard distinctly, and whimpering, presumably of the pups, whether big or little; third, beyond a few feet of the entrance was only inky blackness. Our Daniel-of-the wolves now called for a light, a sweater, and a bowie knife. The two latter were quickly contributed, but the matter of a light was more difficult. Camp and flashlights were hours away, while such a confined space precluded the use of a pitch torch. A serviceable candle, however, was soon improvised. Butter was scraped from luncheon sandwiches and molded around cotton string braided into a wick. Around this was then pressed a snowball and the latter fitted snugly into a cotton glove for convenience in carrying.

With sweater-sheathed arm, with knife thrust forward, and with the candle held in the left hand, the doughty Daniel for the second time crawled into the black hole. The first reconnoiter had proved it difficult to back out, so this time he was followed closely by his companion, and the latter in turn by one of the girls. This left the other outside to help extricate this human chain. The leader could only advance in short hitches, followed one by one by the others. The intense blackness was feebly pierced by the spluttering candle. Its rays caught now and then wet facets of rock in the distance. These glowed like eyes. The wolf odor, strong to begin with, now became sickening. Each time the party rested, distinct rustling could be heard, and an occasional faint sound that was ominous and forbidding. The faint high-pitched signal of alarm from one grown wolf to another is indistinguishable from the whimper of a pup. Which was it? The tension became unbearable.

A sharp double right-angle turn was reached. In order to navigate this, it became necessary to turn over from the right side to the left to allow one’s knees to pass, and in making this maneuver the candle was dropped into a crevice in the rock so deep that it could not be recovered. It soon flickered and went out. This was a signal to beat a retreat. Painfully and laboriously the chain dragged itself foot by foot, link by link, backwards and upwards. The girl in the rear made the first move, assisted by her companion on the surface. The former then dragged at the heels of the main in front, and he in turn helped the leader to wriggle back. This ignominious retreat in the darkness was much worse than the slow deliberate advance with a light. Dogs become notoriously brave in an attack upon a retreating enemy, and wolves are dogs. There was an ever-growing desire to hurry. But to hurry was impossible. One grinned, and sweated, and hitched along.

In the warm- and fear-dispelling sunlight, another conference produced another plan. “Daniel” hurried off to camp for a flashlight, some rope, and two canvas pack sacks—one hour down and two up. The hunter took his rifle and continued the interrupted bear hunt, leaving behind him the two girls to guard, with clubs, the entrance to the den. He gave orders to let no wolf pass, in or out, knowing of course, that there was no real danger.

The bear hunter skirted the edge of the big timber. Open slides where the first green showed in the spring separated long fingers of spruce stretching upwards to the cliffs. These afforded cover from which to scan eagerly the intervening feeding grounds of the bear, where fern spirals and wild celery and rhubarb stalks were pushing up from beneath the snow, and where every patch of open ground was already covered with succulent grasses. Near the point of one such finger, a mile from the wolf den, at the base of a sharply overhanging spur of the precipice, the bachelor quarters of another wolf were discovered. These were quite open; but in a strategic position, difficult of approach, and with commanding view. The floor, which sloped up toward the back, was sandy and well drained. Scattered bones and much hair of deer and goat lay about. The few wolf hairs found in the den and on the bark of trees and on brush nearby were white and very long. Fresh tracks in the snow and faint imprints on the sandy floor of the hangout left no uncertainty as to the great size of the brute. What a wonderful trophy! A monster white timber wolf!

Once more the bear hunt was abandoned, and the return to the other den and the girls was spent in speculating on some way to rid the land of this killer. Everywhere was evidence of the utter ruthlessness of these gaunt gray ghosts, moving stealthily, like sinister shadows, through the snowbound wood, and killing, killing, killing!

The girls had an extraordinary tale to tell. A wolf, the mother presumably, had been watching them, slowly circling the den, ever drawing closer, ever getting bolder. They had not seen her, but a sixth sense convinced them of this fact. In the beginning they, too, attributed it to nerves and an overwrought imagination, but little by little they became certain.

They had heard a twig snap behind the boulder, and fear at once had gripped them. From that moment their faculties became highly sensitized. A faint rustling, just beyond the sheltering fringe of timber across the snow patch, gave them another start. A fancied movement, half seen, in the brush to their right. A strong whiff of unmistakable wolf smell drifted downwind from the timber behind them, and they whirled in an agony of fright. But they saw only a low-hanging branch swinging back into place.

They were frozen with fear at first, but stood their ground. As an hour passed and nothing alarming developed, they became more reconciled to their position, and then began a losing game to see which one could get the first glimpse of the wolf.

Cautioning them to remain on guard, the hunter swiftly retraced his steps several hundred yards, and climbed by a goat trail to the rim of the first ledge above the den. Cautiously he worked his way to a point fifty yards behind the den and hundred feet above it. Crawling out to the edge of the cliff, and sheltered from view by some small growth, he searched the now more fully exposed area below him with naked eye and binoculars.

An hour elapsed. The girls continued to talk in undertones and to move quietly about as before. Still no sign of the wolf.

Then one of them looked up at the cliff and guardedly pointed to the right. Suddenly to the straining eyes of the watcher above the silhouette of a dark wolf stood out clear and distinct behind a single bit of brush, where a moment before there had been only a shadow. One foot was lifted off the ground, the head turned towards the den, like a setter on point; but the tail was held between the legs and there was not the proud bearing of the blooded dog.

At the report of the heavy rifle the wolf crumpled. She was undoubtedly the mother of the pups. She was young, small, and very dark. It may have been her first litter, and being unable to feed all five, probably she herself had mercifully bitten the weakling of her whelps through the heart.

Not long after the shot the Marathon runner hove in sight with flashlight, rope, and pack sacks. He again wrapped the sweater around his arm, and remembering the accident to the candle, he tied the flashlight and knife to his wrists. For the third time he entered the tunnel, followed now only by the hunter, also carrying a heavy knife. The girls remained outside to tug on the twenty feet of rope tied to the men’s feet, should a retreat again become necessary. Progress was now more rapid. The double right-angle turn was negotiated by rolling completely over. Some twenty feet in, a cave was seen ahead. Nerves became tense; muscles taut. Here, if at all, was to be staged the fight.

The narrow passage terminated abruptly in a low-ceilinged room. The flashlight was thrown across it in a swift arc, searching out every cranny. The cave was empty. Again, and more slowly, that beam of light traveled the circuit, but revealed nothing. Disappointment was bitter after such anticipation and effort. Only one passage large enough for a wolf led to the surface on the opposite side. This was short and was unoccupied. No burrows into deeper chambers were anywhere in evidence. Plainly the cave had been inhabited recently. The wolfish odor was overpowering. But the place had been deserted.

Then was heard the plaintive cry of a pup.

There were four of them, wee things, and they were found alone in a second cave, much smaller and entered through an opening in the far wall just under the roof, three feet above the floor. One by one, a foot at a time, they were pushed along through the tunnel ahead of their captors, until the eager hands of the girls could reach them.

As the lengthening shadows crept up the slopes, with a pair of pups in each pack sack, a jubilant descent to camp was made, jubilant because such killers as these, dead or alive, are even greater trophies than grizzly hides.

Six out of seven wolves had been accounted for—but the arch offender, white, cruel, and deadly as December’s blizzards, was still at large.

There was one chance, and only one, to get him. That white-haired patriarch was cunning beyond man’s understanding. His sharp eyes, his wonderful ears, his keen intelligence, but above all, his high powered nose, were as effective as a dozen outposts thrown around him to warn and protect. On a small island in Lake Ontario a wolf such as he once defied a score of settlers, reinforced by Government hunters and trappers. Fifteen hundred dollars was on his head, and yet he took daily toll of their sheep for over three years.

The ladies agreed to remain in camp to feed and mother the puppies. At daylight the Oldtown, bearing two of the men, dropped down all the stretches of smooth water, with the speed of the current added to the full power of the engine. A No. 4 1/2 wolf trap with its toggle chain was taken from the hold of the Westward and the canoe headed upstream. With only the two men and no equipment, it rode high and fast. Like a polo pony, it responded to guidance, a thing alive, vibrant with spirits and keen to race; ceaselessly it pulled on the reins, with the bit in its teeth. By late afternoon, the winter-killed deer, several miles below camp, was reached. With an axe, the remnants of the carcass were chopped out of the ice. A shoulder was hacked off, great care being taken not to touch it anywhere except on the leg bone. It was wrapped in willow boughs and placed in the Oldtown, which had been left there on the way down. A fifteen-foot evergreen sapling was cut as a toggle, and the trap chain securely spiked to it. A stout four foot stake was sharpened. The remainder of the deer carcass was weighted with a large stone and sunk in a deep eddy. The Oldtown was then poled to the mouth of a small glacial stream, which entered the river near by, and which had its source somewhere in the mountains back of the two wolf dens. The canoe was lined half a mile up this stream.

At no time did either of the men so much as set foot on shore. They choose a convenient point where the stream, milky white with its glacial silt, was only two feet deep. About six feet out from shore they drove the stake into the sandy bottom until its top was below water level. To this they wired the shoulder of highly seasoned venison by the attached leg, the only portion that had been handled. They sunk the toggle and weighted it down with stones. Then they set the trap and placed it between the bait and the shore in about six inches of water. Lastly, with a stick they gently covered the pan with green growth from the stream bed until it looked like a moss-covered rock, showing just above the surface.

Neither keen eyes, sensitive ears, high-powered nose, nor cunning brain could serve that old marauder in this emergency. Here was only a piece of spicy meat that had been carried down by the current and had caught on a sunken limb. Near by was a convenient “rock” on which to place a dry-shod paw to investigate it closer. No human foot had touched the shore within several miles. The wind carried that tantalizing odor far up the glacial valley; the lazy current equally far down. Once picked up, any wolf would follow the scent to its source, and then all the cunning in the world could detect no hint of trap or danger.

The return trip to the river was made by canoe and thence to camp for a waiting dinner. At noon the following day we went to the trap. A bald-headed American eagle had alighted on that too convenient “moss covered rock,” and was now sitting dejectedly on the edge of the shore where it had dragged the heavy trap to the length of its chain. With the prisoner held in shallow water by a long pole, a heavy slicker was thrown over it as a protection against the powerful beak and wicked talons. As its tough leg was in no wise injured, the noble bird was then released. The trap was reset as before.

The next morning as we approached the set, nothing seemed disturbed. On closer inspection, however, it was discovered that the trap with its attached fifteen-foot toggle and chain, was gone.

The trail was picked up on the opposite shore and easily followed. Within a quarter of a mile, an enormous wolf with a narrow black streak down the back was shot as it turned at bay.