When the unscrupulous parents from Hansel and Gretel decided to abandon their gluttonous children in the dark woods, they would have been well served to deposit them in the sub-Arctic boreal forest. Long shadows cast by spruce and pine give dangerous and exciting depth to the landscape. Hundreds of rivers and canals stream down from northern lakes, covering the land in aquatic circuitry. The frozen silence of winter is lit by a half-hearted sun that skims the horizon and is so underpowered you can stare directly into its blazing core without consequence. Come nightfall the pale blue moonlight paints the land in a purgatory palette built from glitter and shadows. It’s altogether mystical, creepy and enticing.
In the shattering cold wildlife thrives, evident in the fresh tracks that wend randomly through the trees and over hardened lakes. River otters romp and play in small tracks of open water, unfazed by the paralyzing chill. Elk and deer tough out sparse winters, doing their best to stay healthy and avoid any run ins with the apex predator of the land, the gray wolf. As for the wolf, this is his native land and he reigns as the undisputed king of the forest in winter. The greatest threat to his monarchy, the mighty grizzly bear, lays dormant in torpor and thus yields all executive power until spring thaw.
Photographer Bart Deferme and I have come to Prince Albert National Park in central Saskatchewan, Canada to catch a glimpse of these impressive canines – and any other animals burly enough to stay active in the unforgiving January cold. It is the dead of winter and throughout the entirety of our visit, temperatures never warm up beyond -25° Fahrenheit. Any underdressed human is subject to that Möbius strip of pain wherein cold burns like searing hot metal. In an unexpected ecological plot-twist, many lakes are so hard and frozen that they crack and collapse, leeching out briny, liquid water that is partially immune to freezing thanks to the insulating, dense snow.
This snowmobile-immobilizing slush is one of the reasons tracking wolves via dog sled offers some logistical advantages.
We have been invited to overnight in the heart of the boreal by Bradley Muir, 52, owner of Sundogs Sled Excursions. Brad looks every bit the part of a gentleman explorer, with medium build and winter-gray hair offset by youthful, alert, blue eyes nattily framed by round eyeglasses. He is friendly and enthusiastic to his human companions, kind but authoritative to his canine team. Brad has been mushing since the early 1990s, raising his dogs for touring rather than racing. When Bart and I arrive, all thirty-plus pups (most of them Alaskan huskies) spring to life with animated anticipation.
Because Muir incorporates non-aggressive training methods the dogs are friendly, energetic and pleased to receive a scratch behind the ears from those willing to bare their hands to the stunning cold. I note the dogs that grab my attention. There’s Diesel, a gorgeous butterscotch male husky with striking blue eyes who looks much younger than his 14 years. Now retired from running on sled teams (he’s a coach now, Muir assures me) Diesel’s long career gave way to younger, stronger dogs. He will live out the length of his natural days with the rest of the pack at the Sundog kennels. Badger is a classic Alaskan beauty, a thick male husky with bushy white and black fur who could pass as a wolf stunt double. Alas, we are informed he’s a bit of a slouch as a sled dog and thus runs with the “B-Team”. Lead dog Arcturus, a slightly smaller version of Badger, is an “A-Team” dog who is the real deal in both appearance and performance. His good looking husky features and wise, soulful eyes radiate confidence.
Bear in mind, sled dogs are not going to sneak up on anybody, notably wolves. As we begin to hook them up to our two backcountry sleds, the deafening chorus of eager howls is so loud, we have to scream to hear one another even if we are only a foot apart. Their mission is to bring us to Brad’s backcountry camp, a sturdy canvas tent pitched deep in the woods and warmed by a semi-portable wood burning tin stove. From base camp we continue our photojournalistic hunt on snowshoes.
Brad is set to mush one sled with photographer Bart as his exclusive passenger, while I am assigned to ride with Joël Potié , 26, one of Sundogs most experienced mushers. Joël is tall and lean, with rightfully disheveled dark hair and an easy smile. He is good with the dogs, a little less firm than Brad but every bit as confident and encouraging.
After a bit of chaotic wrangling, both 8-dog sled teams are in their harnesses. The dogs are fervent, impatient and deliriously excited to run. Only the combined anchors of the built-in sled brake and a thick metal hook buried in the snow keep them from dashing away, passengers or not. Without saying a word, Brad lifts the heavy anchor hook and is off like a shot. With a thrilling lurch of canine power, we launch shortly after. Like a magic spell, the dogs are instantly and fully absorbed in the task of running in silence – with the exception of young Ranger, a mouthy, enthusiastic husky serving as one of the wheels (the dogs closest to the sled). Until he gets a few miles under his paws, he’s a bit snippy at his inline partner, trash talking the way only working dogs can.
Watching sled dogs run is a nearly religious experience. Though they have dabbled in civilization long enough to be under long-term contract with men, there remains something profound about running with the pack. Together they function as a single entity, their purpose and drive aroused from deep bloodlines. Though literally connected to the sled, some other more meaningful part of their spirit is unleashed. For the moment, they are more wolf than dog and that connection to their ancestry can only be envied by men, who are too far removed to know.
We break from the forest road onto a tight single track that is pleasingly narrow, enhancing the sensation of speed. The dogs are in their zones now, cruising with zippy power, directed masterfully by Joël. As we cross the first of many open lakes, we are delighted to see telltale wolf tracks in the fresh snow. I overlay my puffy mitten and thus gain a true appreciation for just how big these wolves can be – my hand is only slightly larger than the paw print.
Complementing those big feet is a big brain – northern wolves are among the most cerebrally developed creatures in the animal kingdom. Intelligence comes as a way of adapting to the dynamic environment, where the summer heat can be as punishing as the winter cold. Wolves have a highly ordered society. The elaborate social structure of the pack is not wholly understood, especially the complex methods of wolf-to-wolf communication. What is certain is that teamwork has prevailed in wolf society as an effective strategy to keep bellies full in the spartan winter months.
We arrive at our camp encouraged by the wolf tracks. After dropping off our essential camping gear and stoking the fire, we set off again by dogsled. Even though it is mid-afternoon, daylight is already waning. A bald eagle soars from the treetops as we enter the deepest part of the woods, where the sky will be cut off by the piney canopy. Joël offers me a chance to mush the sled, something I have been hoping he would ask. Granted, these dogs know the lay of the land and are pretty much on autopilot but the thrill of standing behind a full-power dog team is a heady treat.
We cruise for hours, peaceful and vigilant, and I bait the modest Joël into telling me a bit about himself. A native of Saskatchewan, he is sensitive in a manly way, well traveled and well read. He is descended from French Voyageurs, those hardscrabble men who pioneered exploration of the northern lands and ferried fur trade pelts along the many rivers by canoe and dogsled. “I worked as a hunting guide in the Yukon, but don’t really love hunting myself. I take the most pleasure in being out in nature with these dogs,” Joel explains. “I’d rather ski or spend a day on the sled. It’s so much more peaceful, you know?” Pausing as if he had revealed a bit too much, I assure him I’m with him. Even as our chances of spotting a wolf decrease, the calming trance of the forest has done something good for my soul.
Just before nightfall, we return to camp. Neither sled team has seen wolves, though Bart’s masterful photographic eye has captured some fantastic visuals. We do make a short foray onto the nearby semi-slushed lake to see if the northern lights are glowing or even better, a wolf has decided to take an evening constitutional. Neither was the case and with temps now below minus 40, it’s time to retreat to our warm shelter. Without a shiver nor a complaint, our well-fed dogs hunkered down for the night on a bed of straw outside our tent and seemed entirely unaware of the harsh cold. Amazing.
We ended up seeing more wolf tracks but never had an encounter. The next day, we continued to tour through other parts of the woods, reveling in the majestic landscapes. Elk, owl and a few other animals made brief appearances.
I was initially worried that we might not see any wolves, knowing that encounters are quite random. Yet at the conclusion of our quest, I was not disappointed in the least. The sled dogs had proved worthy of my awe, proving themselves to be leagues more hearty than me and my biped friends. Brad and Joël were fantastic guides: fun, informative, insightful with cracking good humor. Camp was cozy, the meals were satisfying and the boreal forest was dreamy, perilous and magical.
I hope that on some wooded hillside one of those sagacious wolves gazed down upon his distant canine cousins and the odd, puffy humans being towed along and had himself a little wolf-chuckle at our expense. He knows his reign as winter sovereign of this land remains unopposed for now.
