Here’s a verbal taste:
The wolves must have seen me first. In the slanted sunlight of the Arctic evening, they couldn’t miss my orange tent and my snowmobile in the valley below them. I saw the pack, a dozen wolves in all, working along the ridge above my camp. They paused to stare down toward me, as I in turn stared back through my spotting scope. Then the wolves crossed the snowfield, went down into a draw and out of sight. A few minutes later, a chorus of howls drifted down on the wind.
I went back to camp chores, feeling lucky. Even in this remote stretch of Alaska’s Brooks Range, wolves are a rare sight. In a quarter-century of living in and traveling the far reaches of Alaska’s bush, I’ve lost count of the bears, caribou and moose I’ve seen, but wolves are another story. Each encounter is fused into my memory. And each time, at the instant of recognition, an electric thrill runs through mewolf! Suddenly the land comes alive, and I remember why I came to Alaska: to live in a place that still offers the chance of such encounters with the wild.
Looks like Mr. Jans should be on the interview list! If you’re listening Nick, bark in and let me know when we can get you on the phone! You write like the kind of person our Dogsters would like to hear from!
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