While Wolves Continue to Face Opposition in the West, I Think About Aldo Leopold

Gray wolves continue to grace many headlines in the West these days.  And, unfortunately, the news is more often than not bad for the wolves.

Here are some recent wolf news stories:

• In February, a joint resolution drafted by the Idaho Legislature, HCR043, claims that Idaho’s current wolf population constitutes an emergency and calls for a drastic reduction of Idaho’s wolf population (i.e., killing several hundred wolves).   
• Also in February, the Utah Senate passed a bill making wolves an enemy of the state.  (No, I’m not kidding).  “The proposed legislation would make it state policy to ‘manage’ wolves to prevent any packs from forming in areas where wolves are no longer listed as an endangered species.  In areas where wolves are still protected, the bill would require state officials to request that federal agencies remove wolves from the state.”
• An anomalously uplifting article in High Country News relates how Colorado might just have its first wolf pack in decades.  (And then a couple of weeks later came the requisite polarizing, over-the-top, run-for-your-lives article on the potential return of wolves to Colorado.)
• Northern Rockies wolves are the subject of a NOW on PBS episode that recently aired, and they’re also on the cover of the current issue of National Geographic.
• In a Yellowstone National Park press release issued a few weeks ago came news that Yellowstone’s wolf population declined for the second year in row.
• A man pleaded guilty this week to illegally killing a wolf in Montana in 2008.  He said he killed the wolf because it was approaching him while he was hunting deer, but a forensics investigation later determined that the wolf was shot in its back left side. 
• Finally, an article in yesterday’s Billings Gazette delivered the sad news that Yellowstone’s legendary, historic, beloved Druid wolf pack will likely be gone soon. 

Reading about state governments drafting “let’s kill wolves” legislation and a coward illegally shooting a wolf in the back and then lying about it makes me think about the great environmental writer and thinker Aldo Leopold. 

Leopold has been dead for more than sixty years, but his eloquent wisdom about ecology and conservation still rings true today.  His A Sand County Almanac is one of my all-time favorite books, and I reread it regularly.  (My more-than-a-little-crazy black lab is also named Aldo.)

But the thing about Leopold is that he once advocated for the killing of wolves to benefit game populations.  He later regretted it, and in “Thinking Like a Mountain” he powerfully and poetically described the evolution of his perspective on wolves.

Since trying to follow Leopold with a pen is pointless, I’ll close with his words from “Thinking Like a Mountain”:

A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world.

Every living thing (and perhaps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.

Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night, or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf, it is implicit in a hundred small events: the midnight whinny of a pack horse, the rattle of rolling rocks, the bound of a fleeing deer, the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves, or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.

My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error: it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.

In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy: how to aim a steep downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide-rocks.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes - something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters' paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.

Since then I have lived to see state after state extirpate its wolves. I have watched the face of many a newly wolfless mountain, and seen the south-facing slopes wrinkle with a maze of new deer trails. I have seen every edible bush and seedling browsed, first to anaemic desuetude, and then to death. I have seen every edible tree defoliated to the height of a saddlehorn. Such a mountain looks as if someone had given God a new pruning shears, and forbidden Him all other exercise. In the end the starved bones of the hoped-for deer herd, dead of its own too-much, bleach with the bones of the dead sage, or molder under the high-lined junipers.

I now suspect that just as a deer herd lives in mortal fear of its wolves, so does a mountain live in mortal fear of its deer. And perhaps with better cause, for while a buck pulled down by wolves can be replaced in two or three years, a range pulled down by too many deer may fail of replacement in as many decades.

So also with cows. The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf's job of trimming the herd to fit the range. He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea.

We all strive for safety, prosperity, comfort, long life, and dullness. The deer strives with his supple legs, the cowman with trap and poison, the statesman with pen, the most of us with machines, votes, and dollars, but it all comes to the same thing: peace in our time. A measure of success in this is all well enough, and perhaps is a requisite to objective thinking, but too much safety seems to yield only danger in the long run. Perhaps this is behind Thoreau's dictum: In wildness is the salvation of the world. Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf, long known among mountains, but seldom perceived among men.

 

 (Wolf tracks photo by m d d on Flickr)

(And here is a great op-ed by James William Gibson in the Los Angeles Times on Leopold and wolf-hunting from last December.)

Comments