This is the article which I wrote for the Spring 2009 edition of International Wolf magazine, produced by the International Wolf Center in Minnesota. I've included the original article as four jpegs at the end.

More at: http://www.wolf.org/

... it could be you here next time!

Living on Tundra Time

Text and photos by Chris Senior

There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won’t.
—Rabindranath Tagore

I’m suddenly awakened by a flashlight shining directly into my eyes, making it impossible to see anything else. It is the voice behind the light, however, that has commanded my complete attention. “Chris! There’s a wolf outside the cabin!” I grab clothes and camera and race out into total darkness. And in a pool of illumination from the flashlight, I see her—a beautiful, white female wolf, calmly trotting between our cabins, seemingly unconcerned at both our presence and our excitement. It is only 1:00 in the morning, and this is the start of a day filled with wolves and wonder. . . .

I’ve come to Aylmer Lake, in Canada’s Northwest Territories, with the August 2008 trip organized by the International Wolf Center. There are 15 of us, all with our own hopes and aspirations for this adventure to the largest wilderness left on the planet. Trip leaders Dave Mech, Nancy Gibson, Neil Hutt and Canadian biologist Dean Cluff are here to ensure that we intrepid tourists have a great time, learn something about the abundant wildlife, and aren’t a nuisance to any of it either!

We all meet up in Yellowknife, capital of the Northwest Territories, on the shore of Great Slave Lake. From there, a noisy flight some 240 miles north-northeast in a Twin Otter floatplane brings us to Aylmer Lake Lodge, a destination so remote that it can only be reached by air. The facilities are basic in order to keep impact on the environment to a minimum, but the bunkhouses are cozy, and the lodge provides a central point to meet, talk, eat the delicious food provided for us, and look out at the local wildlife.

And the scenery is simply stunning. I watch the last of the trees fade out during the early-morning flight as we head up north of the tree line and into a landscape of tundra, where the land is covered only in small shrubs, grasses, mosses and lichens. Lakes and rivers are interspersed across the land, and in this early light, the water glows like molten gold. Linking both land and water are embankments called eskers. These were formed by rivers flowing within the glaciers that once covered the land, which left behind their sediment of sand and gravel as the ice walls melted away. Their loose construction, in a land where all else is solid rock or water, allows them to be much used by wolves as den sites.

In this fresh, strangely silent landscape, even my footfalls seem crude and intrusive. The silence really is deafening, and those few sounds present are distinct: the water lapping against the shore, an occasional song from the few birds present, insects buzzing, the wind blowing over a rock. These sounds are all separate, something to savor and relish, not the cacophony of near-constant noise that we are all subjected to in our daily lives. To quote a favorite author, a man could be driven to commit philosophy, and I am guilty of this on frequent occasions.

As if this landscape of beautiful desolation and silence is not enough, there is wildlife to be seen at almost every turn. As soon as we leave the confines of the plane and walk toward our new home, sik-siks—arctic ground squirrels—pop up to see us. They are so used to humans from eating the generous supplies of peanuts put out for them by our hosts, Alan and Cathy Rebane, that they will take nuts from fingers and even visit a friendly lap.

My mind and senses are still trying to cope with the sheer scale of this new land. An all-encompassing sky, with no tree cover or other shelter, gives the impression that everything that happens here is subject to scrutiny, leaving no room for lies or falsehoods. And yet, despite that feeling, there is also the sense of splendid isolation, of being separated from the rest of humanity for this short time.

Dean asks for a single volunteer to take a 45-minute boat ride down Aylmer Lake to a place called the Narrows so we can check a known den site. I’m lucky enough to form part of this advance scouting party. Out on the water, senses reel again as water and sky meet in places, giving brief feelings that I am suspended inside a huge bubble. Back to practical matters, we find plenty of paw prints and other signs of recent occupation at the site. This is significant, as no wolves were seen at all the previous year, and the tracks offer hope that we may catch sight of the local inhabitants.

Sunset of the first day finds us all up on the ridge behind the lodge, scopes and cameras ready for wolves or any other creatures that care to visit, but we see only blackflies and mosquitoes, and close enough not to require scopes! The sunset is spectacular—here, each one is, while all being utterly different—and no one is anything less than content as we head down to our bunks.

So, the week continues. We are here to watch wildlife, but just being in this remote place, knowing that wolves, caribou, barren-ground grizzlies, arctic hares, peregrine falcons, and all the others are around—somewhere—makes the landscape seem alive, even when nothing moves. Not that we don’t look hard, searching by foot and boat, pausing to admire the scenery and chomp on 10,000-year-old glacial ice, its compacted layers visible against sunlight. Every change in viewpoint reveals some subtle difference to be appreciated—this place is never boring. Just to be out here, surrounded by pristine air and water, is a privilege for all my senses to savor. The wet sand shows up more wolf tracks in transient detail, but we are being taught patience in this benign wolf hunt.

This far north there are maybe only four hours of total darkness each night, and we all enjoy the long hours of daylight, to see and experience all that we can. One night brings its own treat, too. The northern lights give us a show in greens, whites and reds. This unearthly glow brings appropriate oohs and aahs from us, especially with a side order of meteors from the Perseids shower thrown in for good measure: Even the night is full of wonder here.

We do finally see our first wolves, at the end of the day as we head back to our boats, after spending hours watching wolf rocks, caribou rocks and even musk-ox rocks: It is amazing how the eye can play tricks. But here, so close to our group, a beautiful, mature female walks. She is joined by a younger, more nervous male, who remains up on the ridge, keeping his distance.

Being suddenly awakened by the flashlight that night is only the start of a remarkable day of wolf encounters, with the female visiting the lodge again as we are getting ready to eat breakfast, walking around a mere few meters away. This is beyond our wildest imaginings for the trip, and seeing her staring right down my camera lens leaves images in my mind that render those from the camera almost perfunctory. She’s only here, in our space, because she chooses to be, and I feel that if I blink or even breathe, it will all disappear like some vivid but quick-forgotten dream. So I savor the moment, locking those few minutes into my mind.

We spend much time viewing these two wolves from the catered comfort of the lodge. Another male also joins them on one occasion. How great this is—we point our scopes and cameras through the windows and eat meals in between. And we thought that wildlife biologists had a hard life! The only person less than impressed is Kathy, her lovingly prepared meals constantly interrupted by our rushing in and out of doors, to get a better view of the latest happenings.

Supporting cast members of this wildlife play decide that the wolves aren’t going to have the stage to themselves. We spot a musk-ox across the water and also a lone caribou from the 128,000-strong Bathurst herd. This herd is due to migrate across the area, passing south to its winter range, but only this single representative is evident. A peregrine falcon hunts near the beach, showing the most incredible aerobatics, while a bald eagle and the female wolf have a small dispute in almost the same spot the next day. And I don’t even mind missing the glimpse of a wolverine as I am out hiking elsewhere. It is impossible to be everywhere, and I never feel fully connected with any landscape unless I have experienced it on foot, each step bringing me closer to the land itself.

Since the trip, I often describe this place as barren but in a positive sense, with no human influence save for our lodge on the lake. This open landscape, full of sky and water, seems to draw you in, invite you to sail around the next bit of land, or walk up one more ridge, just to see what awaits beyond . . . and beyond that. It is bleak but never boring, full of life both in the vegetation and animals that abound here, swallowed into this huge space. There are possible threats to this, however. The same geology that stuns me also houses gold and diamonds deep within itself. Many consider these to be more precious than the wilderness, but standing on an esker, feeling the breeze, listening to deafening silence interspersed with occasional sounds, I know that this is wrong. This last great wilderness must remain, unspoiled and truly wild, for if we lose this, we lose something infinitely more precious and utterly irreplaceable.

Chris Senior works in digital mapping, or GIS, for UK-based environmental organizations. He is a writer and avid photographer and traveler. He lives in South Yorkshire, England. For a photo journey of the 2008 trip to Aylmer Lake, visit Chris's Web site at https://pbase.com/pawsforthought/canada_nwt