Walking With a Wolf

The population of people on this planet who have been kissed by wolves remains, I would imagine, few and far between. However, their ranks have just exploded to include one unlikely and incredibly lucky member as of last Tuesday.

This individual was no less French kissed by a wolf on an otherwise ordinary weekday morning in Golden, BC’s breathtaking Blaeberry Valley. While it may have included a gentle miasma of canine breath, the lick was still extremely affecting.

If you haven’t already realized, I was this fortunate person. Even I have a hard time believing it all really happened. The whole experience has the aftertaste of a magical dream. Luckily, I have evidence to prove otherwise.

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Nestled in the mountains about 15 minutes north of Golden, the Northern Lights Wildlife Wolf Centre is a place I’d wondrously visited twice previously as a young girl. My intrigue of wolves started long before I came to the centre; nevertheless, seeing the animals so close only made me more awed and interested in them. But watching them in their enclosures was not enough. I wanted to experience what it would be like to have no barriers between that wildness and myself, and this was an option – only, I had to be at least sixteen. The centre’s “walking with wolves” opportunity, understandably, firmly holds this boundary.

So I waited and waited, forgetting for a while only to be reminded one way or another. Eventually my excitement faded as my life grew busier with the undertakings of growing up. When I did think of the wolves I’d seen at the centre, and how I could one day walk with them, it always felt like something I’d do far into the future – even when I eventually became of age. Maybe next year I’d finally plan for it. Or the next.

This autumn, however, I happen to be turning eighteen. For such a momentous age, it went without saying that it may be a good idea for me to experience something momentous. And so my parents and I decided we would finally do it. We booked a “walking with wolves” tour.

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The morning of Tuesday October 28, I was surprisingly nervous. Perhaps it was my lack of sleep, or the early, chilly morning, or my wooziness from travelling affecting my mood. Thinking back on the day, I realize now that I was also holding a well-intentioned but unhelpful soup of pressure and tension in my belly to capture perfect photos. After all, not only was this walk an experience for my growing older; it was also an opportunity to take some potentially once-in-a-lifetime shots.

But also: I was about to experience that wildness I’d fallen so in love with years before, with nothing dividing me from it. The exhilaration of that thought was only muted by the formidableness of its reality.

As soon as we arrived at the area for the walk, the pressure began to ease. Mostly because, oh my god, there’s suddenly a wolf standing in front of me. Walking toward me. Oh my god, I’m petting a wolf. Is this even happening?

Flora was our canine guide that morning. At thirteen years old with a solid build and thick ivory-painted coat, she looked every last bit the pure grey wolf she was. Her demeanor was mellow and observant; the only time she moved quickly was when chunks of beef from her handler were produced.

What I noticed immediately about Flora was her presence. Being a dog owner and having been around many dogs in my life, I’m familiar with their signs of domestication: wagging tails, lolling tongues, goofy smiles, bumbling legs, pubescent-esque vocalizations and barks. But Flora showed none of this energy.

The way she moved was fluid and quiet. Her paws were huge and legs strong, and yet she made little noise as she trotted over the ground. She was also silent vocally and very attentive to the environment around her. Most plants, rocks, terrain deserved a sniff. Once she was satisfied, she would stand and look back at us. It was impossible to guess what her thoughts were. (Except, perhaps, when a new cube of beef was held up; then she would run back with her eyes fixed on the meat, and sometimes bounce up and down eagerly having arrived.)

The most mysterious aspect of Flora was her eyes. There was something definitely and decidedly un-dog-like about them. Though her gaze seemed sleepy punctuated with slow blinks, I still felt like I was being carefully observed. It was an experience akin to photographing an owl recently (which I will be writing a post on soon), in which I felt pinned in place by its yellow stare. Nothing replaces the wild intensity of predator eyes.

I took as many photos of Flora as I could – and then some – just to make sure I had at least a few good ones. Sure, that may have resulted in obtaining a few hundred shots of Flora sniffing and blinking and just standing and staring at me, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I got to walk with a wolf. I fulfilled my childhood dream.

(Though, I should say it isn’t quite satiated. I already want to do it again.)

What a beautiful creature.

And yet all creatures, no matter how beautiful, still have a silly side:

Lastly, a series of photos that shows the progression of one of the kisses. Looking at these, I can feel the ghost of Flora’s tongue and the phantom scent of her breath. A momentous moment indeed.