A View from the Wolf’s Eye
(for the Love of an Island)
  by Carolyn C. Peterson
wolf-moose home                                                                                                    
 
1. The 1970’s, Learning. If you can see the profile of a wolf's head in the outline of Lake Superior, Isle Royale is the lean and hungry eye of that wolf, and when you stand on the island's basalt backbone, you are connected to some of Earth's oldest rock. Oblivious to human measures of success and failure and to colonization by various flora and fauna, the island remains steady and strong, an effective antidote for modern malaise and a testament to nature’s healing processes. Twenty miles from the nearest shore, Isle Royale is a remarkable wildlife study area, for the number of mammalian species is limited to those that can fly, swim in very cold water, or cross on the ice. The fifteen mammals that currently occupy the island, including moose, wolf, beaver, red fox, otter, showshoe hare, pine marten, and red squirrel, are essentially captive. Isle Royale provides a small and protected cast of characters whose interactions are relatively simple to monitor and understand. Moose arrived on Isle Royale early in the 20th Century, probably swimming from Canada, but there is a story, not yet authenticated, that they were brought to Isle Royale by a group of hunting enthusiasts from Minnesota. Without predators, moose thrived in a heavenly garden of favorite foods, but by the 1930s they had overpopulated the island and were starving. An attempt to move moose from Isle Royale to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was unsuccessful, though it produced some entertaining movie footage. Similarly, imported captive wolves, instead of limiting moose numbers as intended, became pests around human establishments on Isle Royale and had to be removed. In the late 1940s wild wolves appeared on Isle Royale, presumably having crossed on the ice from Canada during a particularly cold winter. That wolves would kill all the moose and then start eating park visitors seemed a real possibility at the time, when wolves were still feared and hated in our country. Durward L. Allen of Purdue University, fascinated by this natural predator-prey experiment on Isle Royale, procured the funds to begin a long-term study. Since 1958 the ups and downs of the moose and wolf populations have been carefully recorded, and the findings have fascinated people all over the world. The particular magic of Isle Royale captivated me on my first visit, for it was here that I fell in love. As a member of a spur-of-the-moment, end-of-the-summer backpacking adventure with seven other counselors from St. Paul YMCA Camp Widjiwagan near Ely, MN, I met Rolf Peterson. My first impression of him was indelible-- always at the rear of our procession, often on his knees, photographing a caterpillar or spider web unnoticed by the rest of us. A broad-vista, whizz-bang type myself, I was fascinated by Rolf's quiet respect for all nature, especially the bit players.  Love was not on my agenda in 1969. A product of both the idealistic 1960s and the Protestant work ethic, I was searching for a meaningful way to give something back to a world that had invested so much in me. As a tot I had accompanied Mom, a "red feather lady", when she solicited donations for the Community Chest in Duluth, and my hardworking and meticulously honest father had taught me to admire his heroes, Meriwether Lewis, Albert Schweitzer and Abraham Lincoln, men of vision, courage and action. At home, in school, church and Girl Scouts, I learned that work, whether paid or voluntary, is satisfying, even enjoyable. At Wellesley College the motto Non Ministrari, Sed Ministrare (not to be ministered unto, but to minister) reinforced the practical lessons I had learned as a child, and I was eager for a mission. In the spring of 1969, as a junior in college, I was asked to help lead the graduating seniors to their commencement exercises. It was a memorable day. The guest speaker, Edward Brooke, a liberal Senator from Massachusetts, used many statistics to admonish the new graduates to be patient, to proceed slowly in attempting to change the world, to right the seemingly intractable wrongs. He received polite, unenthusiastic applause. The next speaker, graduating senior Hillary Rodham, challenged Senator Brooke point by point and called for more humane, more progressive political action. "For too long," she said, "those who lead us have viewed politics as the art of the possible. The challenge that faces us now is to practice politics as the art of making possible what appears to be impossible." She spoke extemporaneously; I have always wondered what she had planned to say that day. It was 1969, and students were fired up to bring peace and justice to this world in one generation. Hillary received a seven-minute standing ovation, and it was exciting and a little frightening to be part of the crowd. My shift from Goldwater Republican to anti-war Democrat came a year later, when the U.S. bombed Cambodia. My frustration as a college student was that I didn't know where to dig in, how to be part of the solution. I was idealistic and young; I wanted a BIG project, to be the fisherman instead of a knot in the net. My friends all seemed to have been called to various careers, but I had changed majors three times and was floundering. Having grown up with my parents' accounts of the Great Depression and its constraints, I couldn't complain about the overabundance of choices available to me. Instead of focusing my interests, college had expanded my horizons, a gift which, at that stage of my life, I would have gladly exchanged for a marketable skill and a job offer. I found a temporary solution to my unjelled plans -- the Peace Corps. My older brother had served in this program on the north coast of Borneo, where he and his wife taught language, art, history, math and science to Malay and Chinese children. Inspired by his enthusiastic reports, I enrolled in several anthropology, political science and international economics courses, and I resolved not to let anything interfere with my plan; my brother had warned me that if I had strong ties to home I would not survive the first few mosquito bites. But now Rolf Peterson filled my mind-- blond, blue-eyed, quietly strong, humble, self-assured, competent and comfortable in the woods. I clearly saw his beautiful soul. As I flew back to Boston for my senior year, I decided to write Rolf a letter at the University of Minnesota in Duluth (UMD), simply telling him he was a credit to the human race. My letter crossed a similar one from him, a coincidence that should have given me pause, but it would take me another 30 years to become open to the possibility of miracles. We continued to write, sharing our opinions about families, politics, religion, our deepest hopes and dreams. My mother had given me my best writing lesson years before, while I composed a sympathy note: Write from the heart. By Christmas, my center of gravity had shifted; I was somewhat peeved that my Peace Corps dream would not come true, yet I was certain that I would follow this Scandinavian nature-lover anywhere. It was satisfying for me, an unfocused generalist, to support Rolf, so well-suited to his chosen field of wildlife research. Rolf's dream was noble and large enough for two people; I happily exchanged my amorphous goal for a concrete project, and some of my freedom for the love and support of a life companion. Through canoe trips in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in northern Minnesota, Ontario's Quetico Provincial Park, and Canada's barrenlands, Rolf had grown to love northern wilderness. Born and raised in Minneapolis, he had always dreamed of living closer to the woods. As a child he had clipped an article with wildlife photos by Dave Mech, who was studying wolves and moose on Isle Royale. In November 1969, while a senior at the University of Minnesota, Duluth (UMD), Rolf saw a television documentary that included a segment on the Isle Royale wolf-moose research, directed by Durward L. Allen. Rolf watched the credits, found Dr. Allen's address at Purdue University and wrote a letter of inquiry. Rolf lives in faith that things generally work out for the best, an attitude richly rewarded when Dr. Allen offered to direct him in a PhD project on the Isle Royale wolves. The island would be the focus of Rolf's life for several years, and he seemed to think I would make a good helpmate. During spring vacation, Rolf asked my parents for my hand and, upon giving an acceptable answer to Daddy's question, "Do you love her?" was welcomed into the family. I have always felt Mom and Dad loved Rolf, a good feeling to have during the inevitable doldrums of a marriage; were I to leave Rolf, I would find little sympathy at home. We set a wedding date for September. Rolf spent the summer on Isle Royale, getting the feel of the place and searching for remains of moose killed by wolves the previous winter. Long streamers of flagging had been dropped from the research plane to help the ground crew locate carcasses spotted from the air months earlier. That summer, and in the next several summers, a lot of flagging was found-- one of Rolf's first conclusions was that the person who plots the "kills" on the map in winter from the airplane ought to collect the bones in summer. Kill sites are as difficult to map accurately from a circling airplane in winter as they are to find on the ground in summer; Rolf was eager to do both. We were married in Duluth and had a brief honeymoon up the Gunflint Trail in northeastern Minnesota. In some ways we barely knew each other. Courtship by correspondence had enabled us to share our philosophical concerns; our compatibility in other respects would have to be worked out. With a lifetime ahead, we resolved to make our marriage thrive; our parents provided ample proof that long-term commitments are possible, even joyful. Several coincidences made our adjustment to marriage easy. We were both the youngest of three children, showered with attention and accustomed to receiving. Raised by confident, happy parents and older siblings, we took love for granted. Our parents were identical in age, with our fathers seven years older than our mothers and, being survivors of the Great Depression, grateful for material security. Our families had taken us to church (Rolf was Lutheran, I Congregationalist/Episcopalian), where we learned the vocabulary of praise, compassion, and forgiveness. Finally, we had both spent the first 21 years of our lives under the same house number, 3512. Whether "fate" had a hand in our introduction was something I would ponder for years. We drove a rented van containing a few possessions to West Lafayette, Indiana. Neither of us wanted to own a car-- at the age of 21 Rolf had paddled more miles than he had driven, and we both have always had ethical problems with the automobile. We had no savings, and bicycles provided sufficient transportation, for there aren't many places flatter than the Purdue campus. We lived in married student housing, about as unadorned as such places can be, built after World War II with streets named for war heroes like Nimitz, Marshall and Halsey. No car, no TV, no phone-- we were unencumbered and happy. My first real job, after 17 years of formal education, was to shepherd the corporate records collection of the Krannert Business School Library. Try as I might, I simply could not get excited about that locked roomful of glossy annual reports. It was a long way from the Peace Corps, and I spent many hours walking around Purdue's experimental cornfields, wrestling with that familiar question, "What should I do with my life?" As an employee, I was able to take university courses without charge, and I enrolled in two education classes. Just to be looking forward again was a relief; with my dreams unleashed, reality was bearable. Instead of exploring my box, I plotted an escape from it. In January, Rolf drove north with Dr. Allen to Minnesota, and from Eveleth they flew in a small plane to Isle Royale for the seven-week winter study. Their landing field was the ice of Washington Harbor, their base of operations the ranger bunkhouse at Windigo. The Isle Royale wolves had never been handled by researchers and were spared the hazards proximity to "civilization" brings: bullets, poison, untended traps, motor vehicles, and competition with people for prey and territory. The low point for wolves in the United States occurred just after WW II, when people added to their arsenal of anti-wolf weaponry the small, light aircraft that had proliferated during the war. Pilot Don Murray was a pivotal character in the winter studies for 18 years. A truck-driver from Mt. Iron, Minnesota, his flying experience came as a crop duster. It was a tremendous privilege to be the observer in Don Murray's small Aeronca Champ airplane; it was also a terrific responsibility. Rolf's first challenge would be to control his stomach during tight circles, the pilot's specialty. Some of Rolf's predecessors had vomited at the sight of the plane each morning! Don Murray was a superb pilot, and Rolf trusted him completely, which helped in the matter of stomach-control. But more than this, Don taught Rolf to glean information from tracks seen from the air. The wolves were accustomed to Don's flying technique (he was careful not to surprise or crowd them), so Rolf was certain the behavior he observed was natural. In spite of Rolf's faith in Don Murray, I was a basket-case of worry and loneliness in our quiet apartment at Purdue. I was surprised and disgusted by my dependence on Rolf; is this what love does to a person!? In four short months I had become a wet rag! It helped to believe that Rolf's work was important, that many people were genuinely interested in wolves, and that the wolves were worthy of this notice. The Isle Royale study was teaching people all over the world that wolves are selective predators who cull the old, young and sick moose, leaving the mature and healthy ones to reproduce. By keeping the moose numbers down, wolves unwittingly protect the forest by preventing moose from devastating their own food supply. Nature's ways are complex and awe-inspiring, and Rolf, with his careful, thorough habits, was a terrific scientist. Focusing on the island and its lessons helped calm my fears about Rolf's safety. It was then that I came upon an adage by Antoine de Saint Exupery that has resonated throughout my life: "Love does not consist in gazing at one another but in looking outward together in the same direction." The best way for me to help Rolf was to be happy myself. As newlyweds, we needed money, and my best service was to tend those corporate records. But in the winters of 1973 and 1974, I went home to Duluth and enrolled at the University of Minnesota, Duluth, to obtain certification to teach high school history and economics. Mom and Dad indulged me with the same top-notch room, board and laundry service they had provided for the first 18 years of my life, and I put all my energy into student teaching, loving every minute of it. Had I been invited to participate in Rolf's first winter studies, I would certainly have jumped at the chance. But Dr. Allen and Don Murray were adamant, back in the days when men could be adamant about such things: NO WOMEN! Men are different when they are on their own; at winter study Dr. Allen, Don Murray and Rolf were finding freedom and camaraderie somewhat similar to what I had experienced at a women's college. With Rolf's life dependent on the pilot and his career dependent on Dr. Allen, I decided to lie low. At the time, I resented the exclusion, but in retrospect I am glad my wings were clipped; I was learning to put silver linings in my clouds, arguably life's most important skill. Dorothy Allen had been putting up with these winter separations for 14 years and assured me that I would, some day, see advantages in the time alone. I was skeptical and wondered about the strength of their marriage. I wallowed in pain and self-pity: how unfair that the best seven weeks of Rolf's annual calendar were the most difficult for me! But Dorothy Allen was right, and each winter I learned to stand on my own feet. My loneliness nudged me out of our little apartment, and the new people I met expanded my horizons and stretched my heart. In March, Rolf and I came together in strength. Rolf sent word from the island by letter, our familiar mode of communication, and I was fascinated to learn each January how the wolves were organized, how many pups had survived, and what shape the moose population was in. During the early 1970s a series of severe winters caused the moose numbers to plummet. For moose, deep snow that confines them and covers their food is more troublesome than cold temperatures, and wolves, aided by crusts in the snow, take advantage of their weakened condition. Rolf began measuring snow and searching weather records to relate moose welfare to snow characteristics. Apparently because of the bountiful supply of weak, starved moose, the wolf population increased dramatically in the first years of Rolf's vigil. When wolves feed on animals as large as moose, 15 or 20 individuals can crowd around the dinner table, so packs can be large. The alpha female of the East Pack produced litters of as many as seven pups for several years in a row. Also, with moose being so easy to kill, wolf packs did not need to maintain large territories-- why bother to run to the other end of the island when dinner can be had at the next drainage? Rich wolves hang out with each other and chew the fat, unlike their human counterparts, who enlarge their ecological footprint. When a pack's territory shrinks, vacant space is available to colonists. Although most wolves live in packs, there is generally a disgruntled wolf who would rather leave its family than put up with the pecking order in a pack. (Wolf packs are dominated by a pair of autocrats, an alpha male and female, who usually do all the breeding.) When there are vacant areas in a range, a lone female can team up with a male to begin a new pack and, with enough to eat, keep a litter of pups alive. Winter field work was centered on the wolves and was done from the air, with few people participating, but summer ground searches for moose carcasses involved a larger crew. My first summer on the island was 1971. It didn't start out well. Rolf and a field assistant, Jim Dietz, now head of a conservation biology program at the University of Maryland, hiked as a team, and I stayed behind at Bangsund Cabin. The Bangsund family had based their fishery at the cabin in the 1940s and 1950s before lamprey eels decimated the heavily harvested lake trout population. Jack Bangsund had died in this cabin in 1959, and Dave Mech, Dr. Allen's first Isle Royale student, received National Park Service (NPS) permission to house his summer field operation here. Wolf-moose researchers have lived at Bangsund Cabin ever since.  I was an experienced camper (my parents had taken me on canoe trips in Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area since I was four, and long canoe trips at camp had sharpened my skills), yet I found life in an old fisherman's cabin to be difficult. This was not the log cabin on the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog, with varnished pine logs and a stone hearth. The ambience of Bangsund Cabin in 1971 was (and is!) "dated utilitarian." The logs had long since been painted light green on the inside, and to keep out the wind, tarpaper had been nailed to the outside. The rocking chair "upholstery" was oily and dingy, the curtains faded and dusty, and the floor badly atilt. The roof leaked, and spiders, deermice, bats and garter snakes passed at will through the gaps between the log walls and the warped floor. Imagined horrors lurked behind cabinets, and it took years for me to muster courage to probe the darkest corners. To make matters worse, I was often alone. While Rolf and Jim were out on adventures, I was lonesome and bored, even frightened, at the cabin. Once again, that Peace Corps alternative tempted me. I told my parents about some of the cabin's deficiencies, and my mother, delighted to frequent junk shops in Duluth, over the coming years provided many pots and pans and nearly all of our kitchen gadgets. Mom had always been a masterful packer, and her talents reached their peak as she squeezed binoculars, pecans, bug hats, potholders, a stove-top waffle iron and canning supplies into a small box. One memorable item she sent was a garden trowel of unusual design. I had used it several times when I received a letter from home asking about the potato masher she had tucked into a recent care package. It took some effort for me to love all nature's parts as thoroughly and effortlessly as Rolf did. I accepted critters outside where they belonged but was frustrated not to be able to pick my cabinmates. The pitter-patter/thump of mice in the ceiling above our bed kept me awake at night, and in early morning light I couldn't take my eyes off spiders, some real, some imagined, on our chipboard ceiling. One bad day, as I walked out the front door, something fell on my head and encircled my neck. Instinctively, I grabbed the thing and flung it out into the lake with all the strength of my adrenaline-pumped body, and then learned that garter snakes are accomplished swimmers. I knew the snake was harmless and was merely enjoying the warm sun on the door jamb, but fear is often irrational, and it took some time for my jitters to subside. Another new experience was operating powerboats. My first solo adventure in the old wooden "Wolf," with twin 20-hp motors, nearly ended in disaster when I forgot which motor was permanently stuck in forward gear. Having turned off the wrong one and heading straight for shore at a fast clip, I had to hop over the windshield and jump into the shallow water to keep the hull from crunching on our rocky beach. Neighbors were a Godsend. Pete and Laura Edisen operated a fishery a quarter-mile away, and I used the trail Pete had made years before, when he and his brother shared a shack near the Bangsund Cabin and courted Laura, who lived with her parents, also fishermen, near the Rock Harbor Lighthouse. Pete and Laura were the most generous, hospitable, friendly folks I had ever known, and how I needed those cups of coffee in their cozy kitchen! Pete had been born in Norway and recalled "the old country" fondly, yet he spoke with equal reverence about Isle Royale. He showed no favoritism with respect to humans and other animals; in fact, he had a wonderfully positive attitude toward just about everything. It felt good to be near Pete. The Edisens had no children. Pete told me that as a small child, Laura had been present at the birth of her half-brother and had been so terrified that she resolved never to have a child. Love will have its outlet, however, and Pete and Laura bestowed their affection on those around them --relatives, friends and neighbors. During one of my visits, Laura taught me how to bake bread, and to this day I follow her recipes. Kneading "Laura's bread" still brings warmth to my heart; her spirit is alive and well.   Pete and Laura had not received much formal education, but they had learned something far more important: happiness comes not from pursuit. Instead of wanting to change the world, they were grateful for what's already here. Rather than grouse about bad luck, they used their good minds to see the beauty in all situations and their hearts to serve other people. Pete's positive spin on stories and Laura's generous hospitality meant more than all the education I had come to worship in college. I had thought of the cracks in the cabin walls as a problem to be solved; Pete and Laura taught me to see the light that comes through the cracks. Despite the best neighbors imaginable, by July of that first summer my impatience with idleness was greater than my apprehension about Rolf and Jim's pace, and I asked to go along. Rolf had purchased lightweight camping equipment, and with reasonable loads we left the trails and used a topographical map, aerial photos and compasses to explore areas of interest. The work was manageable because the guys carried more than their "fair share," and since we stopped whenever a bone was spotted, I kept my eyes peeled for any and all excuses to stop. The good times had begun! As I followed the man I loved over ridges and through swamps, I fell under Isle Royale's spell. One of my best memories of 1971 was learning to recognize some bird songs. Bird identification by sight alone is a challenge after the trees leaf out in June, and even in May I had trouble looking up with binoculars while carrying a heavy backpack. Rolf had learned many calls from Jack Hofslund, his ornithology professor at UMD, and he suggested I master a few songs at a time. We found Roger Tory Peterson's renditions to be most helpful, and soon I was able to make sense of the morning chorus in early summer. Winter wrens (the long-winded, ebullient singers of the boreal forest), ovenbirds ("teacher teacher teacher teacher"), black-throated green warblers ("zzeee zzeee zzeee zo zzeee"), red-eyed vireos ("see me, here I am, over here" or, as a preacher: "do you hear me? are you listening? do you get it? can you do it?") and white-throated sparrows ("oh poor Sam Peabody Peabody Peabody") were the first to become familiar. Those species that took the longest time to identify have become indelible in my mind. I remember hearing a "robin with a scratchy throat" on the Island Mine Trail and when we took a break and scanned the trees overhead with binoculars I was delighted to see a scarlet tanager! Each spring I expect a redstart behind Daisy Farm Campground, a hermit thrush on the Greenstone Ridge near Ojibway Tower, and a blackburnian warbler, winter wren, and swainson’s thrush behind the cabin. I look forward to annual reunions with these old friends, and a few unrecognizable songs add excitement and keep me humble. Learning to recognize birds by their songs was my first step from tourist to native. An aspiring world traveler, I was surprised to discover the pleasures of getting to know one place really well. Familiarity casts out fear and fosters connection, and natural areas bring me humble joy because I take no credit for what I see, nor do I think of ways to "improve" things. Public spaces put me in the audience, along with other people. A landscape need not be dramatic to touch the spirit. The Grand Canyon, even Denali's vast expanse has not made my heart throb as does a muddy beaver pond on Isle Royale, where I know some of the creatures and remember that several years ago the pond was dry. Sitting by that pond, amid kingbirds and warblers, aware that evolution has worked for millions of years to produce what I see today, I am in love with life, excited and genuinely happy to be part of the whole system. My role, a witness, feels significant. "Stand still and look until you really see," says an old poster on our cabin wall. Another advantage to getting to know the close-to-home landscapes is that the experiences are affordable and repeatable. When I have not invested a lot of time and energy to reach my destination and the planet has not been harmed by my activity, I can begin to reap the profits immediately. Even more important, as soon as I realize that the joy I feel on Isle Royale is what Thoreau found at Walden Pond and John Muir among California's coastal redwood forests, I no longer need to visit other people's beautiful places. While Isle Royale may seem a country church next to Yosemite's mother cathedral, spirit is alive in both places, and frequent attendance pays off. A Norwegian reminded me that we find beauty wherever we choose to see it. He seemed surprised that I found the mountains and fjords of his country breathtakingly beautiful. "Beautiful?!" he exclaimed, "You think these mountains are beautiful? My ancestors nearly starved trying to farm this place!" When I asked him what sort of landscape he considered beautiful, his eyes lit up as he replied, "The prairies of Nebraska." To appreciate beauty one's stomach must be full. Isle Royale's charm is subtle and undramatic, but I find its humility appealing. When I approach Isle Royale with time and curiosity, opening my heart and senses, the place speaks to me in a clear voice. The island is, in some ways, a wounded landscape; it has been mined, logged and burned, yet it is a testament to nature's power to heal itself. I feel blessed to be alive in such a place, a part of nature, as good as all the other players. Isle Royale's wholeness is a balm, a reminder that we are forgiven for our mistakes, and a challenge to "go, and sin no more."  Isle Royale has taught me not to make comparisons between natural areas. The island, like every other spot on this planet, is doing the best it can. Comparing Isle Royale to places with higher mountains and taller trees simply makes me unhappy. Like the Edisens, I'm rewarded when I make the effort to see the good in all things. While I enjoyed getting to know Isle Royale, Rolf was a bit uneasy about his project. He was the most recent in a fairly long line of Isle Royale wolf/moose researchers, and he was afraid that the big questions had already been answered. It seemed that some sort of balance had been established, with the wolves keeping the moose population under control. Dr. Allen's faith was helpful-- he convinced Rolf to wait and watch. And Rolf did not have to wait long, for the winters of 1969, 1971 and 1972 were very difficult for moose. Because of their high numbers and the exceptionally deep snow, moose died faster than wolves could kill them. Winter browse, especially balsam fir, was chewed to a frazzle, and desperate moose broke off tops of young trees to feed themselves. (Bulls are especially susceptible to long, hard winters, having spent much of the autumn preoccupied with the rut, competing with other bulls and tending the cows.) Thus the first new idea to surface during Rolf's tour of duty on Isle Royale was that to accurately describe predator-prey relationships on Isle Royale one must monitor the weather. Exceptional weather jolts the whole system. To uncover more of the mystery of Isle Royale, we had to do a better job of finding dead moose. In 1972 Rolf hired two field assistants to work as a second team, scouring the island for bones. On one of our trips, an overnight to Chippewa Harbor, we found a dozen carcasses. All too often, wolves had not yet discovered the dead moose or had eaten only the "soft parts." With prey so vulnerable, sometimes it was easier to kill another moose than to chew on a frozen carcass. At one site we found five legs. Finding carcasses was much more exciting than "processing" them when wolves were not cleaning them up. Skinning leg bones and looking for arthritis in the pelvis or necrosis in the jaws is messy and smelly work, especially when the knife edge and saw blade are worn. In those years, I was paid as a half-time assistant, and that had a real advantage-- I could always manage to be the recording secretary and sit upwind when a horrid-smelling, maggot-infested dead moose needed to be processed. Another way to locate more moose carcasses was to come earlier in spring. I took temporary jobs at Purdue so I could accompany Rolf as soon as ice was out of harbors and NPS boats were operating. In early May there was no underbrush hiding moose bones, and wolves were still using park trails. At the same time, bushwhacking was as easy as it ever gets on the island. It was frustrating not to have more hours in a day; we felt we were racing against the new vegetation poking its way up through last year's brittle, brown leaves. Spring is the season of the young and hardy, the newborns and the veterans of the harsh northern winter. Like cocky youngsters, Rolf and I were sometimes foolish. One 80-degree day in early May, we pushed ourselves to reach the shady relief of the sugar maple forest at the west end of the island, completely forgetting that leafless trees provide no shade. Another morning we awoke in a collapsed tent and laughed in surprise when we poked our heads out the door to find that three inches of heavy, wet snow had fallen during the night. As if our packs were not heavy enough, Rolf kept thinking up reasons to collect additional bones. In 1970, a jaw would suffice. By 1972, we were collecting both jaws and a metatarsus bone (the lower rear leg bone in a moose, the long bone in your foot) and all arthritic joints. By 1979, we were bringing home the skulls, too, and if antlers were attached, this could be a 50-lb load. Our packs usually weighed more at the end of a trip than at the start. Dead moose turned up in odd places. One stumbled into an old, water-filled mine pit behind Daisy Farm Campground. Rolf, leaning over a log he had placed across the opening of the pit, worked on this carcass with an audience of interested campers. Another unlucky moose was electrocuted by a dangling power line that ran, at that time, from Mott Island to Ojibway Tower. We camped near the carcass for several days, expecting the wolves to appear, but they didn't discover this one for weeks, long past the point we thought wolves would be interested in it. We learned that hungry wolves have no problem eating rotten meat. Occasionally a moose died from exhaustion and trauma with a front leg caught in the crotch of a tree. Prodded by hunger, these moose paid dearly for their overreaching. The most colorful carcass I remember made its surprise appearance 20 feet off the end of our dock one July. When a moose breaks through the ice in early spring or late fall, it sinks and remains on the bottom until it reaches a particular stage of decomposition, at which point it resurfaces. We towed the orange, purple and green mass to a beach a few hundred yards away where the gulls and foxes made quick work of the remains. Soon thereafter we began to filter our drinking water.  Although Rolf's research was supposedly focused on wolves, we seemed to spend most of our time with dead moose. After seeing repeatedly what wolves could do to a 1000-lb moose, I developed a great respect for the elusive predators. I also understood wolves' need to be left alone. We did not want to intrude on a den or summer home, called a rendezvous site, lest the wolves move, perhaps losing a pup or two because of the disruption. Feeding a litter of pups during the summer is difficult because moose are strong and can escape into open water. Our business was to study the dynamics of undisturbed populations, not to see how closely wolves tolerate humans. Our rare sightings of wolves were thrilling but usually unsatisfying-- we see wolf, wolf runs. I had my first good look at Isle Royale wolves at Lily Lake in 1972. We had just finished breakfast and stood in the trees, looking over the lake, when we heard howling. Within seconds, two wolves appeared, the only two recognizable wolves on the island at that time, the big black alpha male of the West Pack and the small gray alpha female. They didn't see us and walked along the bog mat, appearing to enjoy a little time to themselves. My heart pounded with excitement; I felt no fear, just exhilaration to be privy to their morning outing. The sight was a gift, especially valuable because we had waited so long for it.  Only once in the 1970s were we able to watch wolves for an extended period. Seated on a ridge high above the drained beaver pond where the East Pack had a rendezvous, we imagined they were unaware of our presence; we certainly did all we could to prevent detection. Rolf did not use his camera because of its noisy shutter; instead, we recorded their howling. Seven pups were born in that pack in 1973, and we watched them at play, attacking a birch log and wrestling with one another. Wolves leave their den after several weeks, but the pups do not travel with the pack for the first few months. When an adult came home with food in its stomach, it was greeted with wild exuberance. Pups nipped at the corners of the adult's mouth, causing the adult to regurgitate, and the chunks of meat were gobbled up by the hungry youngsters. Seven pups is a large number to feed, and we noticed that one of the pups was not given a fair share. This small pup, which won our sympathy and the nickname "7-up," was also the underdog in every wrestling match. The pack moved after just a week to another, less exposed site, and we were never again able to watch them at a den or rendezvous site. Although we seldom saw wolves, we learned a great deal from their howling, and in the 1970s, when the packs were well-fed and growing, we heard group howls frequently. By 1975 I actually became irritated with the howling that played havoc with our sleep. Rolf had borrowed a super-sensitive microphone from Purdue, and he mounted it on a tripod and covered it with a plastic bag to protect it from heavy dew at night. Whenever wolves howled, Rolf hopped out of the tent, removed the bag and stood still, swarmed by mid-summer hordes of mosquitoes or chilled by autumn air, keeping the bag quiet while I pushed the tape recorder buttons inside the tent. After repeating this sequence half a dozen times in a night, we groaned when the wolves howled. Little did we know that we wouldn't have this opportunity again for 25 years! Another aspect of summer fieldwork involved keeping records on all live moose we saw. Behavior wasn't our major focus, but moose are fascinating creatures, quite tolerant of curious humans. When they choose, they can silently disappear, lifting their long legs to clear windfalls and underbrush. Humans are clumsy and noisy by comparison. If startled, however, a moose can crash through the woods, which usually sends people bolting in the opposite direction. Often, the best way for a moose to avoid detection is to keep still, letting us plod past with our eyes on the ground, packs creaking and minds preoccupied. Many people have made fun of the appearance of a moose. The "committee" that designed this creature was not headed by an artist, perhaps, but there are reasons for all of its parts. Its eyes have horizontal pupils, helpful in nearly 180-degree vigilance and are protected by eyelashes “that Hollywood would die for,” says Rolf. Valves in the soft, bulbous nose can close off the air passage when a moose feeds underwater, and the convoluted air passages inside that big nose help the animal keep cool in summer and warm in winter. The large ears can be rotated 180 degrees, antlers are hugely attractive to cows, and the legs and feet are formidable weapons. The bell, or dewlap, enlarges a bull's silhouette in the fall and is also of olfactory significance during the rut. Even the slow pace that is the norm for moose has a purpose: keeping cool in summer and conserving energy in winter. The large size of the animal also helps it stay warm during a wet, cold spring when it is hairless. In one respect, however, I think evolution has shortchanged the moose. The animal could really use a tail to whisk away pesky flies. Rolf says the moose is a relative newcomer to the Western Hemisphere, having migrated across the land bridge from Siberia to Alaska; perhaps its tail froze off en route. Certainly, a tail would be a difficult appendage to keep warm in winter. Each summer we were particularly interested in the proportion of calves in our moose sightings. After the deep-snow winters of the early 1970s, calves were small in both number and size. Yearlings were so small that we sometimes mistook them for calves. Those young moose never made up for their bad start in life, and most disappeared before their second birthday. Initially, I felt sad for these tiny moose with no future, but eventually Isle Royale taught me to love the big picture; there is beauty in the whole, including disease, bad weather, ticks and tapeworms. One of the best characteristics of my new job as Rolf's field assistant was the serendipitous nature of his research. While hiking cross-country, searching for dead moose and wolf sign, we found nests of osprey, goshawk and bald eagle, new beaver ponds, glacial moraines, and relics of trapping and mining structures. Once we watched young red squirrels cautiously maneuver up and down the dead tree in which they had been born. The babies seemed just as terrified as I would have been, the first time or two; their agile, confident, acrobatic moves are learned. Always particular about lunch spots, I insisted that we find a place with an interesting view and the proper mix of sunshine for me and shade for Rolf. In one such place we watched a beaver approach a moose feeding in a shallow beaver pond. Taking advantage of the long periods when the bull's head was submerged, the beaver glided to within three feet. Suddenly the glassy water was shattered by the sharp crack of the beaver's tail. Water exploded in all directions as the moose wildly splashed its way out of the pond and out of sight. Rolf live-trapped red squirrels in the cedar swamp behind the cabin for a couple of summers to update research done by one of his predecessors and to determine the food base for pine marten, which the NPS considered re-introducing. This involved setting out 100 traps baited with a mixture of peanut butter and oatmeal. News of a free lunch program travels fast, and the family of gray jays that patrolled the area quickly discovered that the benefits of getting caught outweighed the penalties of brief captivity and a compulsory plastic ankle-bracelet. Sometimes a bird entered another trap within ten seconds of its release from the first one. The red squirrels were not nearly as mellow as the gray jays. "It's as easy as handling a bolt of lightning!" commented Rolf's assistant, Jim Woolington. Field work always necessitated field notes, a tradition Dr. Allen required, and much of our time at the cabin was spent filling out moose autopsy cards and drawing lines on maps. Technology was crude in 1971, especially since we had no electricity. My sister visited us each summer and eagerly contributed to all our projects, including record-keeping. One very late night she and I were calculating mortality rates for cows and bulls from various causes. I read the data off the autopsy card, something like, "cow, malnutrition," and she made a tally mark in one of ten columns on her paper. This was a major project, because mortality data had been collected for more than one thousand moose by 1974, but we were making good progress when I lost my place and asked, "What was the last one I told you?" Looking at a page full of tallies, she had no way of knowing which mark was last-recorded. We had a good laugh at ourselves and started over again! Rolf extended his field season as his class schedule at Purdue allowed, and we were fortunate to see the island in the fall. September and October have a characteristic nip to the air, as well as the peculiar odors of fungi and decomposing leaves. Squashberry, Viburnum edule, is a particularly smelly plant that grows in wet areas. Within just a few days the color moves from the trees overhead and blankets the ground underfoot; soon the bright reds, oranges and golds fade and darken, giving their energy back to the earth. The sun does not climb very high in the sky and gives noticeably less heat. Migrating snow buntings, white-crowned sparrows, juncos, horned larks and Lapland longspurs foretell the season to come. The clouds are often low and gray, pushed by a northwest wind strong enough to lift our linoleum floor covering even with the door closed and whisk our oil stove's heat out the back wall. The furious storms of late fall remind us of our limitations, and we respect any creature with the fur, feathers or ingenuity to survive. Another boating misadventure occurred in the fall of 1974 when the “Wolf's” successor, a 19-foot Alumacraft with 115-hp motor, sank right before our eyes. Our short dock necessitated tying the boat with the stern out, and during a storm in the middle of the night, large swells swamped it. Despite heroic bailing, we couldn't prevent the motor from being submerged by those angry rollers. When day broke, we radioed park headquarters, and the maintenance crew towed the sad boat to Mott Island, where they saved the motor, to our great relief. The best way to keep warm in fall was to hike, but the limited daylight was a handicap. One morning in October of 1974 we started from Moskey Basin and explored the rocky ridges and beaver ponds south of Intermediate Lake. At 4:OO PM we came upon a freshly-killed bull with a large rack of antlers, a rare find. Rolf skinned the metatarsus, which I stuffed, with jaws and pelvis, into my pack while Rolf shouldered the antlered skull. It was dark when we reached the park trail south of Lake Richie, pitch dark when we started the final two-mile leg to Moskey Basin. We knew the trail well, and all was fine until the East Pack of 13 wolves tuned up nearby. It was a lovely group howl, not the eerie lone call which always sends shivers down my back; even so, I wondered whether the wolves could detect us amid all the tasty moose smells we were carrying. I found it reassuring to sing some rousing camp songs as we felt our way along the trail. We returned home exhausted and hungry and found a stick wedged in our door latch, Pete Edisen's welcome signal for, "The beans are hot, come on over."  We had little trouble with bulls during the rut, perhaps because of good fortune or the fact that both bulls and cows are preoccupied with each other for a few weeks. Moose are normally quiet animals, but they fill the chilly autumn nights with their grunts and moans in their determination to find one another. Rutting moose are unpredictable and deserve to be left alone to their mating traditions. A bull seems to regard every moving object as either a rival or a potential mate, so we purposely advertised our humanness when hiking in autumn. Several times we made large detours, deferring to bulls that obviously had no intention of yielding the path to us. Eating breakfast on our first wedding anniversary, we were surprised by two distracted bulls that ran right through our campsite. There was no time to climb a tree; we just froze. The bulls probably never even saw us! One October we had a fantastic view of bulls sparring. Seated on the roof of the old Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) building at Siskiwit Bay, we watched three bulls size up each other. In the large clearing, the bulls were able to display their racks, slowly waving their massive heads and swollen "bells" from side to side. One bull was obviously smaller than the other two and quickly withdrew to the edge of the trees. The other two were about equal in size; after walking through the woods all summer, they knew just how big their antlers were. Slowly they approached each other, lowered their heads and carefully, almost gently, meshed their racks. Pushing with all their strength, each tried to force the other across some imaginary line. It didn't take more than ten minutes for one to claim the day, and the loser simply walked off the field. This was a fair fight, but not all are. We have found quite a large number of skulls with polished antlers, many more than with velvet-covered antlers; it seems that the rut is a dangerous time for prime bulls. Simply a parting shot, a little poke in the paunch with those sharp points, can introduce fatal infection. Distracted and focused on each other, they may be more vulnerable to wolves. Certainly they are noisier than at any other time of year, and wolves attracted to the grunts can also expect to find cows and calves nearby. Even without injury, big bulls face the storms of November in an exhausted state and may die before spring. In those years as Rolf's assistant, I learned to live with mice, moose hair and other specimens in our propane refrigerator. My college degree wasn’t much help for the challenges I faced as Rolf's wife, field assistant and camp cook. I remember receiving a questionnaire from the alumnae office, a follow-up of graduates, asking me to specify courses I found most helpful for my current work. Ha! We had just collected hundreds of wolf scats from an abandoned den site; should I mention Art History 215 or Economics 430? Now, there were new teachers: the wolves, moose, garter snakes, sore muscles, Lake Superior, rainbows, and the Edisens. I respected Rolf's meticulous methods and his patient commitment to accuracy. In those early years I wanted to understand everything, but gradually I learned to celebrate the complex, the unknowable. As a young person on canoe trips, lying under a clear sky, night sounds in my ears, my eyes dazzled by an August meteor shower, I had had many opportunities to feel nature's power and beauty. I had always loved the Native American explanations for natural phenomena I had learned in Longfellow’s “Hiawatha”, such as rainbows (heaven for flowers) and northern lights (death dance of warriors.) It had seemed to me then that scientific explanations diminished my awe by leaving me in a fog of big words and difficult concepts. Now I realized that a scientist's joy of discovery is akin to the reverent perspective of the ancients; humility is common to both viewpoints. As I trudged along behind Rolf mile after mile, our thoughts diverged. While he pondered something like the relationship between this year's crop of fir cones and last summer's drought, I wondered how far behind I could get in the 6-ft high thimbleberry plants before he would notice that I was missing, or why deerflies are more plentiful off trails than on, or how a business can get away with selling leaky rainsuits. I taught myself some new skills, such as how to take off a jacket without removing my backpack and the safest distance to allow when following Rolf through a dense spruce forest to protect my eyes from a rebounding branch. I made up new words to familiar melodies. Since Rolf did all the navigating, my mind was free to ramble. I wondered what moose think of people, especially us "back to nature" types that need 30 pounds of gear to spend just a few days in the woods. The older moose, perhaps 15-20 years old, have probably noted trends in tent styles and patterns on boot soles. June through August must seem to them the season of a large, noisy but harmless and predictable pest. And why do healthy moose not run from wolves but stand their ground or even charge at wolves? (This behavior makes it relatively easy for human hunters, using dogs, to kill moose; the dog confronts the moose, the moose makes its stand, and the human has launches spear, arrow or bullet.) For some reason, a moose with problems like cysts in its lungs, arthritis, or weakness from malnutrition runs from danger, a behavior that triggers an impulse in wolves to chase. Why haven't moose learned to bluff, to feign health and strength, rather than run, a choice sometimes ending in death? I know that animals are capable of deceit when protecting their young. Perhaps good health cannot be faked. Often there is an odor to illness, as in an abscessed tooth, that even we can discern, so surely moose cannot hide this from wolves. Or perhaps moose simply know when it is time to die. Yet, in winter 1977 Rolf and Don Murray watched a moose far out on the ice of Malone Bay, which is unusual because moose tend to avoid ice as it is slippery and offers no cover. The moose tracks ran in circles, and when Rolf and Don landed and got a closer look, they could see that its eyes were white. The bull was blind and was walking in circles to try to find shore. Along the shore, less than five miles away, came the East Pack of 11 wolves. It was getting dark so the plane had to return to camp, but tracks the next day showed that that old blind moose had fended off the wolves. The same pattern recurred the next night, and eventually the old bull walked into the icy water and drowned. I also thought about hungry wolves and wondered why they don't just sample a human every now and then. People would be so much easier to catch and kill than moose. It seems our bad reputation is deeply entrenched, and wolf parents, raising their pups in seclusion, continue to tell the fearful stories of their heritage. And, though something in me would like to befriend a wolf, I know that, for their sake, I should keep my distance, allowing wolves to continue to regard people as their ultimate enemy. People and wolves have shared Isle Royale for sixty years, partly because people have respected wolves' need for space. We now have an improved attitude toward wolves, but it is best that they retain their low opinion of us. As I came to know Isle Royale, I learned to respect the hardship inherent in nature. A wolf must catch and kill an animal whose skill at evasion has been evolving as long as the wolf's predatory skills, and it risks its life every time it tackles a moose, which can kick ferociously. A moose has problems of its own -- processing 40 pounds of leaves and twigs a day is hard on the teeth, and broken bones and injured joints cannot be set or replaced. Yet the hardships are what make the whole system spare and healthy, even beautiful to an outside observer. And, completely engaged in the present and not aspiring to live forever, wild animals seem content, unencumbered by guilt about the past, envy in the present or worry about the future. The whole system is non-violent. Wolves attack out of need, not anger, and in so doing perform their role in the scheme of things by protecting the trees that the moose need to live. I suspect those moose that died with incredibly arthritic joints or abscessed teeth did not resist their "annual physical" (Durward Allen's words). We, unaware and/or uncertain of our role in nature, are whiners and worrywarts, forever devising methods to avoid hardship, alleviate pain and prolong life, cursing bad fortune, ungrateful for blessings. Unwilling to confront death's inevitability and our constant vulnerability, we invest in security measures which actually only increase our fears. Our culture of materialism and control enslaves us and robs us of our faith and our sense of well-being; I am careful who I call a "dumb animal." Although we were outside civilization's safety net (when we made navigational mistakes, misjudged the gap in a beaver dam or forgot some piece of equipment, we suffered the consequences), Rolf and I had no delusions about independence. We relied on ripstop nylon tents, no-see-um proof netting, white-gas stoves, raingear, compasses and processed food. Beyond sophisticated camping gear, we needed others for financial and logistical support. Our groceries, garbage service, mail, telephone communications, and boat storage and maintenance came to us through the NPS, and we often hitch-hiked on park transportation from one end of the island to the other. We were grateful to be part of the human race, beneficiaries of inventions and goodwill. We encountered people on Isle Royale in limited doses. Bangsund Cabin is situated a couple of miles by boat from park headquarters; we would make poor neighbors because of the bad-smelling moose bones often stewing in a pot in our yard. Even though isolated, both at the cabin and in the field, we had many opportunities to talk with visitors, and we soon realized that Isle Royale attracts an unusual sort of person. It is inconvenient and expensive to get to the island, and no one arrives because he missed a turn in the road or wants to impress people on his Christmas card list. Whether they come for fishing, scuba diving, backpacking or sightseeing, visitors tend to be well-informed and prepared to put up with the weather, insects and inconvenience in order to absorb the subtle goodness of the island. Isle Royale helps people shed their veneer, exposing the good stuff underneath. Our wonderful neighbors, Pete and Laura Edisen, told us about the early part of the 20th century on Isle Royale, the era of commercial fishing, logging, Civilian Conservation Corps camps, resorts, and private homes. Earlier still, the island was burned and exploited by copper miners, whose stories are rarely told. Pete had lived on the island when the caribou disappeared, in the late 1920s. Working as a guide for early Biological Survey crews, he had seen the build-up and die-off of moose in the 1930s. He also watched moose, in confusion and panic, walk directly into the flames of the huge fire of 1936. Pete had seen some of the last coyotes, before they were killed off by wolves that arrived in the late 1940s. By Pete's account, red foxes fared well after coyotes were eliminated. Not only were wolves less able to kill foxes, they also began to provide moose carcasses for scavengers. Laura was usually busy in the kitchen, serving up goodies to go with her grounds-in-the-pot coffee, but I remember one of her little adventures. For a few years, her brother Milford's family lived at the Rock Harbor Lighthouse, a quarter-mile from the Edisen cabin. One dark night, Laura went to deliver something to Milford in a tin pail. As she walked the path in the pitch black, she suddenly sensed that there was something directly ahead of her. She stopped and slowly stretched out her arm until. . . . Uff da! A moose! She turned and ran, and Pete remembered hearing that pail clatter all the way home. Laura had no idea what the moose did. The Edisen Fishery was a living history exhibit-- Pete set nets often enough to keep the place smelling fishy. He told visitors about the good and bad times for a commercial fisherman on Lake Superior, and everyone could see that subsistence living and inherent risk can bring out the best in a person. Pete loved chatting with visitors, but it bothered Laura at times to be living in a "fish bowl" with people peering through their windows day and night. This was her present life, not quaint history, and she was disappointed that the park's long-range plan to fix up the cabin allowed the place to fall apart while she and Pete were living there. One day some scuba divers discovered an old frying pan in 15 feet of water off the fishhouse dock. I guess they figured Laura had accidentally dropped the pan and would be pleased with its retrieval, but they got a surprise-- "I burned everything I fried in that pan," Laura called out from her doorstep, "and I threw it in the lake because I never wanted to see it again!" Laura's last summer was 1974, a miserable one for her and Pete. She was ill, but she had never consulted a doctor and wasn't about to break that 75-year-old tradition. I regret that I encouraged her to seek medical help; we all thought she had diabetes. Laura knew, when she finally flew to a hospital in Two Harbors, MN, that she would never return to Isle Royale. The diagnosis was pancreatic cancer, and she died in less than a month. Dear Pete was never the same. The breakup of the partnership that had worked so well for so long was irreparable. Laura had done all the cooking and bookkeeping, and Pete, at 78, had trouble with both. He came to the island from his winter home in Two Harbors, MN, for three more summers, but they were difficult. I remember him, sitting on the fishhouse dock, with a battery-operated record player, listening to the "Blue Skirt Waltz." "We used to dance to it, Laura and I," he said tearfully. Both live on in our memories-- Pete with his tireless good humor and patience, Laura for her generous, Scandivanian style "coffee" and her additions and corrections to Pete's stories. From them I learned about goodness: that simple, radiant aura that most of us keep hidden from view. The Edisens continue to inspire those of us who knew them, encouraging us to rethink the meaning of "success." They embodied a piece of Dag Hammarskjold's wisdom: If only I may grow: firmer, simpler quieter, warmer. (Markings, by Dag Hammarskjold, Alfred A. Knopf, 1964, p. 93).  Poem by Joe Scheidler and Jim Woolington, summer assistants in 1974 and 1975:  1. The 1970’s, Learning 2. The 1980’s, Teaching 3. The 1990’s, Listening 4. The 2000’s, Embracing Vulnerability
Rolf Peterson, 1970
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Introduction Table of Contents Acknowledgments