Wolves in My Path

Perhaps this meeting was destiny for me, a gentle nudge to awaken me to a new level of awareness and understanding wolves.

When I was growing up, my father spent many waking hours outside alone, hidden in his garage. This was a place that he converted into a silversmith, lapidary, rock gem-cutting workshop. Inside, wooden jeweler's benches lined the walls; each one had a smooth top of Masonite wood framed in simple, raw 2-by-4 boards that finished the benches in a basic, rustic way. He had a wide variety of tools in his shop, but it was the big steel anvil that stood out like a sore thumb. He used the anvil to hammer out bracelets of sterling silver. The giant hunk of steel was painted a yellow-orange color; bolted to a large wooden stump, it was so heavy I could barely move it. The anvil sat next to an intricately designed, cast iron, antique wood stove. My father kept the stove burning in the winter, and the room stayed warm enough to work in the cold mountain atmosphere.

The cement floor seemed damp most of the time, and the moisture enhanced the petroleum smell of motor oil and gas. Combined with the unique smell of polishing compound that remained un-cleaned from the jewelry buffer, it was a very aromatic experience. My father had a unique way of creating sterling silver jewelry and unusual pieces like pickle forks and small boxes. Many of his pieces included gemstones like turquoise and jade that he himself cut and polished by hand. I can remember how much his jewelry designs resembled those of a Native American jeweler. My father always insisted he was just a silversmith as a hobby; he was not in it as a profession. He called his jewelry hand wrought. For special occasions, my mother and I would receive different earrings, rings, or bracelets.

My father prided himself on the ability to work for weeks on specific pieces, and when they were finished, he enjoyed giving them away as gifts. I was more interested in being an athlete during that time, and my favorite sport to train for was long distance running. I dreamed of one day running a marathon and trained on my own for many years. My personal best was eighteen miles at eight minutes a mile, and after training hard, running hundreds of miles, my knees began to cause me problems.

When I was in my twenties, my father taught me how to make hand wrought jewelry, and it was not long before I began to flourish, cutting out and sculpting jewelry pieces of my own design. In 1987, I started my first home business as a silversmith. I created many different earrings, pendants, pins, and more using designs I sketched up of animals, birds, feathers, and even wolf tracks. I named my new jewelry business Black Wolf Silver, inspired by a beautiful photo of a black wolf I'd found in a magazine.

I felt a strange attraction to wolves but was not sure where that feeling was coming from, as I had never been around wolves and knew very little about them. I grew up in the mountains of Colorado, with large Alaskan malamute dogs as pets; maybe that is where my affinity came from. I often took for granted the connection I felt to nature during my childhood; ever since I could walk, the mountains and forests came right up to my doorstep. During my playtime, I would roam freely with my dogs throughout the vast wilderness, oblivious and with no fear or little acknowledgment of the wild animals surrounding my home.

After working for over a year creating many jewelry pieces, I gathered my work into a collection and presented it at a small gallery opening on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder. I immediately earned a spot as one of the featured artists and for several months ventured to sell my work there. As the months went by with minimal sales, I begin to become discouraged. I questioned my choices and longed to do more with my work than just selling at a store in Boulder. I constantly looked for opportunities that I felt would help to expand my work and be satisfying at the same time. I often donated pieces to local charities and good causes, and I entertained thoughts of someday wanting to help animals.

One day, as I sat contemplating the next jewelry design at my workbench, my father walked in the door behind me and dropped the Daily Camera, our local newspaper, down in front of my face. The paper landed on the desk with a photo of a striking black and silver wolf face up, staring out at me. Curious, I picked up the paper to read the article, about a place in southern Colorado called Mission: Wolf, a captive wolf sanctuary being built by Kent Weber and friends. It was 1989, and the article announced that Kent would be presenting Shaman, a black-colored gray wolf, at the University of Colorado as part of an educational outreach program, teaching people about the true nature of wolves and their importance in wild ecosystems. I decided to drive to Boulder and attend the program.

It was late March when the day arrived for the wolf program. The weather had been snowy and cold, and I was a little worried about driving my car down an icy, snow-packed mountain road. The program started in the afternoon, and thankfully, the day turned out sunny and clear. By the time I got into my car to go, the road was dry. Relieved, I eagerly drove my 1972 Chevy Malibu, fondly nicknamed "the green bomber," into the town of Boulder. While driving, I realized I had never seen a wolf up close before, except the Arctic wolves at the Denver Zoo. It felt as if I was on a bit of a mystery adventure. I had no idea what I had hoped to gain that day from my experience meeting Shaman.

Perhaps some kind of artistic perspective, something new and fresh, would creep into my consciousness. Besides, bettering my understanding of this legendary creature could do nothing but enhance my mind and my arts on all levels. And as a contribution to the wolf sanctuary, I created wolf-themed jewelry pieces to give as a donation. My hope was the jewelry would be sold as a fundraiser for Mission: Wolf and the money used to help with a project such as fence construction. Before I left the house, I tucked a small box packed with earrings, pendants, and pins inside my pants pocket. I was growing excited to see Shaman the wolf and hopeful for an opportunity to meet Kent in person.

I arrived a half an hour early at the university. Right away, I found a parking place large enough to park the big car. The lot was located across the street from several large stone buildings where I thought the program was being held. I was determined to find the right building quickly but anxiety came up in my stomach when I walked into the first building. I paused and realized I was standing in the wrong place. Discouraged I hastened my pace and found the building across the street was where I needed to be.

When I was in the second grade, in addition to repeating the grade again, I was required to attend summer school due to my inability to focus and pay attention to school work. My summer school classes were held at this very same campus. At that young age, I felt especially embarrassed and insecure about many things. And those feelings were now rushing back as I looked around the familiar architecture inside the building. I felt like a fish out of water and quickly sat at the first desk I could find. As I waited I remembered why I was in the room in the first place, I smiled and wondered what it was going to be like when the wolf entered the room? I asked myself, momentarily distracted from the awkward out of place feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I was growing more excited as the moments ticked by, and then, very humbly, Kent walked in to the room. I recognized him immediately from the photo in the newspaper article, but he was much more striking in person than on newsprint. After a brief introduction by one of the students, Kent began to speak. I liked the sound of his voice; there was something about it, I could not pinpoint exactly what that something was. It just resonated in my mind. Kent was a tall, slender man with a handsome face and intense blue eyes that flashed as he looked around the room; he seemed at ease in front of the audience. He appeared confident as he spoke about his experiences living with wolves and why he was inspired to travel with a wolf to school.

"Shaman was born in captivity," he said, "and can never be returned to the wild."

Even though Shaman was not wild, nor had he ever been a wild or free-roaming wolf, he had the instincts and behaviors of a wild wolf, except one important aspect: Shaman was brave enough to walk in front of groups of people, appearing in public as a teacher.

Kent explained, "Shaman did not live like a pet inside the house."

Shaman was very different from a dog; the wolf would grow up to become an independent, wild-minded animal. Kent talked about how he understood that while Shaman was young and docile, he was somewhat manageable. As an adolescent, Shaman was dependent on Kent for his basic survival needs like food, water, vet care, family structure, socialization, affection, play, and even dominance.

Shaman's instincts were not the same as an obedient domesticated dog. They were similar in many ways, but intensified, more amplified, backed by the raw power of wild nature. Dogs remain in a state of puppy-like attitude and personality through out their lifetime, while wolves mature to different levels of independence. Kent gave the audience a short insight into why he and Shaman traveled to schools and presented educational programs about wolves. And after a brief explanation of how the wolves greeted each other, Kent finished with a request to please stay quiet and seated when he left the room and remain so, especially when he returned with Shaman.

Kent disappeared out the classroom door, leaving behind the crowd of students surrounding me, all sitting still. To my surprise, I heard only a few, slight whisperings here and there. The entire room was quiet and still. Then Kent returned to the door. A sound wave of reaction filled the room: "Ahhh!" Numerous voices expressed their awe toward the large black wolf entering the room.

I was surprised at the size of Shaman. He was much larger than I thought he would be; in so many ways, Shaman was different than any dog I had ever seen. In that instant, all the preconceived notions I had of how Shaman would look or act disappeared. He was nothing like what I thought he'd be. It was hard to believe that Shaman was only ten months old. His head seemed somewhat out of proportion to the rest of his ninety-pound body. He stood scanning the room under his oversized, jet-black ears, up on his very long, stilt-like legs. I could see how big his feet were from clear across the room; they were huge.

Shaman and Kent stayed centered in the front of the room, and I could not help but stare at the gangly awkwardness of the adolescent wolf. Almost a year old, his appearance was obviously a growing phase. He looked nothing like the beautiful, thick-furred wolf from the photos in the magazine. Still, I could not take my eyes off of Shaman as he moved; I imagined he possessed abilities and moves that I would probably never see or even fathom. Kent was not bad to look at either, but I knew he was married, so I did not give it another thought. I focused on how Shaman carried himself and visualized the stunning potential the young wolf would grow into. Shaman moved around Kent's legs, pausing at different times to survey his surroundings, taking in every move or noise within his immediate vicinity. I watched the wolf drop his head down and press his nose into the tiled floor.

The wolf became curious and began to sniff. Kent must have realized how difficult it was for those of us who were sitting up in the back rows to see Shaman. He started to move Shaman toward the stairs. Shaman kept his eyes up and head down as he walked, sniffing and watching the people in the front. They intently watched Shaman right back. Kent explained how he had seen tragic consequences when pet wolves did not work out in domestic home situations. In many cases, the animal was not to blame for problems arising in the relationships between the wolf and human.

"Wolves rarely make good pets," he said, "and because of this, Mission: Wolf is often requested to take in unwanted pet wolves and wolf dogs, more than the sanctuary could physically house."

Kent stated that most of the wolves living in pet situations often did not make it over three years old.

"At Mission: Wolf," he added, "Shaman lives outside in a large natural enclosure, mimicking a small wild habitat. And although still under construction, his habitat contains other canines like him for companionship."

Kent followed Shaman around the room, letting out a little slack on his leash. It appeared to me that Shaman was leading Kent on a journey, driven by his wolf nose. For a brief moment, Shaman went out of sight, blocked by all the eager people in front of me, who were just as excited to see him as I was. I could see Shaman peek around the corner, sniffing the shoes of a few students. Randomly, a shoe from a person or the leg of a desk would attract the wolf's attention.

Shaman appeared more interested in smelling and less interested in engaging with the audience. After a few seconds of investigation, he moved his nose under the chairs and beyond the desk legs. He seemed tame and surprisingly domesticated, walking around a room full of people. Nearly every student in that drab, slightly stale- smelling classroom sat quietly fixed on that black wolf, the brightest light in the room. I don't know if the other people were paying attention to Kent's presentation or not. All I remember was that I missed what was being said every time Shaman came into view. His dark fur was overgrown, broken off in places, and matted up against his hips and shoulders.

His coat seemed unusual, tufts of fur like dyed cotton ball clouds appeared to float at his sides. The wolf photos I had previously seen showed animals in their thick winter coats, ready to survive the harshest of freezing environments. I was intrigued and wanted to see the texture of Shaman's fur up close; it looked so rich and inviting. As I watched him sniff around, I thought of a German shepherd's profile; it was comparable to the wolf's big head.

Shaman's large ears stood straight up on his head, like satellite dishes that rotated independently (they seemed to search for the most interesting sound). I thought he could hear a lot better than I could, based on the size of his ears. As Shaman began to walk up the stairs, I really noticed that his walk was much different from any dog I had seen. In a quick burst of movement, he bounced up a few stairs at a time, with similar fluidity as a gaited horse would display, or even a cat. In comparison, my dogs would have bounced or waddled up the stairs.

Wolves are agile creatures that can travel long distances gracefully, without tiring or wasting important energy by keeping their pace at an easy jog. What helps wolves conserve energy, when they run in a straight line, their tracks create what is called a "registered track," which means that as the wolf trots, the rear foot hits the same spot the front foot landed. In snow or mud, wolf tracks can appear as if there is only one set of two tracks. Upon closer examination of the tracks, often eight toenails usually can be counted in one paw print. Sometimes the outline where the smaller rear foot has overstepped the front track can be seen too. The way Shaman carried his big front feet only exaggerated his cat-like walk.

Shaman's hips glided in a graceful, even, and collected way. Overall, he seemed relaxed, moving in long smooth strides; his back was built like a table, flat and rectangular. Kent asked everyone to stay seated while he walked Shaman up the stairs toward the back of the room. As they moved toward where I was sitting, I caught the first glimpse of the amazing coloring on Shaman. Mixed throughout his rich jet coloring, warm, inviting reddish brown and mahogany tones, blended with white, silver, and black. What a beautiful combination, I thought to myself. I loved these colors in his fur and thought how very unique they looked. I had no idea that black wolves had that much depth of color in their coats.

His face was intense and striking; now that he was getting really close, I could see him better. Silver streaks marked his chin, shoulders, belly, and hips. A large white star on his chest appeared as he took another step up, facing in my direction. Shaman's slinky, long black legs tapered inward like a designer dress, exaggerating his hip movement. I could hear his toenails tap the white cement floor as he came up the stairs. As Shaman came closer to the back of the room where I was, Kent repeated his request for the audience to stay put in their seats. He explained that Shaman would become nervous around men, and if anyone stood up or walked toward him, his first instinct would be to get away as fast as possible.