Читать книгу Running with Wolves - National Kids Geographic - Страница 13

I tugged gently on the worn leather reins, and Glendora, my buckskin mare, came to a slow halt. She turned her head to look back at me and I leaned down in the saddle to give her a reassuring pat on the neck. We both knew we had a job to do, but the view was just too spectacular to miss. I needed a minute to take it all in.

It was first light—my favorite time of day. The sun had just peeked above the horizon and its glorious rays began to illuminate the landscape. A beautiful lake shimmered in the growing light. Its smooth surface mirrored perfectly the fast-changing colors of the early morning sky—from golden yellow to deep pink to rich azure blue. Bright wildflowers dotted the green grassy meadows that surrounded the lake.

What dominated the landscape, though, were the mountains. In almost every direction, forests swept up to the base of sheer rocky cliffs that reached at least 2,000 feet (610 m) toward the sky. Most of the mountains formed walls of layered rock, like those of the Grand Canyon, rather than peaks. The ashen gray cliffs looked dull compared to the rich palette of the valley below.

But sunlight is nature’s artist, and it can turn a colorless canvas into a dazzling masterpiece. That’s what I was waiting to see on this clear, chilly summer morning. As the sun inched its way into the sky, the light crept down the east-facing cliffs to my right, transforming the somber gray first into a rosy pink and then a brilliant orange. The rock seemed to glow. The effect soon passed, but as always, it was breathtaking.

I looked south across the lake to the ranch on the far shore. Then, taking a deep gulp of fresh mountain air, I sat up straight in the saddle, thought for the umpteenth time how lucky I was, and announced to my trusty companion, “Okay, Glennie, let’s round up these ponies.”

The year was 1959. I was 16 years old and had the summer job of a lifetime—I got to be a cowboy! Well, a wrangler actually. A cowboy herds cattle; a wrangler herds horses.

I worked on a ranch in the high country of Wyoming. By “high country,” I mean the ranch sat at 9,200 feet (2,804 m) above sea level. There, among the peaks of the Absaroka Range, I felt like I was on top of the world. The location couldn’t have been more perfect. The ranch sat on a hill above the mountain lake. Beyond the ranch stood a deep green forest of pine. The views were awe-inspiring no matter where I was, and not only at first light.

Then, as now, this part of the Rocky Mountains was far less known than the nearby tourist attractions of Yellowstone National Park. That was just fine with me. I could roam and explore the pristine wilderness without seeing a single person. That is, once my daily chores were done.

Each evening before sundown, I would drive a herd of about two dozen horses from the ranch to a meadow on the other side of the lake. There I would leave them to graze, drink from a cool mountain stream, and sleep peacefully among the willows and meadow grasses.

Then every morning I had to go get the horses and take them back to the corral. This wasn’t a job for anyone who liked to sleep in. I would rise from my bunk bed well before dawn and dress quickly—not only because I wanted to hit the trail but also to stay warm. At this high elevation, the early morning air was cold, and usually I wore two pairs of jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and a jacket. My leather gloves and cowboy hat also provided some warmth.

I really didn’t mind the cold weather, though. In fact, for a kid who grew up in subtropical Florida, these cool summers were welcome, even exhilarating.

So, looking every bit the part of a movie cowboy, I’d ride Glendora back to the meadow just as the faintest glimmer of light began to tinge the dark eastern sky and the jagged peaks of the Pinnacle Buttes. The well-rested horses would usually be on their feet by the time we arrived, finishing a breakfast of soft, dew-covered grass.

I’d circle around to the far side of the herd and push them together in the direction of the ranch. I didn’t literally push the horses. Instead, I’d come up from behind and call out “Hee-yah!” Off they’d gallop. I would feel the rumble through my body as their hooves pounded the ground.

Sometimes the horses would spook and bolt in another direction. Glendora would take off after them with little coaxing from me. It’s a good thing she knew her job so well, because during these hard gallops I could do little more than hang on for dear life.

Eventually we’d round up the herd. Then I’d ride behind or alongside the horses to guide them the two miles (3 km) back to the corral for the day.

That was the general idea, anyway. When you’re dealing with animals, things don’t always go according to plan.

Often, I’d discover that other large animals, hidden from view, had visited the herd during the night—and they were sticking around for breakfast.

You might not think a meadow could provide much cover for anything larger than a ground squirrel or a mouse. But the willows were a bit taller than me and grew in tangled bunches, like dense bushes. Even sitting high in the saddle, it was difficult to see more than just the backs of the horses grazing in between the willows. It wasn’t until I started flushing the horses out that I noticed some of them didn’t look like the others. Some had antlers! To my surprise, I realized that I was rounding up not only horses but also a few very confused moose.

I felt sorry for them. The moose must’ve been completely bewildered, wondering why their breakfast had been disturbed by a stampede—and why they were in the middle of it! Sorry or not, I had to separate these wild animals from the herd.

Easier said than done.

Moose aren’t usually aggressive, but if they feel harassed or threatened, watch out! They can kick their sharp, pointed hooves forward, backward, and sideways. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those powerful thrusts. And I sure didn’t want to mess with those antlers. They were wider than my arm span. One quick move of the moose’s neck and his massive bony headgear could crush my leg or Glendora’s skull. I didn’t dare get too close.

So instead of separating the moose from the herd, I separated the herd from the moose, pushing the horses away as I normally did. Now and then, the moose followed or ran with the herd for a while. Maybe they didn’t want to leave their new companions. Or maybe they just wanted to see where everyone was going. Whatever the reason, their stomachs usually won out, and they’d trot back to the meadow for breakfast.

Dealing with moose tested my horse-riding skills and helped keep the job from ever becoming boring. Not that there was much chance of that happening. Something was always keeping me on my toes.

If moose weren’t visiting the meadow, strays were leaving it.

Strays were horses that wandered off early in the morning, before I got to the herd. I knew each of the 28 steeds in my charge and could tell quickly when one or more were missing. It always seemed to be the same restless few that wandered, so I had tied bells around their necks earlier in the summer for easy tracking.

One day, several horses had wandered off into the forested hills on the other side of the meadow. After driving the rest of the herd back to the ranch, I returned to collect the strays.

It was so quiet. Away from the herd, the ranch, and anything with a motor, I could hear the slightest sounds—the shriek of a hawk high above or the trickling of a winding brook. So it was no surprise that I picked up the faint tinkling of bells coming from the forest across the meadow. Glendora and I followed the distant ding, ding, ding up into the foothills.

These were my favorite times. Tracking strays gave me a chance to explore the countryside. The cool air, the wilderness, and the freedom were all so new to me, and thrilling. I was living my dream of roaming the Great American West.

That morning we searched more than usual as we followed the bells farther and farther into the Wyoming backcountry. It was slow going. We blazed our own trails as we picked our way through forests, creeks, and clearings. Wooded ravines were the toughest to navigate. I leaned back in the saddle to make the downslope easier on Glendora. Then she quickly scooted up the other side. On hard ground, I stopped every few minutes so that the clip-clop of horseshoes didn’t drown out the distant sound of bells.

We were an hour or so into our journey. The sun had climbed higher in the sky and I welcomed the growing warmth. I pushed aside a low-hanging branch as we stepped out of the forest into a large clearing. Suddenly we stopped in our tracks.

Beyond the clearing, groves of dark green lodgepole pines gave way to a steep grassy slope strewn with boulders from the rock formation that towered high above: Brooks Mountain. Its majestic cliffs rise 1,300 feet (396 m) straight up. This mass of rock stretches for more than a mile and is part of the Continental Divide—the long line of high elevations that zigzags its way north and south across the continent and separates river systems that flow to the Pacific from those that flow to the Atlantic.

I had seen Brooks Mountain many times, and it always struck me as magnificent, but at that moment, something else caught my attention.

Across the clearing stood a coyote.

It’s not that the sight of a coyote was a heart-stopping shock. It wasn’t. All sorts of animals big and small roamed the countryside. I had seen eagles soaring above the cliffs, black bears nibbling berries, herds of elk grazing in open meadows, and more.

Coyotes were common, too, but they were skittish. Ranchers hunted them, afraid that the carnivores would harm their livestock. Consequently, coyotes had learned to quickly run away when they saw or smelled a human approaching.

Not this coyote. He and I were having a staring contest.

He didn’t seem the least bit afraid, just curious about this two-legged creature sitting atop a four-legged creature across the meadow. Something else was different about him. Even from a distance I could tell that he was larger than any coyote I had ever seen. His legs were longer and his face broader.

Then it hit me. This wasn’t a coyote at all. It was a wolf!

Glendora became restless. She snorted and neighed, shook her head several times, and stepped in place nervously. “Easy, girl,” I said as I gently patted her neck. Glendora calmed down, but I wanted a closer look, so I coaxed her to slowly follow the edge of the clearing and head toward the wolf.

I learned two things about wolves that day—they’re smart and they’re curious. While we circled the edge of the clearing, the wolf did, too, in the same direction so as to keep the same distance between us. His yellow eyes stayed locked on mine as we both circled the meadow. Eventually we each ended up where the other had stood.

The wolf inspected where Glendora had trampled the grass. He showed no signs of fear, no signs of aggression, only cool curiosity. What were we? Were we a threat? He seemed to be pondering these questions. I watched, fascinated, and wondered what conclusions he had drawn.

I couldn’t take my eyes off this large, furry, doglike creature—a predator that I had long heard was an aggressive, vicious, unforgiving killer. I saw none of that. All I saw was intelligence and fearlessness…but only for a minute longer. Then, the wolf simply turned and trotted away and disappeared among the pines.

Eventually, I found the stray horses. They were safe and sound, but I never saw the wolf again. No wonder. I later discovered that seeing a wolf at that time in that place—my very first wolf sighting—had been an incredibly rare event. In 1959 as few as 15 wolves lived in the U.S. Rocky Mountains, and I had seen one of them. I wouldn’t see another for 30 years.

And when I did, it would change my life forever.

The zookeeper burst through the doorway. The front of her T-shirt was untucked, with the bottom folded up like a soft taco shell, and her hands clearly cradled an object within.

“It’s a joey!” the keeper exclaimed. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips as the keeper revealed the precious cargo she was carrying—a tiny, hairless baby kangaroo.

“What happened?” my colleagues and I asked in unison.

“The mother rejected him,” she replied hurriedly. “I don’t know why.”

The keeper, sweating on this hot day in May at Smithsonian’s National Zoo in Washington, D.C., quickly explained that the mother kangaroo had kicked the joey out of her pouch. A visitor had seen the horrifying incident and contacted the zookeeper, who rushed into the enclosure, picked up the squirming youngster, and brought him to me and two other keepers at the zoo hospital.

The baby kangaroo was no bigger than the length of my hand. Like all joeys, he would normally live inside his mother’s pouch for six months after birth before developing enough to venture outside now and then. But this poor little guy, who we called Rufus, was only three months old and completely helpless. He would never survive without the care of his mother—or without the care of three determined zookeepers.

We were the only chance Rufus had. We had to mimic the conditions of a mother kangaroo in every possible way, including the soft, moist, and warm environment within her pouch. But how?

Part of the answer was clear—make a substitute pouch. We fashioned a number of comfortable pouches out of soft cotton pillowcases. To hold in body moisture, we covered Rufus with a special kind of skin cream. For warmth, we placed him inside one of the cotton pouches and set it in a heated incubator about the size of a large aquarium.

Food presented another set of challenges. Baby kangaroos eat every two hours, day and night, and Rufus was no exception. We mixed up a nutritious formula that was similar to his mother’s milk. Then we fed him using baby bottles topped with nipples that were the length and shape of his mother’s.

Joeys have a weak immune system, so we took every precaution to prevent infections. Each time we fed him or handled him for any reason in those first few months, we wore surgical gowns, gloves, and masks. We washed and bleached his pouches after every feeding so there would always be a stack of them ready to use.

To provide the round-the-clock care that a joey needs, we took turns taking Rufus and his incubator home every evening. Those were sleepless nights. After donning my surgical garb, feeding Rufus, wrapping him in a fresh pouch, getting him settled, and changing my clothes, I’d barely close my eyes before it was time to do it all over again.

Needless to say, after such a night I was groggy the next morning at work. So what better way to shake off the cobwebs than to hop around the office? Literally. A few times each day, I or one of the other “kangaroo moms” would cradle Rufus in his pouch and hop around our hospital office for a few minutes. Not just any old hop, either. No, this was a regular dance. Hop, hop, hop, dip to the left. Hop, hop, hop, dip to the right. Repeat and repeat and repeat!

The dance was hilarious. It was also absolutely necessary. The hopping mimicked the movements Rufus would have received inside his mother’s pouch. Such movements are essential to develop the joey’s circulatory and digestive systems. And that’s what we explained to any perplexed visitor who happened by the office in the middle of a kangaroo dance.

All of the loving care paid off. Rufus grew into a healthy and playful young kangaroo. After six months or so, we no longer had to cradle him. Instead we hung his pouch on a doorknob, and he could hop in and out as he pleased.

I can still see him grabbing the pouch, launching himself off the floor, and diving in headfirst. A hodgepodge of limbs and tail stick out for a brief moment, then disappear inside. The pouch churns like a tongue rolling against the inside of a cheek. Suddenly up pops a head. The mischievous look on his face was priceless.

So was the experience of caring for this little life. Rufus took us on an exhausting, emotional roller coaster, and I wouldn’t have traded the wild ride for anything. Taking care of Rufus and other at-risk creatures at the zoo was never a job to me—it was a passion, a passion born out of my love for animals.

That love began long before I ever dreamed of working at the zoo. In fact, it was evident to others when I was only a few years old, when my hands held not animals but crayons.

The first recognizable picture I ever drew was an elephant. At least, that’s what my grandmother told me, and I believe her. When I wasn’t drawing pictures of animals, I was reading about them. If there was an animal on the cover, that’s the book I opened. Even well into my teens, I would trade a mystery or adventure novel for a book about animals any day.

Drawings and stories sparked my imagination, but what I enjoyed most were my outdoor adventures, where I was in the animals’ world. As a young girl, I loved exploring the woods behind my house in suburban Washington, D.C., searching for wildlife. Those woods were my wilderness. I could lose all track of time wandering among the oak and hickory trees, turning over fallen leaves and peeking under logs in search of salamanders and frogs.

I kept my eyes peeled for snakes, too. Not to avoid them, but to get a good look at them! They didn’t give me the willies like they do some people. Instead, I was mesmerized by their colors and patterns, by how they moved and what they did.

My suburban wilderness was also home to larger animals, like white-tailed deer. But that’s not all. When I was seven years old, I heard that someone had spotted a black bear in a nearby wooded park. I searched those woods for days. I imagined what I would say to the bear if we met. No doubt we would like each other. In fact, I let myself believe that we would become friends.

I never did find the bear. And as I grew older and learned more about wildlife, I realized that a human and a wild animal could not become friends. At least, that’s what all the experts said.

My passion for wildlife only grew. After college, I tried to settle down and live a “normal” life, apart from all things wild. But animals were never far from my mind. I longed to be part of their world. So, in my mid-20s, I made two decisions that allowed me to follow my passion.

First, after working at a small-animal clinic, I decided to apply for a job at the National Zoo. There at the hospital I took care of sick, injured, or other at-risk animals, like Rufus.

The second decision ended up being the most monumental one of my life. I took a trip to Africa.

I traveled with a friend to Zimbabwe to photograph some of that African country’s amazing wildlife. I had always enjoyed photography, and this was a chance of a lifetime to see elephants, gazelles, lions, and other wild animals in their natural setting. The trip was phenomenal, but the most significant moments took place on the way home.

My friend and I were boarding a plane in London to begin the second leg of the long journey back to Washington. With my backpack flung over my shoulder, I was trying to avoid banging into other passengers as I shuffled my way down the aisle. I was about to pass a man placing a bag in the overhead compartment. Suddenly he looked at me and asked, “Have you been in Africa?”

I had a deep tan and was wearing a beaded necklace of coral and warthog tusk. Clearly, I couldn’t have gotten the tan or the necklace in London, so with a smile and a good-natured touch of sarcasm, I responded, “Yes, what gave it away?”

He smiled back and mentioned my necklace. Then he started asking about my trip. Where had I been? What animals had I seen?

But a narrow plane aisle with annoyed passengers piling up behind us was no time or place for an extended conversation. So, after a few brief answers, I continued to my seat a dozen rows back.

Every day people have brief encounters that they never think about again. It might be chitchat in the checkout line at the grocery store or a pleasant exchange of “Thank you” and “You’re welcome” while holding open a door for a stranger. This easily could have been one of those forgotten encounters.

Fortunately, the man who had struck up a conversation with me wanted to continue it. After we reached cruising altitude, he looked back, unclasped his seat belt, and walked down to my aisle seat. He greeted me with a sweet smile and a kind “Hi again.”

We talked easily. He too was on his way back from Africa. He had been visiting his sister in Kenya, where she and her husband operated a tented camp in a remote area. We swapped stories of the African animals we had seen. Through our tales, we relived the wonder of the wildlife and the respect for the natural order of things that we had witnessed on the African savanna.

I immediately launched into a story about when I saw a pack of five spotted hyenas splashing through marshy waters to steal a zebra carcass from three lions. It was like an old-fashioned sword fight.

The hyenas attacked first. Then the lions withdrew, dragging most of the kill with them. Ever the opportunists, the hyenas snatched up a few hunks of meat left behind, then withdrew a few feet themselves.

Not satisfied with their meager scraps, the hyenas made another charge. Their high-pitched hums and whines sent a shiver down my spine. Instantly one of the lions surged forward with a ferocious roar and scattered the thieves. But they immediately regrouped, chased away the lions, and claimed their prize—the rest of the carcass. Victors: hyenas!

My new friend listened with rapt attention. Then, with his blue eyes sparkling, he described in vivid detail how a cheetah had chased down a gazelle. As he spoke, I could smell the dust kicked up from the dry grasses and feel the relentless heat of the sun. I saw the rippling muscles of the cheetah as she hunted the nimble gazelle. With his hands, my friend pantomimed how the cheetah gobbled up ground with bursts of speed as fast as a car on the highway.

I immediately knew I was in the presence of a gifted storyteller.

Not surprisingly, he revealed he was a filmmaker. In fact, at that moment he was finishing a film about the life of beavers for National Geographic. He told me he was on his way to their headquarters in Washington to discuss the film’s progress.

The more we talked, the more we enjoyed each other’s company. Our common interests certainly helped. In addition to being a filmmaker, he was, like me, a photographer, a bird-watcher, and passionate about wildlife. I was also taken by his smile, his laughter, and his kindness.

Then we got separated.

In the mad rush of people getting off the plane in Washington, I lost sight of this man whom I wanted to know more about. I didn’t even know his name. With a sigh I resigned myself to the fact that we would never see each other again. Our relationship would be no more than pleasant conversation to pass the time on a long plane ride.

Fate appeared to have other ideas.

As I joined a hundred other people at baggage claim to get my luggage, I turned—and there he was! We both beamed in recognition, and relief, and picked up our conversation. He told me more about his wildlife films, and I told him that I had applied to work at the National Zoo.

And we finally introduced ourselves. Now I had a name to put with the face of Jim Dutcher.

Despite the bond we felt for each other, we lived in two different parts of the country, almost in two different worlds. After Jim’s business in Washington, he was heading home to Idaho.

Idaho! I never would have guessed it. I had nothing against this western state, of course. It’s just that I didn’t know anything about it, except that potatoes came from there. My mind flashed back to grade school and the maps that showed the main products from each state. I pictured the map of Idaho with potato icons scattered about.

For an Easterner like me, who had never been west of the Mississippi River, Idaho seemed as remote as Africa. I couldn’t imagine life there.

Little did I know that in a few years’ time, Idaho would be the place where all my dreams would come true.