Across the sub-Arctics of Canada

by J. W. Tyrrell

At nightfall, after a long day’s struggle with the opposing elements, as we were hauling the canoes ashore towards the shelter of some rocky cliffs, we were suddenly set upon by a pack of huge grey wolves. A great gaunt, hungry-looking brute with dilated eyeballs led the attack. He was the largest wolf in the pack and a daring brute, but for once, at least, he met with a surprise, as he was promptly bored from end to end with a slug from my brother’s rifle. The leader of the pack having been thus treated, the others fled, but revenged themselves by howling at us all night long from the surrounding hills.

With the pack several little wolves had been noticed, and when the old ones beat their retreat an effort was made to capture some of them, but unsuccessfully, for just as young partridges suddenly and mysteriously disappear in the leafy woods when danger threatens, so did these young wolves disappear among the rocks, and though we searched carefully and must have been within a few yards of them, we could not get sight of one.

I have said the wolves here encountered were grey. This seemed a little peculiar, since any that we had seen for some time had been of the white Arctic variety, which do not travel together in packs, like those of the timber country.

At this locality, which was close to the north-west extremity of Tobaunt Lake, the country was more than ordinarily broken, and was distinctively marked by the existence of several great hills of sand. The highest of these sand mountains I became ambitious to climb, in order to obtain a view of the surrounding country and have a look for the outlet of the lake. In the open country one can often, in an hour or two, obtain more information in this way from a prominent elevation than would otherwise be possible in two or three days’ travel. So it was on this occasion, when in company with two canoemen I obtained a variety of information.

From the summit one could get a grand view of the whole surrounding country, and thus an opportunity was afforded of gaining much interesting topographical information. In the performance of this work my binoculars were of invaluable assistance, enabling me to trace the natural features of the country for a considerable distance.

While thus scanning the broad dreary plains from my vantage point, scattered bands of deer could be seen here and there, also two or three wolves and a wolverine. This latter animal, also known as the glutton, being not very far distant, afforded us some amusement. We had no rifles with us, but I had my revolver, and seeing that François was keen for a chase, I offered him the use of it.

Opportunities for excitement were seldom neglected by our dare-devil young Westerner, and on this occasion, quickly availing himself of my offer, he started down the steep hill at a break-neck pace, followed by John, in a bee-line for the wolverine.

No sagacious Indian cunning, of which we so often read, was brought to play in the hunt. It was merely a question of which could run the faster and keep it up the longer. The wolverine is not a swift animal, nature having provided him with only short limbs, but on this occasion he used such as he had to the very best possible advantage, and with a rolling gait made his way off across the rough stony plains at a record-breaking pace. His pursuers were, however, soon observed to be gaining on him, and as the distance between the runners gradually lessened, the race became exciting, even to me, looking on from the hill-top.

Once or twice in their wild chase the men had bad tumbles, but recovering themselves, continued to gain on the wolverine until they had almost overhauled him. Then “bang” went the revolver, and the glutton, unhurt, dodging around some rocks, was almost run upon by François, who in his excitement fired again, and at the same time took a header. It appeared as if he had shot himself instead of the wolverine, but he had done neither; he had only experienced another bad tumble on the rough, rocky ground. Gathering himself up again, François followed in hot pursuit, making a most determined chase, but just as he was about to do the tragic act, Mr. Wolverine disappeared among the broken rocks, and could not any more be found.

Thus ended the hunt, and the men, greatly disgusted, wearily recrossed the plain and climbed the hill.