The Alpha Wolf
“Gives me the creeps,” growled the man, shadows dancing over his face.
“What?”
“Them,” he answered, signaling the hungry eyes watching the men, “wish she’d let us kill ’em.”

The Canadian winter gust ruffled the treetops as the two men warmed their hands by the dying fire. The expedition had tracked the wolves until they turned against the humans and now both men and animals were emaciated and exhausted. Only Karyn, the expedition leader, was in high spirits.
“Yeah, well. She wouldn’t kill a wolf for her life. Wonder why she bothered bringing her pistol!”
“Last time I’m going on an expedition into the wild,” swore the man as the last flame flickered and disappeared.

And that was when the alpha male leapt, landing with a thump on the first man. The rest of the wolves followed suit in angry chaos. As rapidly as the attack commenced, it died off as the pack gulped down the last remains of the men and settled down for the night.

But down the hill, near a stream, Karyn heard the wolves’ flurry of claws and teeth, and preparing her camera, set off to film the pack. A hungry wolf devouring an animal for the first time in weeks was a very interesting spectacle for viewers.

She arrived as the sun peeked over the horizon, sending pink tendrils across the navy sky and illuminating the bloody scene. Of the two men, only scattered bones remained with paw tracks escaping the clearing.

For the first time in weeks, a wave of despair washed over the failed leader only to be replaced by newfound determination to prove to the pack that their attack would not prevent her from filming them. Not bothering to return to camp and pack, she headed off, following the tracks through the dead woods, knowing that even with a full stomach, the predators wouldn’t last long.
Around midday, growls and grunts announced the presence of the pack. Wary, Karyn scaled a nearby oak. A mile away or so, she distinguished a pair of wolves going through the fighting ritual. The darker wolf, the alpha male, was contemptuously growling at the challenger. To Karyn’s surprise, he did not retreat subserviently but snapped the air causing a fierce battle erupted. They snarled, clawed, bit, and soon the snow had reddened and their fur was matted. Both knew, as well as the pack and spectator that neither could win without support. As the pair finished licking their injuries and the pack leader crouched down to leap on the imprudent opponent, the alpha female stepped in and turned against her partner.

When the wolf was banished, Karyn decided to remain on her branch and ponder the event. That night, she heard the exile’s howl and the silent response. At midnight, she heard scuffles in the nearby area and realized the disowned wolf was going around the bend. A wolf expert, Karyn knew she was trapped in her tree until the wolf would leave far away enough for her to escape. Remaining to film the wolves was now as inconceivable as killing the deranged animal.

Yet as harsh as this mission was, the idea of leaving the wolves behind was unimaginable.
She had built her life around these animals, admiring their sense of family, hierarchy and survival. As a child, she had fought with her father against his killing and selling wolf skins, until he had agreed to shoot anything, even buffalos, he joked. When she graduated she spent her holidays tracking wolves and videotaping them on her camera, eventually becoming the wolf expert of T.V shows.

Although Karyn had brought food with her, it only lasted until the third day. And the wolf was still roaming the forest in the surrounding area. The wolf’s keen sense of smell would tell him Karyn was down the tree the moment she hit the ground so loath as she was to remain in her prison, she had no choice.

That night, the wolf returned to the oak and after snuffling around the clearing, began to angrily leap into the lower branches, in vain. His prey woke up and as she sat up and peered into the gloom, she felt the canines piercing her boots and dragging her down backwards. She tumbled into the hard-packed snow, her attacker cautiously retreating as she jumped to her feet and gazed, bewildered at the wolf. Suddenly the pieces feel into place and the woman reached over to her holster.

Pulling the pistol out, she studied the engraving in the handle, “John T. Dawson.” The weapon sparkled and seemed eager to be used once more. Her father had given it to her, “just in case” and she had laughed, throwing her head backwards.




Her gaze followed the direction towards which the muzzle pointed to: to the wolf tracks, to the crouching wolf, tail high in the hair, snout wrinkled, revealing a pair of yellowing canines. To the mad, despaired look in his eyes.

Behind the wolf, the first sunrays illuminated the forest, creating a halo around the wolf until he was just a silhouette in the golden radiance of a new day. Then he was a shadow on the snow, a rearing animal as tall as she, an eagle soaring towards her, a dead animal covering the immaculate white carpet in red.

As the last echo of the shot vanished into the distance, the revolver hit the ground, melting a circle of snow around it. The woman fell to her knees, mouth open in shock, eyes wide with horror.

Empty eyes stared straight back at her.

Although the alpha male was dead the sun continued rising, not slowly and tentatively as previous dawns, but openly and full of life. Though the alpha wolf would not hunt again, the blue jays took up their morning song, their melody filling the woods.

Life went on.

Life goes on.