This is a reprint of an article I did chronicling my adventures with Bocephus. The subject of wolves has come up, again, mainly due to the tremendous success of the re-introduction and growth in wolf population. Many bear dog encounters are ending badly.
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| NSTRA CH / QU National Champion Julia's Bocephus (Bo) |
Last
year, I was introducing some friends to the Northwoods. I would point
to a trail head for them to hunt in the morning, tell them where I was
going to be, wish them luck and agree to meet for lunch, or, failing
that, dinner back at the motel. As luck would have it, the warm fall day
started turning dark a little early, and it was almost black by noon.
The rain started as a sprinkle and then gradually got worse. We put
out on a trail that produced a lot of birds over the years. I was the
only one on it and I determined that a little rain wasn't going to
interfere with a grouse hunt. I did swap my guns out, though, and the
little Fox went back into the case, replaced by a 20-ga. SKB Model 100, I
used for weather like this. Bo and I started down the trail with him
running ahead to veer off to one side. And that was that. He was gone.
I walked and whistled and listened for his beeper for about an hour.
The rain was heavy at times but merely a downpour at others. He could
have been 20 yards out in the thick growth, on point, and I would not
have heard or seen him. Finally, I returned to the truck, dried off,
cleaned, dried and oiled and cased the gun, put on some dry clothes and
headed out to find my dog. The trail was about 3 miles long-6 miles out
and back. It was getting darker now and I was getting a little more
concerned about the old boy. The good thing was the temperature was
quite warm-in the 60's. If he did have to spend the night in the woods, I
was sure he would be able find a dry spot and stay warm.
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| The Knothead was a wonderful bird dog! |
Walking,
whistling, listening and bouncing between anger and concern as I walked
down the trail, I rounded a bend as the trail dropped off sharply. I
stood for a minute listening and staring down the trail. Suddenly, a
big, gray shape stepped out on the trail about 50 yards away. He was
looking down the trail, away from me. After a second or two, I
recognized him as a Gray Wolf. Instantly, I realized he and I were
looking for the same thing. I was looking for my old bird hunting
companion. This big, gray boy was looking for dinner, and it downright
pissed me off! "Hey" I yelled, "Get out of here!" (Or words to that
effect and edited for content.) I expected him to jump and run like the
coyotes I'd encountered numerous times out West. His reaction was
quite a bit different than I anticipated. That huge, majestic canine
slowly turned his head to the right and looked me right in the eye.
Then, he slowly turned back to the left and trotted down the center of
the trail without so much as backward glance. Even now, I'm impressed
with him. He was huge-easily three times the size of my bird dogs,
which would make him over 100 pounds! And as he trotted off, in the
direction of my lost dog, he more glided than ran. Just then, I came
to the realization that I was completely unarmed! It was one of the few
times in my life I really did want a gun in my hands-and it was
resting, dry and well oiled, in my truck over a mile away. Not thinking
all that clearly and remembering the literature I'd read about wolves
not bothering humans (yeah, except for the thousands of years of
history and stories about wolves devouring little kids and old men ...
the big, bad, wolf, and on and on ....) I pressed on down the trail
calling and keeping a careful eye behind me. An hour or more later,
at the end of the trail, I turned and headed back to the truck. Concern
now was for my ability to make it back before dark. I picked up the
pace. Head down in the rain and moving along pretty quick, I rounded a
bend and there he was. A 35 pound bundle of shaking, wet Setter! I'm
not sure who was happier to see the other, but I got down on my knees
and hugged that mutt and thanked Jesus for the one more time he answered
my prayers. We didn't stay long on that trail in the rain, and I put
him on a lead and headed out. He was so tired he tried to lay down a
few times and, finally, I had to pick him up and throw him over my
shoulders. We needed to get out of those woods-now! The sun was long
gone behind thick clouds and darkness was settling in. The GPS said we
had more than a mile of up and down to go. I remembered that song from
the '60's-"He ain't heavy, he's my brother...." as I carried him up
and down hills, slipping on the up slope with rain dripping down my neck
and wet dog scent in my nose. Song or not, don’t believe it, he got
heavy as this old man got close to the road. I put him down and we
finished side by side-both of us limping and panting hard. Back at the
motel, I checked the old campaigner over for cuts, bruises and ticks.
It was then I noticed blood on my hands when I ran them over his
haunches. I turned him around and gave him a closer inspection. On his
right rear leg, just below the tail, was the perfectly round hole of a
canine tooth! Bo wasn’t talking, but to this day I think he encountered
my big, gray friend, too. I think we were being watched during our
little reunion on the trail, in the rain, in the Wisconsin grouse
woods.
