On a crisp and clear fall afternoon, I stood on a ridge high above Anchorage, my right hand clutching a plastic bag and my mind filled with vivid, bittersweet memories.
Named Rusty Point, the rocky alpine ledge on which I was perched lies at the western end of a rolling mountain spine that drops from the summit of Wolverine Peak, a 4,455-foot mountain in the Chugach Mountains' Front Range. Visible from nearly all of Anchorage, Wolverine is one of the most popular hill climbs in Chugach State Park, the city's half-million-acre "backyard wilderness."
My thoughts were pulled to a summer afternoon three years earlier, when I walked this untrailed and rubbly ridgeline with my 8½-year-old collie mix, Coya. Though I've been a "dog person" all my life, Coya was the first I had made my own. Not long after our lives intersected, it became clear that she loved to roam the hills as much as I. And in the years since then, the dog I affectionately called my "pound mutt" had proven to be as companionable and enthusiastic a hiking partner as any mountain rambler could want.
Taking a break
On that particular August day, most of our hike had been devoted to the 5-mile walk up Wolverine Peak. After a short stay on the summit, we headed out on the ridgeline that leads to Rusty Point, a route that few people take. By mid-afternoon I was about ready to return to the trail head. But before beginning our descent, I wanted to sit a spell and soak in the beauty of that day, one ideal for hill climbing and ridge walking: temperatures in the 60s, a slight cooling breeze and blue skies free enough of clouds and haze to easily see 20,320-foot Denali, gleaming white far to the north.
Plopped comfortably on tundra grasses and mosses, I called Coya over and had her lie beside me. Then I opened my pack and pulled out a journal and some snacks for us to share. Notebook on lap, I'd begun to reach into a bag of food when Coya stood and took a few steps, sniffing nose raised into the air.
"Hey, get over here," I called, certain she had caught the scent of another ground squirrel. Earlier she'd raced back and forth across the tundra in pursuit of their calls and I didn't want her running off again. Coya hesitated, sniffed once more and then returned to my side, still distracted.
Moments later, a dark, mostly brown animal stepped onto the ridge and froze before us, no more than 10 yards away. Though the size and color of a young grizzly bear cub, this creature was built close to the ground, with a much longer coat and a bushy tail that stretched nearly 1½ feet.
The animal's appearance was so unexpected that it took a few moments for the fantastic truth to ring through both my brain and body: wolverine!
Just as suddenly, what had been an ordinary hike took a turn toward more mysterious and astonishing realms.
Rare sighting
There's no better place in North America to encounter a wolverine than Alaska, say Alaska wildlife experts, who contend that the 49th state has a robust population. Yet in more than three decades of wandering the state's wild landscapes, I'd seen a wolverine only once before and then while flying in a helicopter, during my previous life as a geologist. I had always hoped for another meeting with gulo gulo, but recognized the likelihood was small. Without the benefit of radio-tracking technology, even researchers go long spells without seeing their quarry.
The reason wolverines are seldom encountered or even seen from a distance is simple: Even where their populations are healthy, wolverine numbers are small. Mostly solitary and primarily scavengers, they need lots of ground to make a living. And not just any ground will do. Even more than wolves and grizzlies, wolverines need large expanses of wilderness to thrive, particularly landscapes where they can roam open mountains in summer and retreat to forested areas in winter.
Besides their small numbers and preference for places that few people go, wolverines avoid our kind whenever possible, a trait that has earned them the reputation of being elusive. Whether instinctive or learned, it seems a wise behavior. Wolverines don't fare well in the company of humans, as demonstrated by their substantially shrunken range in the Lower 48. While wolverine populations there are squeezed into ever-smaller refugia, an abundance of mountainous wilderness and long, cold winters make Alaska ideal wolverine country.
Even Anchorage, the state's highly developed and populous urban center, adjoins prime wolverine habitat. Based on recent surveys, wildlife managers estimate that 10 to 12 wolverines inhabit the 495,000-acre Chugach State Park. That's a reasonable number, they said, given the park's size, and comparable to wolverine densities in more remote Alaska wildlands. Yet only a few lucky people among the legions who annually visit the park will briefly glimpse a wolverine, almost always from afar. Many more will see the park's moose and Dall sheep, even its bears and wolves.
Neither fear nor aggression
The wolverine's appearance seemed to startle Coya as much as me. Or if not surprised, she was momentarily frozen by indecision. Her hesitation gave me just enough time to lunge, grab her collar with my left hand, and then wrap my right arm around her body. In response, Coya squirmed and whined, then tugged hard to break away.
The wolverine, to my surprise, remained still. Perhaps it was equally shocked to find us atop the ridge, or simply puzzled by our presence. I'd always heard that wolverines are naturally wary of people. So why didn't this one lope away?
Several seconds passed before the wolverine moved. Instead of fleeing, it began to slowly circle, dark eyes watching us intently. Now and then the animal paused, lifted its head and sniffed. Then it resumed a steady, unhurried pace while staying within 30 feet.
I sensed neither fear nor aggression, but something closer to curiosity. The wolverine also appeared calm, in striking contrast to frenzied Coya. Yipping and whining, she lunged forward again and again. Keeping my voice low, I ordered her, "Coya, stop ... Coya, sit ... COYA ..." Still, she squirmed and tugged, attention focused on the wolverine. One time she nearly eluded my grasp. I had to pin her to the ground, while whispering, "Easy, Coya, easy, girl."
Coya's frantic behavior may actually have helped keep the wolverine nearby. It watched our wresting match as if mesmerized. Again, I wondered: What does the animal make of all this? I imagined how the wolverine would respond if Coya got loose. Wolverines aren't especially fast runners. Surely Coya could outrun one, so the wolverine would likely stand its ground and fight. Given the animal's legendary ferocity, any such battle would be a mismatch and not in Coya's favor, though my 50-pound mutt likely outweighed the wolverine by 20 pounds or more.
With Coya safely in my arms, I took a closer look at the creature prowling the flanks of its namesake mountain, a circumstance that brought me some additional pleasure. I later learned that a hiker making an early ascent of the peak found wolverine tracks on the summit ridge. Suitably impressed, he named the mountain in the animal's honor.
The wolverine's head was broad and rounded, with small, dark eyes and short, rounded ears. Most of the face was dark brown, but a beige band of fur ran across the forehead, between the eyes and ears. Despite all I'd heard about the species' fierce and ornery nature, I never once noticed the animal snarl or bare its teeth. The tail was dark and the short legs even more so, almost black, with pale brown claws. The stocky, long-furred body was mostly a dark, chocolaty brown, though creamy bands run along both flanks, from the shoulders to the base of the tail.
My overall impression: Small, dark and handsome, this wolverine was one self-assured animal, confident of its place in these mountains.
After several minutes, the wolverine turned and ambled off, its interest in us apparently satisfied. My own interest still roused, I gingerly followed, Coya firmly in hand.
Trying to stay out of sight, I scampered to a large, jagged ledge of rock several feet below the ridgeline. Peering around the outcrop, I spotted the wolverine, now standing in a lush, grassy meadow. And it spotted us. Again I expected the animal to run off. Again it surprised me. The wolverine scurried to a large neighboring rock and poked its head around the side, once more studying us intently. Then it began to circle, this time slowly moving away from us.
The wolverine paused once more to glance back, then angled downhill, loping in a leisurely, almost carefree, way. It reached some grassy swales, then dipped into a deeper gully and disappeared. I watched a few minutes more, but saw no sign of the animal. Then, Coya in tow, I returned to where I'd left my pack and journal and began to record as many details as possible. Our time in the wolverine's company likely lasted no more than 15 minutes. But this was hardly ordinary time.
Note-taking done, I leashed Coya and headed back toward where I last saw the wolverine, hopeful of another sighting. But the animal had vanished. Halfway to the creek bottom, I stopped and finished my snacking, added a few more notes and unleashed Coya. She nosed around, but found no scent that put her on alert.
"C'mon, girl, let's get going," I finally said.
Coya ran ahead, sniffing the ground and listening for squirrels. I glanced back toward the ridge one final time, then bounded downhill in an easy, unhurried fashion, amazed by my good fortune.
Carrying ashes
Over the years I had shared many other memorable wildlife encounters with Coya, but nothing could match our meeting with the wolverine.
Memories of that day still evoked wonder and delight. But now they were tempered by sadness and longing. In May, my zestful, mountain-loving dog had become seriously ill with what her doctor described as a rare -- and, it turned out, virulent -- cancer. With Coya no longer able to venture into the hills or even go on extended walks in town, she and I had to settle for short neighborhood strolls and time spent lolling in front-yard sunshine. Less than three weeks after she first showed symptoms of the disease, I gently and sorrowfully held Coya in my arms one last time while she was injected with a euthanizing potion.
Now, in September, I had come to Rusty Point to leave a handful of Coya's ashes. Other hikers rarely visit this location, so I knew I'd have all the time I needed to be alone and quietly reminisce, at a place that's rich with memories of our rambles together.
I'd brought my Chugach journal to record some notes. Browsing through it, I saw that Coya and I last journeyed here the previous fall. As usual, we had the spot all to ourselves. My jottings reminded me that the day had been sunny and crisp, the autumn air made colder by a brisk northeast wind. A pair of ravens circled around us and I'd found some late-blooming wildflowers up high, including an alpine forget-me-not with its petals still a deep and vibrant blue. Four Dall sheep grazed far below us on a south-facing hillside, while atop the ridge we'd come across a pile of wolfish scat, containing crowberries and light brown hair.
I set the journal aside. Whispering something like a prayer, I spread Coya's dusty gray remains and tiny bone fragments among alpine plants and beneath a couple of lichen-crusted rocks, in places where I knew we once sat side by side. Then, in peaceful solitude, I lay on the tundra beneath brilliantly blue heavens.
With the sun warm on my face, I closed my eyes and both mourned my loss and recalled the joy that Coya brought me. I imagined her handsome body nestled affectionately against mine, mostly white with a few large brown patches along the side and back. Her head and smiling face were mostly brown, becoming black along the snout. She had a small, white, irregular splotch, freckled with black, just behind her nose, sniffing the air for alpine smells.
I lingered up high for more than an hour, thoughts of wolverine inevitably mixed with those of Coya. Our meeting along this ridge still struck me as an amazing thing. After one last look around, I began an unhurried descent across untrailed tundra and 20 minutes later rejoined the heavily used path that hikers follow to Wolverine Peak's summit.
As usual, I carried binoculars. Noticing them, a middle-aged couple ascending the trail asked, "Seen any wildlife?"
"Not much today," I replied. "A couple of distant moose, a soaring bald eagle. That's about it."
The visitation
A few minutes after that brief exchange, I happened to glance off to my left, toward a slope Coya once routinely explored on our return to the Prospect Heights trailhead. I can still clearly picture her weaving back and forth, head bent and nose searching the tundra.
Movement high on the same hillside Coya had loved to roam grabbed my attention. Crossing it at an unhurried pace was a slender, dark, long-tailed animal built low to the ground. Waves of recognition once more exploded through my body while my mind shouted, "wolverine!"
Bursting to alert other hikers to the animal's presence, I glanced up and down the trail, but no one was in sight. So I returned my gaze to the wolverine and stood absolutely still. This was a different animal from the ear-tagged female that Coya and I had met three years earlier. For reasons I can't fully explain, it struck me as a young adult male.
Whether following a scent or otherwise preoccupied, the wolverine appeared unaware of my presence while zigzagging downhill in the sort of hop-stepping way that weasels move. Though coming steadily closer, he didn't once look my way. Only when reaching the trail -- now a dozen feet from where I stood, maybe less -- did the wolverine seem to notice me. He reared up on his back feet and peered at me a few moments, then turned and retreated back uphill. But instead of racing away, he moved at a casual pace, even stopping now and then to gaze back.
Reaching the top of the rise, the wolverine loped out of sight. But a few seconds later he reappeared and again looked my way, still inquisitive. He then repeated this behavior a couple of more times. Not until the voices of approaching hikers broke the silence -- and the spell -- did he vanish.
No more than a mile from where Coya and I had met the other wolverine three years earlier, I remained still, mind and emotions churning.
It's easy enough, in our modern Western culture, to consider this second wolverine's appearance pure chance. But the details of the day and the circumstances of our encounter suggest to me that something more, something not easily explained or understood by the rational mind, may have been at play.
The famed psychiatrist Carl Jung might have said I experienced synchronicity: a "meaningful coincidence" in which two events are linked by something other than cause and effect. Often an association is made between some aspect of a person's inner life and an occurrence in the outer world. There's no question that I feel a deep connection between this wolverine's appearance and my earlier remembrance of Coya and the spreading of her ashes, the reason that I returned to this mountain today. The more intuitive part of me somehow understands that what happened here was no simple coincidence, no accident.
While the notion of synchronicity seems to fit, the word and idea that flashed through my mind in those moments was visitation. I can't say for sure that the wolverine carried some message or that Coya's spirit was somehow present, but there's no question I was visited by something mysterious, something marvelous in nature.
Taking a deep breath, I glanced uphill one more time, toward the place I spotted the second wolverine. Then I resumed my retreat to the trailhead, both shaken and exuberant.
Nature writer Bill Sherwonit has called Alaska home since 1982. He has contributed essays and articles to a wide variety of newspapers, magazines, journals, and anthologies and is the author of more than a dozen books. His newest book is a collection of essays, "Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaska's Wildlife," published this fall by Alaska Northwest Books. His website is billsherwonit.alaskawriters.com.