From the May/June issue 2015 of Sporting Classics.
I hadn’t talked to Cousin Dean in a while and wanted to know how he and his crew from East Tennessee—all veteran Smoky Mountain grouse hunters and setter men—had made out on their trip last fall to northern Minnesota.
“Oh, we killed some birds,” Dean allowed, “but it was pretty tough—not like it was when we were there a couple years ago.
“Of course,” he continued, “it didn’t help that we couldn’t hunt our favorite spot. Last time it was just crazy good.”
“What happened this time?”
“When we got there,” Dean replied, “the biggest wolf you’ve ever laid eyes on was standing right where we wanted to park. We figured he probably had some buddies in the neighborhood, too, so we just turned the trucks around and got out of there.”
He took to carrying a sidearm in addition to his smoothbore, not so much for his own protection (or so he told me, anyway) as for his dog’s.
If you hunt grouse and woodcock in northern Minnesota, the Upper Peninsula (UP) of Michigan, or northern Wisconsin (and if you’re a serious grouse and woodcock hunter, chances are you do, at least on occasion), you’re almost undoubtedly hunting in timber wolf country. That’s simply a reality—one that’s increasingly troubling to those of us who’d just as soon eat biscuits without butter as hunt grouse and woodcock without dogs.
And as much as I’d like to be able to say that up-close encounters similar to Cousin Dean’s are still the exception, my sense is they’re growing more common.
A friend who has a small kennel of pointers saw a wolf literally at the end of his driveway; an acquaintance hunting with his German shorthair had a wolf pop out on the trail 75 yards ahead and stand there regarding him for a long, skin-prickling moment before it melted into the woods. The encounter so unnerved the guy that he took to carrying a sidearm in addition to his smoothbore, not so much for his own protection (or so he told me, anyway) as for his dog’s.
Ironically, the one wolf I’ve seen in Wisconsin was crossing a state highway barely a mile as the crow flies from Andy’s Acres, the cabin where my friends and I spend a goodly portion of the grouse and woodcock season. I have, however, cut the tracks of a number of wolves over the years (on one occasion just yards from where I was camped), found their scat, even heard their hair-raising howls. And I’ve been aware, in a distant, back-of-my-mind way, that wolves inhabit some of the same places where I turn loose Tina, my beautiful little setter, to search for birds.
The question is, what’s the risk? It’s a question anyone who hunts birds in wolf country needs to ask. I don’t know, however, that a definitive answer exists or even an entirely satisfactory one.
The starting point for any discussion, though, is this: Given the opportunity and the right set of circumstances, wolves will attack dogs and, more often than not, kill them. (Let’s also state for the record that, outside of Jack London novels, the dog has never been born that is a fighting match for a wolf, much less a pack of them.) Wolves are extremely territorial, hard-wired to defend their turf against canine interlopers. They’re also fiercely protective of their young, meaning that they’re programmed to confront anything that’s perceived as a threat to their offspring or simply wanders too close to their den.
Wolves may interpret the baying of hounds as a kind of challenge, adding fuel to the fire of their territorial behavior.
Putting two and two together, the bottom line is that a dog that comes into contact with wild wolves has automatically put itself in harm’s way. Any time a wolf sees, smells, or otherwise detects the presence of a dog, it triggers a measure of malign intent. Some say that wolves harbor an innate hatred of dogs for abandoning the pack, sucking up to humans, and cravenly submitting to domestication. The unbridled savagery wolves display when they target a dog is almost enough to make you believe that piece of folklore. You’d swear they were exacting revenge.
But here’s the thing: By all accounts, official and anecdotal, the incidence of wolf attacks on gundogs is incredibly low. Among the three states mentioned here, Wisconsin maintains far-and-away the most detailed and comprehensive record of wolf–dog interactions. These records date back to 1985, and in the 30 years since there hasn’t been a single fatal attack on a gundog in a hunting situation.
While it’s true that several sporting dogs, including Labs and German shorthairs, have been killed by wolves, they’ve been the result of what are described as “non-hunting depredations.” These incidents typically take place near the homes of dog owners who live in remote, wooded areas. The owner lets the dog out to exercise or relieve itself, and wolves ambush it. More often than not, these attacks happen at night.
Wisconsin’s statistics for hounds killed by wolves, however, are staggering. As I’m writing this in early February, the number stands at 226 and counting. Bear hounds— Plotts, Walkers, blueticks, and the like—account for the majority of these incidents, although hounds running coyotes and bobcats have been targeted as well. Even a few rabbit-hunting beagles have been picked off.
Why are hounds at such vastly greater risk of attack than bird dogs? Well, the biggest factor appears to be human proximity. Hounds may follow a track for miles, putting significant distance between themselves and their handlers. With the human element and the caution it engenders thus removed from the scene, wolves are much more likely to respond aggressively to canine intrusion. It’s believed, too, that wolves may interpret the baying of hounds as a kind of challenge, adding fuel to the fire of their territorial behavior.
We grouse and woodcock hunters, in contrast, stay in much closer contact with our dogs (in theory, anyway) and make a lot more noise. We crash through the woods, we toot our whistles, we holler at our dogs and our hunting partners, and we even touch off our smokepoles on occasion. It tends to resemble a moving rodeo—but it has the same effect on wolves, apparently, as the wail of a police siren on a teenage beer bash.
Rod Lein, a guide, professional gundog trainer, and longtime field-trialer from Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, has most likely spent as much time chasing bird dogs through grouse and woodcock covers of the Upper Midwest as anyone.
“I’ve honestly never had a problem with wolves,” Rod said in response to my query. “In fact, I don’t know anyone with bird dogs who has. I’m aware that they take a toll on hounds, and that they inhabit some of the areas where I run my pointers, but I’ve just never had a problem.
“Having said that, I know of two dogs, both setters, that were killed by bears. If the dogs hadn’t been wearing beeper collars, their owners never would have found them.”
Just to put a little perspective on this, the current wolf populations of Minnesota, the UP, and Wisconsin, respectively, are around 2,400, 600, and 800 animals. The respective bear populations? Try 10,000 to 15,000; 13,500-17,000; and 20,000 to 25,000.
Rod Lein’s mention of beeper collars brings up another salient point: In order for a mortality to be verified, regardless of the cause, the dog’s body has to be recovered. Houndsmen have historically been in a better position to recover lost dogs than bird hunters have been. Almost without exception, they equip their dogs with GPS tracking collars and, before GPS technology became available, used old-school telemetry collars. While there’s obviously no way to prove it in the absence of a corpus delicti, it seems reasonable to believe that at least some bird dogs, lost in the woods and never seen again, ultimately fell victim to wolves.
It’s never fun to lose a dog for any length of time, but if there’s one thing that ought to scare you silly, it’s the prospect of your dog having to spend the night in wolf country. The one concession (if that’s the right word) that Rod Lein has made to the new reality of living with wolves is he never, ever turns a dog loose without a tracking collar. It simply takes the possibility of losing a dog out of the equation—and takes a load of worry off his mind.
I’d urge anyone who plans to hunt grouse and woodcock in this part of the world to follow Rod’s lead and, if you haven’t done so already, invest in a GPS collar. It won’t keep your dog out of harm’s way—nothing can do that, at least not entirely—but it can help you extract him from dangerous and potentially fatal situations.
Do wolves pose a risk? Yes, absolutely. Two English setters were attacked by wolves in Wisconsin just last year; thankfully, both dogs survived. Still, in the hierarchy of dangers faced by woodcock and grouse dogs, the weight of the evidence suggests that wolves rank pretty far down the list.
Having said that, though, I’ll tell you this: If I ever see a wolf standing where I want to park my truck, I’m making like Cousin Dean and getting the hell out of Dodge. +++
Photo Mitchphotos/Thinkstock