The Bond by Wayne Pacelle

Author:Wayne Pacelle
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 2011-03-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

The Cull of the Wild

I’VE SPENT TIME IN most of America’s fifty or so national parks, and each stands out in its own way—the sensational colors of ancient wood at Petrified Forest; the brilliant red rock formations at Arches; the shaggy, white mountain goats bounding up the almost vertical faces at Olympic. But for me, one park holds a special place in memory. It’s Isle Royale National Park—a rocky, out-of-the-way archipelago, washed on all sides by the cold swells of Lake Superior.

I arrived at Isle Royale in the summer of 1985 as a ranger for the Student Conservation Association (SCA). Over the next four months, I hiked almost all of its 165 miles of trails that scarcely mar this classical boreal forest. Breezes off the big lake chill the air even in midsummer, and it rarely gets warmer than 80 degrees. The same breezes stir the leaves of white pines and quaking aspens, sending a gentle flutter through the stillness of the park. There’s a solitary beauty to the place, and I found it everywhere—on long hikes, canoe trips, and very quick dips in the cleanest, coldest water in North America. For all its beauty and tranquility, Isle Royale also tested my reverence-for-life ethic, with swarms of blackflies and mosquitoes that welcomed me to the park in their own way.

The park was established by an act of Congress during the presidency of Franklin Roosevelt, but even by the 1980s it saw only ten thousand or so visitors a year—nothing compared to the eight million or so who entered the Great Smoky Mountains National Park or the three million who went to Yosemite. The park is so remote that at first even wildlife had a tough time getting there. Wolves loped across an ice bridge to the park around 1950, doubtless in pursuit of an abundant moose population that descends from the hardy originals who made an incredible swim from Canada. Bears never made it, and deer didn’t last. Red foxes and beavers did establish themselves, and I saw them often. Bald eagles nested there too, and the habitat is also perfect for northern loons. As a child, I had read about the wolves and moose of Isle Royale and always hoped to see the park firsthand. Researchers had discovered that wolves had an impact on the entire park ecosystem—not just the moose, but also the beavers and foxes, and in turn, the fish, birds, and even plants. Something about this cascade effect enthralled the naturalist in me—each little movement of nature affecting everything else around it.

There is a quiet in the boreal forest—it is not filled with the variety of life of a tropical forest or a coral reef. It is grudging and spare in sustaining animal life. That thrift appealed to me. It was more modest than ornate. There was no outsized feature—no huge mountain, ancient tree species, or powerful waterfall—to leave you in awe. Yet in its proportionality, the place commanded your respect.

The place had tugged at me for a long time, and when I got the SCA assignment, I was thrilled.

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