“Righto!” I said, surprising myself with the chipper tone of my voice. Also with the anglicism, which had come from some heroic quarter, a childhood Kiplingesque programming that encouraged cavorting with wild animals.
Of course, I had no intention of leaving Leto in the zoo to be lethally injected, three legs or not. I had a blueberry muffin in my pocket, which I had been meaning to eat, but a truer, higher purpose for the humble pastry had suddenly revealed itself to me.
It wasn’t hard to convince that wolf to come into the light, and he did, blinking, and soon was bouncing along behind me at a good clip. Luckily for me, the exit was not far from the wolf pen and I was soon skirting the edge of the parking lot, having given the wolf half the blueberry muffin while displaying the other half, which would be his should he make it into the car. When I reached the car, I had a moment’s hesitation. The wolf was large despite its age and had to weigh close to sixty pounds. As he panted in the bright sunlight, I could see his shining teeth and the wall of wild, which shielded all but the surface of his eyes from me. Still, I opened the door of the car, pushed down the passenger seat, and threw the other half of the muffin onto the back seat.
Soon we were making a right and then another right. I’d decided to stay off the highway. I suppose I was looking for something slightly rural. Of course, the logical thing would have been to take the highway for a half hour or so—urban Indiana does not take long to thin out—but I was also nervous to be driving with an unfamiliar wolf at high speeds. So we wove through a few streets until I found myself driving along a wealthy, suburban street, which would no doubt turn into a cul-de-sac from which I would never escape. I regarded my friend in the mirror. The wolf sat much like any canine, rolling back on his haunches, front feet planted, in the center of the seat. He was whining in a high-pitched way, as if he was controlling himself from barking. He was cute. He didn’t smell at all. His eyes were lovely and that coat of fur very impressive. Maybe he’d look good in a red leather collar—or even better, some sort of punk chic black-studded thing.
“Quequeg,” I said in the rear view mirror. “Good boy, Quequeg.”
I was actually more focused on the rear view mirror than the road in front of me, when I saw in my peripheral vision a fortyish man walking what—to my limited view—was a well-groomed West Highland terrier. I think I was in the process of editing out that man and his pet and replacing them with me and mine when the wolf let out a fierce growl and jumped over the back seat and into my lap. I know I was screaming, screaming and driving. I slowed down then swung into the high curb and hit my brakes. The man walking the dog looked up with momentary surprise. The wolf’s claws scrabbled against the glass. I suppose he thought (as did I briefly) that I was being attacked by my dog. Growl growl growl, went the wolf. I grabbed the handle and started winding down the window. I saw the West Highland terrier’s eyes get very round. The dog was trying to get away, running as fast as his two-inch legs would take him. He was on one of those retractable leashes (a misnomer because they only extend, never retract, particularly at critical junctures) that was reeling out to its full capacity.
“Astro! Astro!” yelled the owner. But Astro was running, wrapping himself in tighter circles around his owner’s legs until finally his spiraling orbit came to a stop. I got the window down and Quequeg leaped into the suburban wilderness. I think he made his first kill. I suppose it was the terrier, but in his hunting Quequeg managed to knock down both beast and master. As all mammals have the same kind of blood when looked at with the naked eye, I’ve never been sure whose was spilling onto that immaculate sidewalk as I reversed away.
Did I feel bad? Sort of, but I had more important things to think about. The Midwest had developed these bizarre, sinister associations and I needed to get out. I saw the first sign indicating the direction to the highway and ground the car into fourth gear. Soon I was speeding at upwards of eighty miles an hour. I felt the speed was necessary, even though this made the car shudder in a way that caused my hands gripping the steering wheel to go numb. I’d never been further west than Chicago and the prospect was exciting. As a child, I remembered my classmates coming back from California burned up by the sun, full of stories of Disneyland. But my California—my West—was not a place soaked in sun, inhabited by giant mice and equally enormous dwarves. I had formed my opinions at an early age and these opinions had somehow made it, unquestioned, into my adulthood. In the same way, Captain Cook and Captain Hook had been conflated in my mind until a course in Australian history made it clear that Peter Pan and Captain Cook had never known each other. Similarly, my West was still populated by pioneers and their oxen, and their dreams being carted into impassible mountains, covered with snow. Somehow the lure of gold still existed for me. Unsophisticated, perhaps, but the West had been of no interest for many years. I’d been looking to Europe. To me the West was still undiscovered.
In the old days, before maps (I was rather good at reading maps) one would have had to engage a guide to get west of the Rockies. Into the hands of that guide one would entrust one’s life and the lives of one’s family. The Donner Party did that. They asked Lansford W. Hastings where they should go, and he directed them to the fatal, legendary cutoff that now bears his name—the Hastings Cutoff. I suppose many of the guides were good, which is why they’ve vanished into history. Good seldom is interesting and bad usually is. Among the guides that I remember well is Alfred Packer. Alfred Packer was an adventurer and guide, but he wasn’t particularly good at finding his way. Or maybe he was. Maybe the paths he took are just strange to the majority of people and make sense only if they are viewed as accidental.
Alfred Packer was born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania, in 1842. He went west in 1862 and enlisted in the Eighth Regiment of the Iowa Cavalry in 1863; however, due to his epilepsy, he was mustered out of service. The winter of 1873 finds Alfred Packer in Provo, Utah, offering his services as guide to a group of twenty hopeful prospectors headed to the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. In truth, Alfred Packer knew little of this region. In January 1874, the group stops off at the village of Chief Ouray, who warns them not to attempt a crossing until spring. Packer and five of the men decide to continue into the mountainous region. Apparently, the call of gold has stifled that of reason.
Packer and five prospectors step boldly into the windy, white San Juan Mountain range.
In the early spring, the remaining fifteen prospectors, who had wisely heeded the advice of Chief Ouray, embarked on their own tiring, but nonetheless uneventful, passage through the mountains. Upon emerging on the other side, they inquire about their fellow prospectors. Fellow prospectors? No one knew of their friends and former companions. Could it be that they had not yet emerged from the mountains? Could it be that these fifteen men who had cautiously chosen a spring passage had actually passed them, been the first to reach the destination? Were they all dead, victims of cold, hunger, and blindness? Had the hissing snow and brutal wind buried their landmarks, their paths, and then their frostbitten, hungry bodies?
Alfred Packer? One minute. They knew him. Black hair? Broad cheekbones? Deep, penetrating gaze? Ah, yes. But he had not come out of the mountains in winter, not him, not with the meat on his bones like that; he would have been emaciated. And he had no companions. He traveled alone, yes he did. He bought no food when he appeared (miraculously?) at the Los Pinos Indian Agency, but just whisky. People still remembered that plump roll of money, the flutter of bills, Packer’s cavalier dispensing of cash.
Packer’s first explanation states that he has been left behind due to a leg injury. This callousness on the part of his companions is responsible for his survival. However, in August 1874, when the bodies of the other men are found, they are not strung along the trail, as would be expected if the hand of God had smote them leisurely, in turn—the typical scenario for small groups of starving, frostbitten, lost prospectors/pioneers crossing mountain ranges. Instead, the men are all grouped together. In addition to this, they all seem to have met some variety of violent death. Packer changes his story. The food was gone. This is true. In fact, all the men were surviving on a diet of rosebuds and pinesap. Packer is chosen to scout for food, leaving the other five prospectors together. Upon returning, Packer finds that a certain Shannon Bell—in a crazed state—has slaughtered the other four men. Packer, in an act of self-defense, shoots him.