I stop short of taking my next step. Somewhere amid the squeak-crunch of snow beneath my boots and the footfalls and heavy breathing of our labrador, Hobbes, there is something else. The two of us stand motionless as I pull my wool cap up and away from my ears. I can’t help but smile, noticing that both Hobbes and I are tilting our heads the same way, straining for the next sound.
There it is. This time, there is no doubt – it is the distant howl of a wolf. The faint sound is at the very edge of my hearing. Starting low, it reverberates and builds. It is not the vocalisation of a single individual after all, but howls from an entire pack. What I am hearing is the quintessential call of the wild emanating from some unseen corner of the upper Yellowstone River valley.
Anne Fernald, a professor at Standford University who specialises in children’s language development, has deliciously referred to sound as “touch at a distance”. This notion strikes a chord with me, pointing to what can connect us with the more-than-human world.
My own explorations into the conversations of wolves began more than 20 years ago in the heart of Yellowstone’s northern range on the spectacular sprawling floor of Lamar Valley, the epicentre of the wolf recovery in the park that began in the mid-1990s.
My wife Jenny and I lived in a small cluster of cabins – the only human outpost for several miles. During our first spring in the valley, the matriarch of the Druid Peak wolf pack gave birth to a litter of pups a few hundred metres to the east. We watched spellbound as the pack travelled, hunted, played, fed their young, forded rivers and streams, slept and, yes, howled. One thing was evident from the beginning – one howl was not the same as another. I couldn’t help but wonder, “What are you saying?” Fortunately I was perfectly placed to find out.
How to speak wolf
The process of learning wolfese, or any language, is best done within the culture in which it is used. Humans, like bats, whales, dolphins, seals, parrots and songbirds, are vocal learners. We come to our mother tongue by repeating what we hear. I intuitively fell into a new language by repeating the howls of wolves not only as a way to uncover the nuances in those sounds, but also as a way to remember my lessons better.
I never howl to the wolves themselves and I howl exclusively indoors or inside a vehicle. For one thing, it is illegal to call to animals inside the park. But even when I am beyond park borders, I refrain because I still don’t know exactly what I’m saying, and, more to the point, I don’t want to inject myself into the wolves’ lives and risk changing their natural behaviour. Some might scoff at the idea of making animal sounds as somewhat childish, and by some measures it is, but mimicry is one of the more noble of our youthful tendencies. Participating in what others do and say builds empathy.
After the walk with Hobbes, I break into wolf song inside the house. I fill my lungs with air and press upward with my diaphragm to unleash a replica wolf howl using a vowel sound reminiscent of ‘wooooaaaaah’. Hobbes comes into the room to watch and listen, one eyebrow raised.
If someone happens to break into birdsong or the calls of a red deer at a social gathering, they will likely be laughed at or even mocked. If that same person were to give a recitation in Latin, Mandarin or Urdu, they would likely be viewed as worldly or sophisticated. Our limited standards of inclusivity are a malady of modern society that older cultures rooted in the land do not share. Non-humans are not beneath us. With their abilities to fly, breathe under water, see in ultraviolet wavelengths, hear in ultrasonic frequencies, detect odours with concentrations as little as parts per trillion, these speciose ‘others’ exceed us in extraordinary ways.
The vocalisations of wolves
A typical wolf howl, based on an analysis of a year’s worth of 24/7 audio recording in Yellowstone, lasts an average of six seconds. When the pack howls as a group, the vocalisations expand to include a raucous combination of individual moans, yips and barks, together with a chaotic modulating rising and falling sound referred to as a ‘woa’. The choral arrangement of a wolf pack creates a sound that is larger than the sum of its parts. My baseline for understanding all other wolf vocalisations started with this group howl.
When is it appropriate to howl in wolf society? Is there an equivalent to the faux pas of attending a fine dining engagement and announcing something uncomfortably inappropriate about your private life? I’m not entirely sure to be honest. Though the circumstances in which wolves howl are myriad – and, no, they don’t howl at the moon – wolf howls are most commonly used as rallying calls for pack members, exchanges between packs and to signal a change in pack behaviour. Barry Lopez reported many variations of howling behaviour in his book Of Wolves and Men, including one example of a wolf so deeply committed to participating in the group chorus that it called out while in the midst of defecating.
More generally, wolves act like a team of athletes doing a high five and a cheer before taking to the field. If a group of wolves hears another pack’s call, they howl. If the group is bedded down and stands to travel, they howl. If they’re travelling and circle up for a rest, they howl. When wolves are on a hunt, however, they are silent. After eating their fill and seeking out a place to lie down – their swollen bellies may contain upwards of 9kg of meat, which is a lot for an animal that weighs only 45kg – they often howl.
Uncovering wolf speak
Tuning into deviations from these common patterns helps me further crack the wolf code. Let’s revisit that morning walk with Hobbes. As if by magic, a second wolf howl pierces the wintry air from the rolling hills at the base of a peak roughly 1.5km to the east of the pack. The single wolf starts with a short, high note that breaks into a lower register for a sustained interval. The six-second norm for a wolf howl is now being stretched for 12 to 15 seconds, or more.
When I play a recording or imitate this extended ‘long’ or ‘lost’ call, as I term it, for class participants or lecture audiences, I ask, “What does this sound feel like to you?” Respondents often say, “It sounds sad or lonesome,” and they are right. The human use of tone, timbre and intonation is similar to that of other species. Given our shared evolutionary use of sound, we humans have a reasonable starting point for understanding the intent behind animal vocalisations. The real test, however, comes from the associated behaviours we observe.
On that winter morning, the lone howler pauses for roughly 30 seconds, presumably while listening for a response, then repeats its cry. The wolf extends its howl for so long that it seems to empty its lungs completely as its voice drifts off into nothingness. In response, the pack mounts a bold, energised volley of sound with lots of yips and barking.
Back at the house, I locate the lone wolf through my telescope – it is a black-coated individual. I follow the black wolf as it traverses the corrugated snowy white landscape. It is moving westward in the direction of the now-riotous pack. The lone wolf moves at a brisk trot, then breaks into a slow gallop, pausing periodically to howl as it makes its way down from the foothills, crosses the ice of the Gardner River, and dashes across the asphalt of the park entrance road. The black wolf finishes its journey by running headlong into what is now a mosh pit of roiling, furred, yipping, howling wolves – the returned family member is being treated to a hero’s welcome.
My own efforts at reproducing the howls I hear during these and other interactions help focus my attention on details I might otherwise miss. I feel like a student at a conservatory trying their hand at a jazz standard or Bach sonata – I learn a lot more when I attempt to repeat what I hear, even if poorly. My larynx becomes the reed of a woodwind instrument, my lips and tongue function like a mute on the bell of a trombone, modulating sound in ways that help me to listen more intently to the messages the wolves are conveying.
I have had the joy of deciphering a short howl with an abruptly clipped ending heard most often in midwinter. The first time I witnessed this abbreviated call I wondered if this might be a kid that had failed howling camp. Then I learned through repeated observations and additional information from the park wolf researchers and community of amateur watchers that this is the unique sound a wolf uses to get a date when in enemy territory.
One day in a class I was teaching I imitated the bark-alarm that wolves use when in direct conflict with other wolves, (or with something else equally scary, such as humans or grizzly bears). One of the students exclaimed, “That’s exactly what the wolves do when the veterinarian shows up!”
The grey wolves at the captive wildlife facility where she worked used this particular sound to express their disdain for veterinary visits. One day she heard that same vocalisation when the animal doctor was days away from visiting. However, she was stunned to find that the veterinarian’s truck was in the parking lot well ahead of schedule – within full view of the wolf enclosure.
Though wolves are likely not a part of your neighbourhood, equally fascinating and informative ‘others’ are. Whether you live in the city or the country, wild nature is out there speaking. All of us can benefit from its lessons to forge a uniquely local and personal relationship with our planet at a time when it needs us to listen – now more than ever.
Eavesdropping on wild animals gives us a privileged glimpse into their lives, allows us to appreciate our home in magical new ways, and puts us into closer communion with nature even in urban environments. I urge you to observe and imitate. Let your childlike curiosity run riot, risk appearing silly, and you will be rewarded.
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Main image: wolf howling in Yellowstone National Park. Credit: Getty