One spring morning many years ago, I had been prospecting for gold along Coho Creek in southeastern Alaska. Suddenly, no more than 20 paces away was a huge Alaskan timber wolf-caught in a trap.
From her appearance, I guessed she had been trapped for several days. She needed my help, I thought. But if I tried to release her, she would turn aggressive to me. The wolf was clearly suffering. The trap's steel jaws had imprisoned two toes. They were swollen and lacerated, but she wouldn't lose the paw (爪子) — if freed. Yet each time I moved closer, she would make a frightening growl. If I could only win her confidence, I thought. It was her only hope.
Over the next few days, I divided my time between prospecting and trying to win the wolf's trust. I talked gently with her, throwing her some meat. Gradually, I kept edging closer — though I was careful to remain beyond the length of her trap chain.
At dusk on the fifth day, I delivered her dinner. Suddenly, I saw a slight wagging of her tail. I moved within the length of her chain. She remained sill. As a towering man, my heart was in my mouth, though. Within her reach, I wrapped my blanket around myself and slowly settled onto the cold ground. It was long before I fell asleep.
The next morning, I slowly placed my hand on the wolf's injured leg. Unexpectedly; she made no threatening move. Then I applied pressure, the trap sprang open, and the wolf pulled free.
My experience told me the wolf would vanish into the woods quickly. But cautiously, she crept toward me and sniffed my hands and arms. This went against everything I'd ever heard about timber wolves. Yet, strangely, it all seemed so natural.