The animal’s thick winter fur is covered in ice and snow. When the leader of the pack wakes up, a myriad ice crystal shimmer in the languid, uncertain light of the Arctic’s early afternoons, shreds and drops of light encircling its imposing beauty. I’ve been taking pictures of bears, wolves, penguins for decades, and I shall never tire of it. This is where every story of my life begins and ends. Love, success, failures—the common thread of my existence will always be this.

I chase wolves, I track their footprints, I push far into the Arctic to meet the most fascinating subject in the realm of animal society. I wrote extensively about wolves on these pages, and I advocated for their right to be, not merely exist. Today, though, I advocate for our right to see them and to be seen by them, to hear their howling, to share this unbearable, hostile land, and to imagine, if for but a minute, to be part of the pack, part of their extended family. Being in the pack is quite different than being part of a herd of sheep or cattle: it means being part of a social group with a given role recognized by all. There will be no misunderstandings nor ambiguity.

My crew and I stand here in the minus forties, circumstances that remind of human suffering and almost suggest that the earth’s temperature is not so high, after all. I think of wolves, I see them when they’re not even there, and I also think that things aren’t quite alright, not at all. I have been visiting the Arctic for decades, and every year, there’s less ice around, fewer birds, fewer birds, and much more trouble. It’s warmer, too, and it makes no sense to explain it to some President X or President Y, because this distinct, explicit physical perception, and the consequence of dramatic change in environmental conditions, is still not consequential enough in terms of number of ‘martyrs’ for that extra mediatic shock value.

Predators are born that way, and cannot be anything else. Their diet is extremely restricted. Their digestive system, as well as their teeth, are highly specialized, and their bones and muscles are shaped by their need to be strong, quick, and resistant – their survival depends on it. They cannot survive without eating meat, even if that means not eating anything for a long time. Also, they are very few compared to the amount of their food sources; hence, they are perfectly adapted to the environment they live in. Tweak this balance, and you get a recipe for extinction.

Here we are, then, after the complicated polar dressing up. Helmet and goggles, riding our snowmobile. We stop every two hours and light up some fire with what little vegetation the taiga can offer and eat something. Our moon landing-worthy gloves can only do so much against the freezing cold, and we need our hands to move and feel freely to drive our snowmobile.

Suddenly, against all odds, what first looks like a mirage. A tail. Not just any tail, a happy tail. Humans have no tail; also, they’re slow and weak. They won’t survive for long without food, and they are themselves rich in tasty, nourishing fat and protein. As far as numbers go, humans are far more numerous than hoofed mammals (only in Europe, there’s about 20 million ungulates vs. half a billion people). This is to say that humans are prey, and can be preyed upon. Or are they? While devoid of any natural tool to be called a predator, humans just don’t want to get eaten, but they do want to eat a lot. Some of them eat themselves to death, and most are indifferent to throwing away what resources they have.

Back to the tail. It is one of them. What we do, now, is get as close as possible, as slowly as possible, to the pack. Nine majestic wolves, utterly indifferent to our presence. Their placidity must be the aftermath of a good meal, or maybe the ability to tell good and bad men apart. Whatever the case, they keep sleeping under snow. Some, occasionally, play around and exercise. It’s better not to get too close with the snowmobile, though. If wolves and men have some vague commonality, wolves and snowmobile certainly don’t. We brave the last 200 metres on foot, stopping at intervals. 50 metres are a very good distance to take beautiful pictures, all it takes is waiting a good thirty minutes in silence. Wolves are great at communicating very discreetly, in complete silence, and so must we. The pack slumbers, with only a few brief interruptions that look like firework. The wolves’ thick winter fur is covered in snow and ice, and when the pack leader wakes up, a myriad crystals shake all around, a magical explosion of ice diamonds surrounding the majesty of the powerful wolf.

He is perfectly capable of commandeering his family, concerting its composition, reproduction, preying, access to food. They will consume little of it, the bare minimum, and will consume all of it – no waste, as befits the role of balancer of the ecosystem. Where the pack is, there is never ‘too much of’ anything. All reverts to perfect natural order. When some imbecile kills wolves for fun, maybe the pack leader, they cause the pack to disperse. Then, each wolf will kill random prey, take care of itself only, and forget their role in the collective.

Our wolves are still before us, and we feel blessed by unexpected luck. Before us, the most authentic alpha predator shows his intelligent eyes, his thoughtful demeanour, his natural, undisputable beauty, his awareness of his social status. The youngest is cuddled and coddled by the adults. Days go by, and we won’t leave the pack (or the pack won’t leave us?) These animals are more humane than we can hope to be. They are naturally playful, naturally silent and respectful. They love to touch and stroke one another to establish connection and hierarchy. They are superior beings, whose air and territory we share, tiptoeing around, trying to keep noise to a minimum. We are looking for friendship – coexistence might be a better term – that they might even want, while us, we can’t even befriend others in our own species.

I’m with them, with the pack, to the very end.

Featured images: Nico Zaramella © worldwide reserved