A Fat Purple Fig

This trip has been cobbled together over months, each week sealing the purchase of a flight, or a room, or a ticket, courtesy of a steady stream of tutoring students, reciting their irregular verbs. ‘The trip’ became the carrot, the light upon which I could focus when I was in danger of veering off course, where ‘consistency’ and ‘discipline’ are thrown into the fire.

Occasionally, I have had to take myself out of the equation, and put Kitty in, since this is her trip. Mostly, her attitude has been, ‘I’m happy with whatever you choose’, but I know she would choose sport over art, and shops over sights, so I have tried to strike a balance. Her only two requests have been as follows: the if-there-is-any-possible-way Grand Prix, in Austin, Texas, and our current destination, Parc Omega, to sleep with the wolves.

Parc Omega is a safari park set on 800 hectares, just north of Montebello, Quebec. Like many animal sanctuaries, it is engaged in research, education and conservation, and provides a range of activities to fund these projects. One of these activities includes staying at the park, in a range of accommodation choices, to get up close and personal with the animals.

When we walk into our lodge, made entirely of wood, we immediately see a wolf lying outside the full-length windows. Kitty races over to it, and settles in, captivated:

We can see others too, dotted throughout the trees, lounging in the afternoon sun. Our cabin is adjacent to a pack of twelve timber wolves, most of whom are white. They see us, but pay us no mind. They have no doubt seen their fair share of observers come and go.

The lodge has a ground floor, with a lounge and kitchen, and bedroom and bathroom; and an open mezzanine with a slanted ceiling and two queen beds. The decor is antler-chic, from the towel hooks to the drawer handles. The bedside tables are made from single chunks of wood, each of which has a wolf carved into its surface. The lodge is positioned with the wolf habitat on one side, and the entry, with a fire pit and barbeque, on the other.

I tear Kitty away from the (her) wolf, and we drive down to where the walking track begins, to join an information session. Kitty keeps up a steady stream of chatter, energised by the wolf sighting, as we stroll along the raised walking platform. There are wolf habitats on either side of us, so we keep a lookout for the ‘alpha’, a wolf said to be both vigilant and nonchalant, with an upright head and tail. They all look the same; scruffy bodies on skinny legs, and with eyes that look right through you.

Past the wolves is an open grassy space, with a pond, that houses a group of black bears, lazily snuffling in the grass. They, too, are unconcerned about our appearance. We sit for a while on a bench at the end of the walkway, and spot a tiny, darting squirrel-like creature in the trees. It takes me a while, but I think I identify it as a chipmunk, which pleases me.

Our presenter speaks in both French and English. He has given his spiel a thousand times before, but imbues it with energy and good humour, engaging the children and making jokes about chubby bears. The residents know it’s snack time, and the wolves wait patiently for him to throw them chunks of meat and bone, which they crunch with ease. We learn they can run up to 60km/h and can continue at a loping pace for days.

The bears are nothing short of comical. The largest one simply sits on his backside and holds his mouth open, barely moving to catch chunks of carrot. Occasionally, they stand, which feels strange somehow. Every time the baby snags a carrot, he races frantically away from the group, not willing to risk parting with it.

Suitably-educated, we head back to our lodge and prep for our evening, eating our million-dollar cheese platter (Canada is wildly expensive) and watching the wolves.

As the sun sets, our sleeping wolf rouses, and looks around. She has her tail curved between her legs, and has a nervous look in her eye. Two other wolves appear to stalk and harass her, and she crouches down, teeth bared and head lowered. It’s uncomfortable to watch, and I want to shout at them to leave her alone. Kitty and I read up on wolf behaviour, and learn more about the hierarchical structure of their packs.

It turns out the concept of the ‘alpha’ wolf is a myth, generated through the study of captive wolves. This is akin to studying human beings in prison, with no family connections binding them together. In the wild, wolf packs are essentially led by their parents, and are made up of the offspring who haven’t yet moved out of home to start their own family. Any fights that occur are sibling squabbles, or the older children whinging that the babies are being fed first. As one biologist says, ‘What would be the value of calling a human father the alpha male?’ What a terrible blow for tough guys with wolf tattoos.

Is Daisy just being taunted by her siblings? And is she even a she? Or have I just assumed anyone being stalked is a woman?

The wolves are like a fish tank, or a fire, easy to watch for long stretches of time. We enjoy trying to identify the breeding pair, but they are all so similar. Daisy is definitely the at the bottom of the pecking order, and it is difficult to watch her cowering and slinking about, hoping not to run into the others. She stays near the window, and glances at us more often than the others.

We go outside to light a fire. Kitty confidently builds a structure with wood and kindling, and dots pieces of ripped newspaper around, which she then lights. I make suggestions, based on my extensive viewing of Survivor. I should know better – Kitty is do-or-die when it comes to the successful lighting of this fire. The map of the park is sacrificed, as are some locally-sourced sticks, but it is soon blazing. We toast marshmallows, and throw on a packet of ‘Fire Changing Colour Powder’, just for fun.

It is fun. So much so, in fact, that it might make a camper of me yet.

Right up until we head up to bed, Kitty is perched by the window, watching. At one point, there is a large group circled around Daisy, nipping and snarling at her. ‘It’s not how it appears, it’s not how it appears,‘ I keep chanting to myself, but boy, it’s tough viewing.

Perhaps Kitty loves her, in particular, because she knows how it feels to bear the brunt of sibling superiority.

In the early hours of the morning, I awaken and lie in bed, listening to the sound of wolves, howling. In the morning, Kitty will say, ‘I heard wolves howling in the night, and I just lay there, listening to them.‘

And I will say the same thing.