Wolves in the Wind

WOLVES IN THE WIND

Summer 2017.

A LONE KIT FOX PANTS AS IT TROTS DETERMINEDLY along a parched stretch of farmland, as Jo, my wife, noses our rental Chevy along a dusty road laid along the San Joaquin Valley. We are a little parched ourselves, but it is the land around us whose need for quenching is greater– a state-wide drought is into its sixth year, and everything we see is thirsty.

Around here, just south of Bakersfield, we're in produce country and the local nut heavyweights – trees of almonds, pistachios and walnuts – find a way to yield, aided by the sprinkler irrigation systems installed throughout the land. We spot a series of pumpjacks, pecking the ground for oil; proving that water’s not the only drink sought around here.

As for us, we're decidedly un-fresh from a three night stay at the desert resort of California City – a city planned and built to attract hundreds of thousands of residents and tourists; a plan that was dismantled by the difficulties in providing water to these would-be inhabitants and visitors.

Our days in the desert have been draining; compounded by our Cali City hotel’s swimming pool being out of use . . . just what you need after spending our time hiking and seeking out the elusive desert tortoise in the hundred degree heat of the day.

We continue, keeping an eye out for a place to break up the journey to the next stop on our Californian road trip; the Central Coast’s Pismo Beach. This coastal town has promises of cool ocean breezes, ice cream, and a dip in the Pacific Ocean – perhaps even a fully-functioning swimming pool when a large, green blob sashays onto the Satnav screen.

‘Wind Wolves Preserve,’ I whisper theatrically.

Says Jo, ‘Cool name. Shall we stop?’

We look down at the dwindling water supply upfront in the Chevy; foolishly, we’d packed our remaining gallon in the boot.

‘Yes.’

Presently, we turn into the Preserve and crawl to an unmanned information booth, where we oblige a sign asking visitors to detail their names and origins in the visitor book. And in lieu of an admission fee – entrance to the preserve is free- we slip a few $ into the donation box, take a leaflet and steer into a deserted parking area.

A sense of unease ripples through us as we fetch water from the boot and survey our surroundings. To our left, birds of prey wheel portentously about a high cliff face. But a rushing sound has us turning to our right.

Where there are wolves.

Wind wolves, thankfully. The leaflet reveals that the preserve is named for the sound its grasslands make when winds sweep through its 93,000 acres, a sound likened to wolves brushing through grasses, stalking their prey. And while the wolf population has long been hunted out of these reaches of California, the preserve’s resident hunters include coyotes, rattlesnakes, and mountain lions.

Passing a scattering of deserted visitor centres and restrooms– we follow, via a set of gruelling switchbacks and closing in on 1,000ft elevation gain - the Tule Elk Trail, hoping to glimpse the 200-strong herd of elk which have recently been reintroduced to the preserve.

Our Tule elk-spying mission proves unsuccessful, though the hour spent gazing around the bluffs, mountain ranges, and wildflower meadows decorating the preserve provides ample compensation.

Serenity envelops us as we make our way back to the Chevy, a quietude that is brutally punctured by a sudden crashing in a nearby copse. Our hearts race, but the crashing culprit remains among the vegetation. We continue at a somewhat increased pace as the bustling sway of the grasslands rattle softly about us.

It was just the Wind Wolves, surely.

Because there aren’t any real wolves in these parts.

Are there?