In 1948, Farley Mowat landed in the far north of Manitoba, Canada, a young biologist sent to investigate the region’s dwindling population of caribou. Many people thought that the caribous’ conspicuous decline had been caused by the tundra’s most notorious predator: the wolf. Alone among the howling canine packs, Mowat expected to find the bloodthirsty beasts of popular conception. Instead, over the course of a summer spent observing the powerful animals, Mowat discovered an animal species with a remarkable capacity for loyalty, virtue, and playfulness.
Praised for its humor and engrossing narrative, Never Cry Wolf describes a group of wolves whose interactions and behaviors seem strikingly similar to our own. Mowat humanizes these animals that have long been demonized, turning the widespread narrative of the “savage wolf” on its head and inspiring many governments to enact protective legislation for the North’s most mysterious creature.
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About the Author
Mowat is most widely known for his 1963 book Never Cry Wolf, which recounts his adventures as a biologist on a solo mission in 1946 to study Arctic wolves in the Keewatin Barren Lands in northern Manitoba. The book is credited with changing the stereotypically negative perception of wolves as vicious killers. New York Times op-ed columnist Nicholas D. Kristof named Mowat’s The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be, first published in 1957, one of the best children’s books of all time.
Mowat served in World War II from 1940 to 1945, entering the army as a private and emerging with the rank of captain. He began writing professionally in 1949 after spending two years in the Arctic. He was an inveterate traveler with a passion for remote places and peoples.
Mowat was made an Officer of the Order of Canada in 1981. In 2002 the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society named a ship for him in recognition of his activism against the whaling industry.
Read an Excerpt
Never Cry Wolf
By Farley Mowat
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIACopyright © 1973 Farley Mowat
All rights reserved.
The Lupine Project
It is a long way in time and space from the bathroom of my Grandmother Mowat's house in Oakville, Ontario, to the bottom of a wolf den in the Barren Lands of central Keewatin, and I have no intention of retracing the entire road which lies between. Nevertheless, there must be a beginning to any tale; and the story of my sojourn amongst the wolves begins properly in Granny's bathroom.
When I was five years old I had still not given any indication — as most gifted children do well before that age — of where my future lay. Perhaps because they were disappointed by my failure to declare myself, my parents took me to Oakville and abandoned me to the care of my grandparents while they went off on a holiday.
The Oakville house — "Greenhedges" it was called — was a singularly genteel establishment, and I did not feel at home there. My cousin, who was resident in Greenhedges and was some years older than myself, had already found his métier, which lay in the military field, and had amassed a formidable army of lead soldiers with which he was single-mindedly preparing himself to become a second Wellington. My loutish inability to play Napoleon exasperated him so much that he refused to have anything to do with me except under the most formal circumstances.
Grandmother, an aristocratic lady of Welsh descent who had never forgiven her husband for having been a retail hardware merchant, tolerated me but terrified me too. She terrified most people, including Grandfather, who had long since sought surcease in assumed deafness. He used to while away the days as calm and unruffled as Buddha, ensconced in a great leather chair and apparently oblivious to the storms which swirled through the corridors of Greenhedges. And yet I know for a fact that he could hear the word "whiskey" if it was whispered in a room three stories removed from where he sat.
Because there were no soulmates for me at Greenhedges, I took to roaming about by myself, resolutely eschewing the expenditure of energy on anything even remotely useful; and thereby, if anyone had had the sense to see it, giving a perfectly clear indication of the pattern of my future.
One hot summer day I was meandering aimlessly beside a little local creek when I came upon a stagnant pool. In the bottom, and only just covered with greeen scum, three catfish lay gasping out their lives. They interested me. I dragged them up on the bank with a stick and waited expectantly for them to die; but this they refused to do. Just when I was convinced that they were quite dead, they would open their broad ugly jaws and give another gasp. I was so impressed by their stubborn refusal to accept their fate that I found a tin can, put them in it along with some scum, and took them home.
I had begun to like them, in an abstract sort of way, and wished to know them better. But the problem of where to keep them while our acquaintanceship ripened was a major one. There were no washtubs in Greenhedges. There was a bathtub, but the stopper did not fit and consequently it would not hold water for more than a few minutes. By bedtime I had still not resolved the problem and, since I felt that even these doughty fish could hardly survive an entire night in the tin can, I was driven to the admittedly desperate expedient of finding temporary lodgings for them in the bowl of Granny's old-fashioned toilet.
I was too young at the time to appreciate the special problems which old age brings in its train. It was one of these problems which was directly responsible for the dramatic and unexpected encounter which took place between my grandmother and the catfish during the small hours of the ensuing night.
It was a traumatic experience for Granny, and for me, and probably for the catfish too. Throughout the rest of her life Granny refused to eat fish of any kind, and always carried a high-powered flashlight with her during her nocturnal peregrinations. I cannot be as certain about the effect on the catfish, for my unfeeling cousin — once the hooferaw had died down a little — callously flushed the toilet. As for myself, the effect was to engender in me a lasting affinity for the lesser beasts of the animal kingdom. In a word, the affair of the catfish marked the beginning of my career, first as a naturalist, and later as a biologist. I had started on my way to the wolf den.
My infatuation with the study of animate nature grew rapidly into a full-fledged love affair. I found that even the human beings with whom the study brought me into contact could be fascinating too. My first mentor was a middle-aged Scotsman who gained his livelihood delivering ice, but who was in fact an ardent amateur mammalogist. At a tender age he had developed mange, or leprosy, or some other such infantile disease, and had lost all his hair, never to recover it — a tragedy which may have had a bearing on the fact that, when I knew him, he had already devoted fifteen years of his life to a study of the relationship between summer molt and incipient narcissism in pocket gophers. This man had become so intimate with gophers that he could charm them with sibilant whistles until they would emerge from their underground retreats and passively allow him to examine the hair on their backs.
Nor were the professional biologists with whom I later came into contact one whit less interesting. When I was eighteen I spent a summer doing field work in the company of another mammalogist, seventy years of age, who was replete with degrees and whose towering stature in the world of science had been earned largely by an exhaustive study of uterine scars in shrews. This man, a revered professor at a large American university, knew more about the uteri of shrews than any other man has ever known. Furthermore he could talk about his subject with real enthusiasm. Death will find me long before I tire of contemplating an evening spent in his company during which he enthralled a mixed audience consisting of a fur trader, a Cree Indian matron, and an Anglican missionary, with an hour-long monologue on sexual aberrations in female pygmy shrews. (The trader misconstrued the tenor of the discourse; but the missionary, inured by years of humorless dissertations, soon put him right.)
My early years as a naturalist were free and fascinating, but as I entered manhood and found that my avocation must now become my vocation, the walls began to close in. The happy days of the universal scholar who was able to take a keen interest in all phases of natural history were at an end, and I was forced to recognize the unpalatable necessity of specializing, if I was to succeed as a professional biologist Nevertheless, as I began my academic training at the university, I found it difficult to choose the narrow path.
For a time I debated whether or not to follow the lead of a friend of mine who was specializing in scatology — the study of the excretory droppings of animals — and who later became a high-ranking scatologist with the United States Biological Survey. But although I found the subject mildly interesting, it failed to rouse my enthusiasm to the pitch where I could wish to make it my lifework. Besides, the field was overcrowded.
My personal predelictions lay towards studies of living animals in their own habitat. Being a literal fellow, I took the word biology — which means the study of life — at its face value. I was sorely puzzled by the paradox that many of my contemporaries tended to shy as far away from living things as they could get, and chose to restrict themselves instead to the aseptic atmosphere of laboratories where they used dead — often very dead — animal material as their subject matter. In fact, during my time at the university it was becoming unfashionable to have anything to do with animals, even dead ones. The new biologists were concentrating on statistical and analytical research, whereby the raw material of life became no more than fodder for the nourishment of calculating machines.
My inability to adjust to the new trends had an adverse effect upon my professional expectations. While my fellow students were already establishing themselves in various esoteric specialties, most of which they invented for themselves on the theory that if you are the only specialist in a given field you need fear no competition, I was still unable to deflect my interests from the general to the particular. As graduation approached I found that the majority of my contemporaries were assured of excellent research fobs while I seemed to have nothing particular to offer in the biological marketplace. It was, therefore, inevitable that I should end up working for the Government.
The die was cast one winter's day when I received a summons from the Dominion Wildlife Service informing me that I had been hired at the munificent salary of one hundred and twenty dollars a month, and that I "would" report to Ottawa at once.
I obeyed this peremptory order with hardly more than a twitch of subdued rebelliousness, for if I had learned anything during my years at the university it was that the scientific hierarchy requires a high standard of obedience, if not subservience, from its acolytes.
Two days later I arrived in the windswept, graysouled capital of Canada and found my way into the dingy labyrinth which housed the Wildlife Service. Here I presented myself to the Chief Mammalogist, whom I had known as a school chum in more carefree days. But alas, he had now metamorphosed into a full-blown scientist, and was so shrouded in professional dignity that it was all I could do to refrain from making him a profound obeisance.
Through the next several days I was subjected to something called "orientation" — a process which, so far as I could see, was designed to reduce me to a malleable state of hopeless depression. At any rate, the legions of Dantesque bureaucrats whom I visited in their gloomy, Formalin-smelling dens, where they spent interminable hours compiling dreary data or originating meaningless memos, did nothing to rouse in me much devotion to my new employment. The only thing I actually learned during this period was that, by comparison with the bureaucratic hierarchy in Ottawa, the scientific hierarchy was a brotherhood of anarchy.
This was driven home one memorable day when, having at last been certified as fit for inspection, I was paraded into the office of the Deputy Minister, where I so far forgot myself as to address him as "Mister." My escort of the moment, all white-faced and trembling, immediately rushed me out of the Presence and took me by devious ways to the men's washroom. Having first knelt down and peered under the doors of all the cubicles to make absolutely certain we were alone and could not be overheard, he explained in an agonized whisper that I must never, on pain of banishment, address the Deputy as anything but "Chief," or, barring that, by his Boer War title of "Colonel."
Military titles were de rigeur. All memos were signed Captain-this or Lieutenant-that if they originated from the lower echelons; or Colonel-this and Brigadier-that if they came down from on high. Those members of the staff who had not had the opportunity to acquire even quasi-military status were reduced to the expedient of inventing suitable ranks — field ranks if they were senior men, and subaltern ranks for the juniors. Not everyone took this matter with due solemnity, and I met one new employee in the fishery section who distinguished himself briefly by sending a memo up to the Chief signed "J. Smith, Acting Lance-Corporal." A week later this foolhardy youth was on his way to the northernmost tip of Ellesmere Island, there to spend his exile living in an igloo while studying the life history of the nine-spined stickleback.
Levity was not looked upon with favor anywhere in those austere offices, as I discovered for myself while attending a conference concerning my first assignment.
A tentative list of the material requirements for this assignment lay on the conference table, surrounded by many grave countenances. It was a formidable document, made out in quintuplicate — as was the official rule — and imposingly headed:
Desiderata for the Lupine Project
Having already been unnerved by the gravity of the gathering, I lost my head completely when the assembly began to consider the twelfth item listed in this horrendous document:
Paper, toilet, Government standard: 12 rolls.
An austere suggestion by the representative of the Finance Department that, in the interest of economy, the quantity of this item might be reduced, providing the field party (which was me) exercised all due restraint, sent me into an hysterical spasm of giggling. I mastered myself almost instantly, but it was too late. The two most senior men, both "majors," rose to their feet, bowed coldly, and left the room without a word.
The Ottawa ordeal drew toward its end; but the climax was still to come. One early spring morning I was called to the office of the senior officer who was my direct chief, for a final interview before departing "into the field."
My chief sat behind a massive desk whose dusty surface was littered with yellowing groundhog skulls (he had been studying rates of tooth decay in groundhogs ever since he joined the Department in 1897). At his back hung the frowning, bearded portrait of an extinct mammalogist who glared balefully down upon me. The smell of Formalin swirled about like the fetid breath of an undertaker's back parlor.
After a long silence, during which he toyed portentously with some of his skulls, my chief began his briefing. There was a solemnity about the occasion which would have done justice to the briefing of a special agent about to be entrusted with the assassination of a Head of State.
"As you are aware, Lieutenant Mowat," my chief began, "the Canis lupus problem has become one of national importance. Within this past year alone this Department has received no less than thirty-seven memoranda from Members of the House of Commons, all expressing the deep concern of their constituents that we ought to do something about the wolf. Most of the complaints have come from such civic-minded and disinterested groups as various Fish and Game clubs, while members of the business community — in particular the manufacturers of some well-known brands of ammunition — have lent their weight to the support of these legitimate grievances of the voting public of this Great Dominion, because their grievance is the complaint that the wolves are killing all the deer, and more and more of our fellow citizens are coming back from more and more hunts with less and less deer.
"As you may possibly have heard, my predecessor supplied the Minister with an explanation of this situation in which it was his contention that there were fewer deer because the hunters had increased to the point where they outnumbered the deer about five to one. The Minister, in all good faith, read this fallacious statement in the House of Commons, and he was promptly shouted down by Members howling 'Liar!' and 'Wolf-lover!'
"Three days later my predecessor retired to civilian life, and the Minister issued a press statement: 'The Department of Mines and Resources is determined to do everything in its power to curb the carnage being wreaked upon the deer population by hordes of wolves. A full-scale investigation of this vital problem, employing the full resources of the Department, is to be launched at once. The people of this country can rest assured that the Government of which I have the honor to be a member will leave no stone unturned to put an end to this intolerable situation.'"
At this juncture my chief seized a particularly robust groundhog skull and began rhythmically clacking its jaws together as if to emphasize his final words:
"You, Lieutenant Mowat, have been chosen for this great task! It only remains for you to go out into the field at once and tackle this work in a manner worthy of the great traditions of this Department. The wolf, Lieutenant Mowat, is now your problem!"
Somehow I staggered to my feet, and with an involuntary motion brought my right hand up in a smart salute before fleeing from the room.
I fled from Ottawa too ... that self-same night, aboard a Canadian Air Force transport plane. My immediate destination was Churchill, on the western shore of Hudson Bay; but beyond that, somewhere in the desolate wastes of the subarctic Barren Lands, lay my ultimate objective — the wolf himself.
Excerpted from Never Cry Wolf by Farley Mowat. Copyright © 1973 Farley Mowat. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
1 The Lupine Project,
2 Wolf Juice,
3 Happy Landings,
4 When Is a Wolf Not a Wolf?,
6 The Den,
7 The Watcher Watched,
8 Staking the Land,
9 Good Old Uncle Albert,
10 Of Mice and Wolves,
11 Souris à la Crême,
12 Spirit of the Wolf,
13 Wolf Talk,
14 Puppy Time,
15 Uncle Albert Falls in Love,
16 Morning Meat Delivery,
17 Visitors from Hidden Valley,
18 Family Life,
19 Naked to the Wolves,
20 The Worm i' the Bud,
21 School Days,
23 To Kill a Wolf,
24 The World We Lost,
A Biography of Farley Mowat,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
The finest book I have read on wolves and their behaviors. Ranchers in our US West should read the book before they start screaming wolfs are killing all my cattle.
I read this book when I was camping and wished I had a pack of wolves to observe. A touching and fascinating book. A must read.
Farley Mowat set out to discover how wolves in colder climates survive the winter, especially since their primary food source has migrated away. He set up camp near a family of wolves and began observing, and also began to adopt wolf-like traits.While criticism of this book indicates that by all reasoning Mowat's other activities while investigating the subject matter of this book would lead some to believe that he spent more time studying things (or persons) other than wolves, and pulled much of the content of this book from assorted metaphorical orifices.Whether or not this is true, the book is still very interesting. Mowat discovers the secret: the wolves eat mice. And to determine if it is truly possible for a creature with a wolf's mass to, in fact, survive solely on mice alone, he too performs musophagia, and shares a recipe he devised while doing so.The book is an interesting look at wolves, whether factual or not, and is recommended for fans of Jack London, or with a general interest in wolves, or even fans of Mowat's other books.
Intending to write a satire on bureaucracy and those that perpetuate it this charming little book instead turned into a charming account of the author's time spent studying Arctic wolves in their natural habitat. It was the firm belief of the time that wolves were responsible for systematically decimating the herds of caribou recently qualified naturalist, Farley Mowat, is sent on a mission to discover the exact relationship between the wolves and caribou for no documentary evidence of this well known fact actually exists.Departing from Ottawa he heads out to Churchill and after a brief stay there proceeds into the Barren Lands and is quickly fortunate in meeting Mike, a local trapper, and establishes a base camp at his nearby cabin. Unfortunately, Mike is rapidly scared off by a demonstration of the scientific experiments that he intends to carry out and so he is left alone to pursue his studies once again.Upon making contact with a family of wolves, the author is repeatedly disabused of the established facts as he discovers not the blood-thirsty killing machine he expects but a playful group that are skilled providers that are extremely caring and protective of their young. Contrary to belief it seems the wolves feed mainly on rodents with only the occasional deer taken from the sick or young of the herds. As part of his experiments he undertakes to prove a large mammal could survive on such a diet and provides a recipe for the reader if they feel inclined to do the same.Told in a similar style to that of Bill Bryson's travel books this is both a poignant and humorous tale and recommended to anyone who wants to discover just a little bit more than the common knowledge.
Many of the chapters describing the author's adventures studying the wolf are hilarious.
A great simple read of one of Canada's most loved authors. Never Cry Wolf is a fun and educational story which resounds well with anyone who has experienced the north first hand. After 15 years this book still reads great and I would recommend to most people.
self-deprecating author writes of his observations of the wolf. Humerous,
Mowat lived among the wolves. He slept and ate as they did (waking every few hours to walk in a circle, and settle down again; yummy mice).
I read this book in one day in a Cordova Alaska Hotel room. It was pouring rain outside and we were exhausted from a couple of high adventure travel days. I devoured this book in the comfort of that warm hotel room. Later while at Denali we were able to observe a pack of wolves moving through a river drainage. It made reading the book and observing the wolves all the more incredible to have these insights about them from Farley Mowat. I think I understand the idea of the wolf pack much more now.
Farley Mowat heads off into the Canadian wilderness in search of wolves. He knows everything people have learned about wolves and everything he knows is wrong.I wasn't expecting this to be such a clever and funny book. Highly recommended.
Farley Mowat worked for Canada's equivelant of the Dept. of the Interior. He was asked to go into the wilderness to prove that wolves consumed vast quantities of game animals so that they could justify killing the wolves. Instead, Mowat got the wolves to trust him enough that he could follow them and understand their secrets. In fact, he found, wolves eat vast quantities of voles/mice/lemmings, not the carabou etc. that everybody 'knew' they ate. Facinating reading and beautifully written.
This book is about a scientist and his adventure to the barren lands of Canada. His name is Farley Mowat and he was sent to Canada to gather as much information that he can about how wolves live and interact with other species. This is a year long expedition and it all starts off when he arrives in the small town of Churchill, Canada. When he arrives at his camp, he is surprisingly met by an eskymo. For the rest of his journey he moves back and forth between the eskimo's cabin and a makeshift camp of his own. It doesn’t take him long to find a pack of wolves and from then on he spends his days studying and acting like them. He studies their den, eating and sleeping habits, how they communicate with one another, their land boundaries, how they interact with other wolves, learning habits, and even their scat. As the time goes on, Farley starts to create names and feelings for the wolves. He realizes they are a lot like humans in many ways and even share some of the same characteristics. Another thing that Farley learns about is the role that the wolves play in the environment. In a way they help the Caribou thrive and if it wasn’t for them, the Caribou would die off. I thought the story was exciting because you didn’t know what was going to happen next. It’s a nonfiction book. You can definitely imagine everything that happens and it almost seems like its happening right before you. If I ever met Farley I’d have tons of questions to ask him. The science content is very accurate in the book. It specifically states what’s going on. There were countless times where I found myself thinking that this guy should write down all his findings but he must have for there is this book. The main characters in this book were Farley, two eskimo’s named Mike and Ootek, and the family of wolves. Mike wasn’t a fan of Farley but Ootek enjoyed studying the wolves. I really enjoyed this book and didn’t want to put it down at times. I really enjoyed the parts when Farley and the wolves interacted with each other. I would recommend this book to an age group from mid-teens on. It’s for both men and women. The book is for people who enjoy the outdoors, nature, and animals. If you don’t like science, thats not a problem because you don’t even realize you’re learning it’s so captivating. I would give the book 4.7 stars out of 5.
Naturalist Farley Mowat is a satirical genius.
Mowat spends a year living among the canadian wolves. He hardley goes inside and studies their way of life. You really feel like you are out there and live with the wolves. You can feel the cold and smell the air. You can almost taste those mice he cookes at one point! ^^ This is a wonderful book that takes reaserach to a ENTIRELY new level of spectacular and beauty. "George" and "Angalinea" with "Ungle Albert" take care of her 4 pups. You see how the entire pack chips in and helps the pups to survive. He never gets a good obversation of a REAL wolf hunt but, he throws in a tasty mice recipe which he calls "Creamed mouse"! I have never tried it but, he sure did like it! This is a book for any body who is in to nature. You don't have to love wolves. Just nature and books, really! Mowat beautifully describes the wonderful world wof wolves. Why do they hunt so much caribou, deer, and elk? Why is everyone hunting wolves? Why was he sent to kill the wolves but never did? Why was he forced to eat mice? Unlock all this and more when you take your first step out into the Canadian wilderness and never look back at home. You will never want to put this book down! (I know I didn't! I read it when the lights were off in the class room cuz we were watching a movie! ^^)
As someone who enjoys a touching story of survival and commitment, Never Cry Wolf by Farley Mowat, was a prefect book for me. I truly enjoyed the refreshing humor that Mowat brings to his story. This book opens your eyes and your heart to the other relationships you can have with another species. In the beginning, Farley opens up about his life and the reasons behind his profession. He uses his humor as a way to suck you right into the story. Throughout the book, as he gains the relationships with his wolf counterparts, you really become attached to the story and Farley. You start to understand his intentions, and you start to really create your own relationships with the wolves he comes upon. You go on a emotional rollercoaster with Farley as he leads you throughout his life. It truly is a story for the animal lovers of the world. Also this book is for anyone who enjoys connecting to real people and who like relating to other peoples lives. One thing I would say though is that if you do not enjoy animals, or cannot relate with the wilderness, this book is probably not for you. It will probably be hard for you to really get into the book and get the terrific message the Mowat is trying to get across to you. You will probably also not appreciate the insightful information he gives to you about wolves throughout the story. I would give this book an overall rating of a 7. If you did enjoy this story, I would also recommend anything else by Farley Mowat, or The Call of the Wild written by Jack London.
If you enjoy books about natural history, you will be delighted with this author. Farley Mowat is a naturalist who, at the behest of the Canadian government, traveled into the wilds of Canada to document and gather information about the "vicious" nature of wolves. Instead, over the course of several months, he discovered to his surprise that wolves have a highly evolved family life including a form of language, kill only in order to eat, and avoid humans. He writes of his experiences with humor and insight and shares what he learned about himself as well as the wolves he studied. This book is a pleasant and entertaining read. I could hardly put it down.
This book was good, dont bother reading bad reviews on books, especially if you see alot of good reviews. There always has to be a critic, and thats how this world is. I read this book not interested in it at all, I got it to read for school, and ended up loving it. It's a very interesting and nondull book. If you dont like wolves do like them, you should read it, wolves aren't dangerous. We make them out to be...
It was a very interesting book whether you like wolves or not, but if you dont like them, you'll see your opinion change as you read this book. One person commented that the facts are wrong, which is incorrect. If you reaserch them on the internet, you'll find that they have been proven correct.
This book is amazing, it¿s not only just a book, but a mind changing true story that can take your imagination places and change your views. I highly recommend reading this spectacular book and I also recommend the movie, the scenery is beautiful. If you love adventure and detail that can pull you into reality, Never Cry Wolf is something you should read.