"The Wolf Woke Up":
I’m driving down a bumpy dirt road in the Montana backcountry, my old pickup rattling with every rut. The wolf in the back is sedated, or so I thought. My hands grip the wheel, my eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. It’s just me, my two dogs curled up in the passenger seat, and the wolf I’d spent hours tracking and trapping. My job as a wildlife biologist is to study these animals, to learn their ways, but right now, I’m alone with one, and the world feels very small.
The day started like any other. I’d been out since dawn, checking traps along the North Fork of the Flathead River. My boots crunched through the frost, my breath puffing in the cold air. I’d found the wolf in one of my traps, a big male, his gray fur matted with dirt. He was out cold from the tranquilizer dart, his chest rising and falling slowly. I’d radio-collared him, checked his vitals, and loaded him into the truck bed, covered with a tarp to keep him calm. My dogs, Rusty and June, watched from the cab, their ears perked but quiet. They’re used to this routine.
“Another one for the books,” I said to them, patting Rusty’s head as I climbed into the driver’s seat. The plan was simple: drive to the release point, let the wolf sleep it off, and watch him disappear into the wild. I’ve done this dozens of times. Wolves are smart, but a good dose of sedative keeps them down for hours. Or so I thought.
The road twists through dense pines, the kind that block out the sky. My truck’s engine grumbles, and the dogs shift in their sleep. I’m thinking about the data I’ll log tonight—weight, age, collar frequency—when I hear it. A low, guttural sound, like a growl but deeper, coming from the back. My hands tighten on the wheel. I glance in the mirror, but the tarp blocks my view. Probably just the wind, I tell myself. Or the dogs snoring. But June’s ears twitch, and Rusty lifts his head, staring at the back window.
“Hey, easy now,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. The sound comes again, louder, a rumble that vibrates through the truck. My pulse quickens. I’ve heard wolves before—howls, yips, even snarls—but this is different. This is close. Too close.
I pull over, the tires crunching on gravel. The dogs are alert now, their eyes locked on the back. I twist in my seat, peering through the rear window. The tarp moves. Not a flutter, like from a breeze, but a slow, deliberate shift, like something big is stirring underneath. My mouth goes dry. The wolf should be out for at least another hour. I checked the dose myself. There’s no way.
I grab my flashlight and step out, leaving the dogs in the cab. “Stay,” I tell them, my voice firm but shaking. The air is sharp, biting at my face as I walk to the back of the truck. The tarp is still, but I can feel it—something watching me. I lift the edge of the tarp, my flashlight beam cutting through the dusk. Two yellow eyes stare back, wide and awake. The wolf’s lips curl, showing teeth, and a low growl rolls out.
I stumble back, the flashlight slipping in my sweaty hand. “Easy, big guy,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. My mind races. The sedative must’ve been too weak, or maybe he’s just stronger than most. I’ve got no dart gun, no backup, just me and a wolf that’s waking up faster than I can think. The truck bed creaks as he shifts, his massive head rising, those eyes never leaving mine.
“Stay down,” I say, louder now, trying to sound in control. But my legs feel like jelly, and my heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. Wolves don’t usually attack people, but a cornered one, groggy and confused, might not care. I back toward the driver’s door, keeping my eyes on him. The dogs are barking now, frantic, their paws scratching at the window.
The wolf lurches forward, his front legs scrambling against the truck bed. The tarp slides off, revealing his full size—bigger than I realized, maybe 120 pounds, all muscle and fur. He’s not fully awake, his movements sluggish, but he’s awake enough to be dangerous. I reach for the door handle, my fingers fumbling. If I can get inside, I’ll be safe. But the wolf’s growl deepens, and he snaps his jaws, the sound like a whip crack in the quiet.
“Hey!” I shout, waving my flashlight, hoping to startle him. It doesn’t. He’s climbing out now, his claws scraping metal. I’m out of time. I yank the door open and dive into the cab, slamming it shut just as the wolf’s head bumps against the tailgate. The dogs are going wild, barking and lunging at the window. I lock the doors, my hands shaking so bad I can barely turn the key in the ignition.
The truck roars to life, and I hit the gas, the tires spinning before they catch. In the mirror, I see the wolf stumble out of the bed, landing on the road. He shakes his head, still groggy, and takes a few steps toward the trees. I don’t stop driving until I’m miles away, my breath coming in short gasps, the dogs pressed against me.
When I finally pull over again, I sit there, staring at the dashboard. Rusty whines, nudging my arm. “We’re okay,” I tell him, but my voice cracks. I’ve faced grizzlies, mountain lions, even angry trappers, but nothing ever felt like this. Those yellow eyes, so close, so alive—they’re burned into my mind. I know I’ll see them every time I close my eyes tonight.
Back at the cabin, I radio my colleague, Tom, to report what happened. “The wolf woke up,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “In the truck.”
Tom’s quiet for a moment. “You’re kidding. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “He’s out there now, probably fine.”
“Next time, double the dose,” Tom says, half-joking. “Or get a bigger truck.”
I laugh, but it’s weak. I spend the night checking the locks, listening for howls. The wolf is gone, back to the wild where he belongs. But the fear lingers, a reminder of how close I came to something I couldn’t control. In this job, you learn to respect the wild. Today, it taught me to fear it, too.
"Bitten by Wonder":
I’m a wildlife biologist, and my work takes me to some of the wildest places on Earth. In April 2012, I was deep in the rainforests of Malaysian Borneo, part of a team tasked with documenting the region’s incredible biodiversity. Our mission was to catalog species, focusing on the elusive Kayan slow loris, a small primate with big, soulful eyes and a reputation for being one of the few venomous mammals in the world. I’d read about their toxic bite, a mix of saliva and oil from a gland on their arm, but nothing prepares you for facing it in person.
We’d been trekking for hours, our boots sinking into the damp earth, surrounded by the hum of insects and the distant calls of gibbons. My colleague, Lisa, was ahead, scribbling notes about a rare orchid we’d spotted. “Keep your eyes peeled for the loris,” she called back, her voice muffled by the thick canopy. I nodded, scanning the trees, my flashlight cutting through the dim light. That’s when I saw it—a small, furry shape clinging to a mango tree, its eyes glowing like twin moons.
“Is that it?” I whispered to Tom, our guide, who was setting up a camera trap nearby.
“Looks like a loris,” he replied, squinting. “Careful, mate. Those things aren’t as cuddly as they look.”
I should’ve listened. But the loris was mesmerizing, its slow movements almost hypnotic. I edged closer, wanting to confirm its species. My heart raced with excitement—this could be a key find for our survey. I reached out, not to grab it, but to get a better view of its markings. That’s when it happened. The loris turned, quick as a flash, and sank its teeth into my finger.
The pain was sharp, like a needle jabbed deep. I yanked my hand back, cursing under my breath. “It bit me!” I shouted, more surprised than alarmed. Lisa spun around, her eyes wide. “Are you okay?” she asked, rushing over.
“It’s just a nip,” I said, inspecting the small puncture. Blood welled up, but it didn’t seem serious. “I’ll be fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. Within minutes, a strange sensation crept over me. My lips felt thick, like they were swelling shut. My chest tightened, each breath a struggle. A dull ache spread through my stomach, and nausea hit me like a wave. I stumbled, grabbing a tree for support. “Something’s wrong,” I gasped, my voice sounding distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Lisa’s face paled. “It’s the venom. We need to move, now!”
Tom was already on the radio, calling for help. “We’ve got a situation. Possible anaphylactic reaction. We need a medic at the base camp!”
The world started to blur. My legs felt like jelly, and a cold sweat soaked my shirt. I’d studied the slow loris’s venom, knew it could cause severe allergic reactions, but I never thought it’d happen to me. The rainforest, once a place of wonder, now felt like a trap closing in. Every rustle in the leaves made me flinch, as if another loris might leap out.
“We’ve got to keep you calm,” Lisa said, her voice steady but urgent. She grabbed my arm, pulling me along the trail. “Focus on breathing. In and out.”
I tried, but each inhale was a battle. My throat felt like it was closing, and a wave of panic surged through me. What if we didn’t make it to the clinic? What if this was it, alone in the jungle, taken down by a creature the size of a kitten?
Tom led the way, hacking through vines with his machete. “The clinic’s not far,” he said, glancing back. “They’ve got adrenaline. You’ll be okay.” His words were meant to reassure, but the edge in his voice betrayed his worry.
Time stretched, each second an eternity. My vision swam, the trees blending into a green haze. I kept picturing the loris’s eyes, those innocent, deceptive eyes, and wondered how something so small could do this. My work had always been about understanding animals, protecting them, but now I was the prey, caught off guard by nature’s hidden dangers.
When we reached the clinic, I was barely conscious. The staff moved fast, their voices a jumble as they injected adrenaline into my arm. Slowly, the swelling eased, and my breathing steadied. I lay on a cot, staring at the ceiling, my finger still throbbing where the loris had bitten me.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor said, checking my vitals. “That could’ve gone much worse. Slow loris bites are rare, but they can be deadly.”
“How rare?” I croaked, my throat raw.
“Rare enough that you’re my first case,” he said with a grim smile. “You’ll have a story to tell.”
I didn’t feel like a storyteller then. I felt like a fool. I’d let my curiosity override my training, and it nearly cost me my life. As a wildlife biologist, I’d spent years preaching respect for animals, but I hadn’t practiced it myself. The slow loris wasn’t malicious—it was just defending itself. I was the one who’d crossed the line.
Back at camp, Lisa sat beside me, handing me a bottle of water. “You scared the hell out of us,” she said. “What were you thinking, getting that close?”
“I wasn’t,” I admitted. “I just… wanted to see it up close.”
She shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re still here to feel stupid about it.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The jungle sounds, once comforting, now felt menacing. Every snap of a twig made me tense, imagining another loris lurking in the shadows. I kept replaying the moment of the bite, the sudden shift from awe to terror. It was a reminder that nature doesn’t care about your credentials or your passion—it demands respect, or it bites back.
In the years since, I’ve continued my work, but I’m more cautious now. I tell this story to my students, not to scare them, but to teach them what I learned the hard way: even the smallest creatures can be dangerous, and our job is to observe, not interfere. The slow loris, with its deceptively cute appearance, is a perfect example of nature’s complexity—beautiful, mysterious, and unforgiving.
"Surviving Death":
I was in Africa, on an expedition for the Field Museum in Chicago, collecting specimens for their collections. It was 1896, my first big trip to the continent, and I was both excited and cautious. I had heard stories about the dangers of the wild, but I was determined to do my job and bring back the best specimens I could. My work as a wildlife biologist and taxidermist meant tracking animals, studying their habits, and preserving them for science. Somaliland, with its vast plains and hidden dangers, was a new world for me, and I was eager to prove myself.
That afternoon, I was out with my assistant, a local man named Juma, searching for ostriches. We had been walking for hours, the sun low in the sky, when I spotted something moving in the tall grass. I thought it was a warthog or maybe a hyena, scavenging for food. “Juma, look over there,” I said, pointing to the rustling grass. “Could be a good specimen.”
Juma squinted, his hand shielding his eyes. “Maybe a hyena, sir. Be careful.”
I raised my rifle, took aim, and fired. The shot echoed across the plain, but instead of a yelp, I heard a low, guttural snarl. My heart raced as I realized my mistake. That was no hyena—it was a leopard. I had just wounded one of the most dangerous animals in Africa.
“Juma, get back!” I shouted, fumbling to reload my rifle. But before I could get another shot off, the leopard burst from the grass, its eyes locked on me. It moved so fast, a blur of spotted fur and raw power. I raised my rifle, but it was too late. The leopard was on me in an instant, its jaws clamping down on my left arm.
The pain was blinding, like fire spreading through my body. I dropped my rifle and stumbled backward, the leopard’s weight pinning me to the ground. Its claws raked across my chest, tearing through my shirt. I could hear Juma yelling in the distance, “Sir! Sir!” but his voice faded as I focused on the beast in front of me. Its hot breath hit my face, and its teeth were inches from my throat. I knew if I didn’t act, I was done for.
Instinct took over. With my right arm, I pushed against the leopard’s head, trying to keep its jaws away from my neck. Its teeth sank deeper into my left arm, and I could feel the blood soaking my sleeve. Then, in a moment of desperation, I did something I never thought possible. I shoved my right hand into the leopard’s mouth, pushing my fist as far as I could down its throat.
The leopard gagged, its eyes widening in shock. It tried to bite down harder, but I kept pushing, my arm sliding deeper into its mouth. “Come on, you beast,” I muttered through gritted teeth, using every ounce of strength I had. The leopard’s claws dug into my sides, but I didn’t stop. I could feel its throat tightening around my arm, and I knew I had to keep going or it would tear me apart.
Time seemed to slow. My arm was buried deep in the leopard’s throat, and its struggles grew weaker. Finally, its body went limp, collapsing on top of me. I lay there, gasping for air, my arm still lodged in its mouth. I was alive, but barely.
Juma ran over, his face pale. “Sir, are you okay? You’re bleeding!”
“Help me get this thing off,” I said, my voice hoarse. Together, we pulled my arm free, the leopard’s teeth leaving deep puncture wounds. Blood dripped onto the ground, mixing with the dirt. My chest stung from the claw marks, but I could move. I was lucky—the leopard hadn’t hit any major arteries.
We dragged the leopard’s body back to camp, its lifeless form a heavy reminder of what had just happened. That night, I cleaned my wounds with water and bandaged them with strips of cloth. Juma sat nearby, shaking his head. “You’re a madman, sir,” he said. “No one fights a leopard like that and lives.”
“Maybe I’m just stubborn,” I replied, managing a weak smile.
As I lay in my tent, the pain kept me awake, but so did my thoughts. I had come face to face with death and walked away. It was a humbling experience, one that made me respect the power of the animals I studied even more. Leopards weren’t evil—they were survivors, just like me. But I also knew my work mattered. By preserving these animals, I could show the world their beauty and strength, maybe even help protect them.
Years later, that day still haunts me. The memory of those jaws, those eyes, never fades. But I feel a strange pride, too. I faced one of nature’s fiercest predators and came out alive. It’s a story I’ve told many times, but each time, it reminds me of the thin line between life and death in the wild. My work continued—more expeditions, more specimens, more lessons about the world we share with these creatures. And every time I step into the field, I carry that leopard’s lesson with me: respect the wild, or it will claim you.
"The Trumpet in the Trees":
I’ve spent my life chasing the wild—trekking through jungles, savannas, and forests to study creatures most people only see on screens. As a wildlife biologist, I’ve learned to respect the animals I study, to read their behaviors, to move carefully in their world. But on that New Year’s Eve in Gabon’s Loango National Park, all my experience couldn’t prepare me for the terror that unfolded.
It was late afternoon, and the forest was alive with the hum of life. I was leading a small group of researchers, five in total, through the dense rainforest to observe forest elephants. Loango is a place of wonder, where the jungle spills onto white sand beaches and elephants sometimes wander along the shore. We were there to document their social behaviors, to understand how these intelligent giants interact with their environment. The air was thick with humidity, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The canopy above filtered the sunlight into a golden haze, and the chatter of birds and insects surrounded us.
As we followed a narrow path, I noticed a change. The forest’s usual symphony began to fade, replaced by a stillness that made the hairs on my neck stand up. I’ve spent enough time in the wild to know when something’s off. I stopped, raising a hand to halt the group.
“Stay close,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
The researchers—three men and two women, all experienced but new to this park—nodded, their eyes scanning the trees. Amina, a young ecologist with a sharp mind, whispered, “What is it, Mike? Did you hear something?”
“Not hear,” I replied, my gaze fixed on the path ahead. “It’s what I’m not hearing. The birds have gone quiet.”
We moved forward cautiously, our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of leaves on the ground. Then I saw her—a massive female elephant, her gray bulk almost blending into the shadows. She stood about 50 yards away, her ears spread wide, her trunk raised. Behind her, a small calf huddled close, its tiny frame barely visible. A mother and her baby. My stomach tightened. In all my years, I’ve learned one thing: a mother elephant is unpredictable when her calf is near.
“Back up slowly,” I whispered, my heart starting to race. “No sudden moves.”
The group began to retreat, but it was too late. The elephant’s eyes locked onto us, and she let out a trumpet that shook the air—a sound so loud and primal it felt like it rattled my bones. Before I could react, she charged, her massive feet pounding the earth, sending tremors through the ground.
“Run!” I shouted, but I knew it was hopeless. Elephants can hit speeds of 25 miles an hour, and in this dense forest, we had no chance of outrunning her. The group scattered, their shouts of panic mixing with the thunder of her approach.
I turned to flee, but my boot caught on a gnarled root, and I went down hard. Pain shot through my ankle, but there was no time to think. I scrambled backward, my hands clawing at the dirt, as the elephant closed the distance. Her trunk was raised, her tusks gleaming in the fading light. I could see every detail—the deep wrinkles in her skin, the dust clouding around her feet, the fierce determination in her eyes.
She was on me in seconds. Her trunk wrapped around my right arm, the strength of it crushing, lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing. I screamed, a raw, desperate sound, as her tusk grazed my side, slicing through my shirt and into my flesh. The pain was searing, but worse was the helplessness—the knowledge that this three-ton creature could end me in an instant.
She swung me like a toy, then hurled me to the side. I hit the ground with a thud, the air driven from my lungs. For a moment, everything went dark. When my vision cleared, I was on my back, staring up at the canopy, my arm throbbing, my side burning. Blood soaked through my sleeve, warm and sticky.
The elephant was still there, pacing, her trunk swinging wildly as she trumpeted again. I could hear the others in the distance, their voices faint and frantic. “Mike! Mike, are you okay?” someone shouted, but I couldn’t tell who.
I tried to move, but my body protested, every muscle screaming. The elephant’s attention shifted toward the others, and I knew we weren’t out of danger yet. I forced myself to sit up, ignoring the dizziness threatening to pull me back down.
“Amina!” I called, my voice hoarse. “The flare! Use the flare!”
Amina, bless her, didn’t hesitate. She fumbled in her pack, pulled out a distress flare, and lit it. The bright red light flared to life, cutting through the dim forest like a beacon. She waved it high, shouting, “Hey! Over here!” Her voice was steady, but I could hear the fear beneath it.
The elephant paused, her massive head turning toward the light. Her ears twitched, and for a moment, she seemed unsure, caught off guard by the sudden burst of color and noise. That hesitation was our lifeline.
“Move!” I yelled, struggling to my feet. “Get to the trees!”
The group bolted for the denser forest, their footsteps crunching through the underbrush. I limped after them, my injured arm hanging uselessly at my side. Every step sent a jolt of pain through me, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The elephant was still too close, her trumpets echoing behind us.
We reached a cluster of thick trees and ducked behind them, panting, hearts racing. Amina grabbed my shoulder, her eyes wide. “Mike, your arm—it’s bad. You’re bleeding everywhere.”
“I’ll live,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “Is everyone here?”
We did a quick headcount. All five researchers were accounted for, shaken but unharmed except for a few scrapes. I leaned against a tree, trying to catch my breath, my mind racing. The forest was quiet again, but it wasn’t the peaceful quiet of before. It was the quiet of a predator that hadn’t yet decided to give up.
“We need to get back to camp,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But we move slow, stay together. No more surprises.”
The trek back was agonizing. Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig, made us jump. The forest felt alive with eyes, watching, waiting. My arm throbbed with every step, and the blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage Amina had tied around it. But we made it, stumbling into camp as the last light faded from the sky.
In the medical tent, we cleaned my wounds. The tusk had punctured my arm clean through, and the gashes on my side were deep but not life-threatening. I was lucky—far luckier than I had any right to be. The others hovered around, their faces pale, their voices subdued.
“That was too close,” said Tom, one of the researchers, his hands still shaking. “I thought we were done for.”
“We were careless,” I said, wincing as Amina applied antiseptic. “We got too close to her calf. She was just protecting her family.”
“Protecting or not, she almost killed you,” Amina said, her voice sharp with worry. “We need to be more careful.”
She was right. I’d spent years preaching respect for wildlife, but this was a brutal reminder of what that really meant. We weren’t the ones in control out here. We were guests, and we’d overstayed our welcome.
That night, as I lay in my tent, the pain kept me awake. But it wasn’t just the pain. It was the memory of those eyes, that trumpet, the sheer power of an animal defending what was hers. I’d always seen elephants as majestic, intelligent creatures, but now I saw something else: their capacity for raw, unstoppable force.
In the days that followed, we packed up and left the park. My wounds healed, leaving scars that still ache sometimes. But the real scar is in my mind. I’ve gone back to the wild since then, continued my work, but I’m different now. More cautious, more humble. The wild isn’t ours to conquer—it’s ours to respect, to learn from, to survive.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear that trumpet, feel the ground shake beneath me. It’s a sound that reminds me how small we are, how fragile, in the face of nature’s wrath.