Dogsled Stories – Part 1
Wolf Kill on Kennisis Lake
Haliburton Forest & Wildlife Reserve, Central Ontario – January 2010
By: Ryan Brooks
I get asked a lot: Why do you like wolves so much?
The answer is simple—because they know how to work together.
Into the Highlands
In the winter of 2009–2010, I worked for Haliburton Forest & Wildlife Reserve in the highlands of Central Ontario. I had guided horse trekking adventures out west in Alberta before, but that winter marked my first season running dog teams. And what a place to learn—100,000 acres of privately owned and sustainably managed forest, laced with over a hundred lakes and a vast network of trails.
My primary responsibility was to guide clients on half- and full-day dogsledding excursions through this snow-covered wilderness. We followed frozen waterways once paddled by canoeists in warmer seasons, crossing portages and lakes now sealed in ice. In summer and fall, paddlers traveled these routes; in winter and early spring, it was our turn—mushers and sled dogs.
The forest teemed with wildlife. Beavers, river otters, martens, hares, porcupines, skunks, and fishers filled the underbrush. Deer and moose moved between calving grounds and winter yards. Predators like black bears, bobcats, foxes, and coyotes prowled the woods, but it was the wolves that always captured my imagination. Owls to Pileated Wood Peckers and Grey Jays, watched the drama unfold from the trees above, while Ravens and crows soared high over the frozen canopy.
As winter set in, temperatures plunged below zero by October, and by late November, the lakes were locked in ice. Once we had at least four inches of ice, we could begin crossing with our dog teams—usually by early December. By Christmas, most of the trail system, including frozen lakes and portages, was open for travel.
Before we hit the backcountry, we trained the dogs using ATVs. This “dry-land” training helped condition them physically while allowing us to manage the line and brake if needed. Double driving was common—rookie mushers like myself learning alongside experienced guides. We practiced everything: emergency protocols, gang line control, client safety, and navigation skills. Dogmanship, trail etiquette, wilderness survival, and bushcraft became part of our daily education as we prepared for the months ahead.
By February, I was leading trips with more responsibility. I had earned trust, and with it came greater opportunities to explore the reserve. One sunny morning in early February, I prepped for a full-day excursion with four clients. We would run three teams—my lead team of eight dogs carried survival gear and lunch; the other two teams had six dogs each and carried the clients.
Conditions were perfect. The air was crisp and dry, skies clear, and the snowpack ideal for travel. We set out across the trail network, eventually arriving at Kennisis Lake by mid-morning. As we began our crossing, something shifted.
The dogs surged forward, faster than usual. Up ahead, a large red smear broke the pristine whiteness of the ice.
As we neared, it became obvious: a wolf kill. Blood splashed across the snow-covered lake like a horror scene on canvas. The dogs lunged toward the scent, eager and unruly. I motioned to the teams behind me to “hike up”—keep moving, stay tight, avoid the distraction. Fortunately, we got through without incident.
As we passed the kill site, I saw very little left behind—just a scattering of deer hair and blood-stained snow. The carcass had likely been dragged into the forest to protect it from scavengers. Ravens and crows circled above, watching from the trees.
We continued on. The rest of the day passed quietly, and by late afternoon we returned to the kennel. After debriefing with clients and bedding down the dogs, I reported the kill site to the resident wildlife biologist—my cabin-mate and mentor.
The next morning, we returned to the site by snowmobile. The cold had preserved the scene well. Blood still marked the ice; the air was still, the forest silent. Only the crows remained.
We observed the area with binoculars for about 40 minutes to ensure it was safe—no wolves returned. Then, we began to read the story written in the snow.
Four wolves.
Two tracked along the high timber ridge above the lake, pushing a lone deer downslope. The other two shadowed the shoreline. The deer, panicked, fled onto the open ice—mistaking the frozen lake for safety.
But it was a trap.
As soon as the deer broke cover, the wolves closed in. The kill was clean, coordinated. The carcass, mostly devoured or hidden, left only a memory on the white ice.
What struck me was the intelligence of it all. This wasn’t random. It was tactical, collaborative, and efficient. It was a masterclass in survival.
That winter, I learned more than I ever could have imagined—about guiding, about wilderness travel, about myself. But that day on Kennisis Lake stuck with me most.
People still ask, Why do you like wolves?
Because they are teachers of teamwork. In a world that demands cooperation and resilience, wolves survive by relying on one another. They hunt with precision, move with intent, and endure together.
Despite long winters, deep snow, and relentless cold, they thrive—not because they are the strongest, but because they are the most united.
Moral of the Story
In Nature – even in the harshest environments, survival depends on cooperation, strategy, and trust in your team. Whether it’s a pack of wolves taking down a deer on a frozen lake or a team of mushers guiding sled dogs through the wilderness, the key to success lies in working together with purpose and precision.