I am reading, and really enjoying, Douglas Chadwick’s The Wolverine Way. I read this part this morning, and it almost made me cry.

(Some context. These are wolverines. F2 is the mother. M18 and M19 are her kits. They are in Glacier National Park.)

Where, I wondered, had M19 been during the month and a half we couldn’t find him? Why, if he killed M18, did he stick around so close to the body? He wasn’t feeding on it. Could the death have resulted from an excited reunion in which a tussle got out of hand? All through the fall while keeping tabs on the breakup of F2 and the kits, I felt that we were making progress in uncovering the secrets of wolverines’  lives. M18′s fate is a harsh reminder of how little we truly understand about the animals…

I picture him racing at F2′s heels to keep up across featureless snowfields through May and June, then loping beside her over the rolling tundra uplands during midsummer. His was not a large figure. Even when nearly full size, it all but disappeared within the grandeur of the landscape where he was born. Yet he was proving to be a match for this realm. By mid-September, M18 was covering this country the way the rest of us yearn to, tirelessly, alone, and unafraid. More than unafraid – burning to see what lay over the next ridge. He made multiple ascents during ordinary journeys that we would need days to do and talk about for years. He was embarking on a life of wild intensity.

Then, for a few moments, all that he had become was not enough. Not quite. Not yet. He needed to be a twitch faster. Or an ounce stronger. Or more experienced, better at reading another’s intentions. He wasn’t, and it is over. And we may never know whether his brother was the murderer or in mourning or simply waiting there, uncomprehending, for M18 to get up and go with him for a run.