Passing through this book very early on is one character, Paul Weyman, a zoologist who loves wild animals purely for their own sake: he hates the steel gin-traps, bait poisoned with strychnine, the whole paraphernalia of cruelty used routinely in this setting—and, in fact, never even carries a gun. He plays no important part in the story and is there, I’m sure, to give us a glimpse of the author himself. Even back in 1914 when Kazan was being written, there were people with a more enlightened attitude toward our fellow creatures and James Oliver Curwood, a hunter as a young man, had become one of them.
Kazan is three parts husky and one part wolf, most of his four years having been spent as lead dog in a sled-team during the pioneering days of the Canadian northwest. Although a huge and powerful animal, it’s been an exceptionally savage existence and his body is scarred from nose to tail by the whip and the club, his eyes bloodshot from the brutal winters. One fateful day, though, Kazan kills a man and takes off into the forest; what he’s actually done is save a woman from attack, possibly even saved her life, but he’s not to know that—all this wolf-dog knows is that he’s ripped a human throat out and must run. And so he exchanges one harsh life for another, but at least in this new one he is free.
I found the opening a bit confusing, and clumsy—but after that simply could not put this book down as Kazan contended, one after another, with everything the Yukon and its harsh landscapes and climate, its other wild animals and occasional humans, could throw at him. The truth of it is that Curwood doesn’t get into his stride until he finally clears the last human being off its pages and leaves us with the wolf-dog alone in his wilderness. Once he has, though, it’s an effortless read: no elaborate plot or subtle characters, just a series of challenges, tragedies and adventures. If you have any kind of soft spot for dogs and wolves at all, it’s a rollercoaster.
There are inevitable comparisons with Jack London’s The Call of the Wild and White Fang, some questioning Curwood’s portrayal of Kazan’s inner life as unrealistic, too similar to our own. Unusually for his time, he came to believe we are not the only animal on this planet capable of rational thought and Kazan reads to me very much like his response to The Call of the Wild, which is more to do with instincts, with drives. He uses his gin-trap-hating zoologist to make this clear too: Weyman is himself writing a work to be called The Reasoning of the Wild.
Either way, for me Kazan’s setting is the more memorable of the two, with its lynx, beaver dams and snowshoe hares, its vast open spaces, its winters. There is a sequel, but I doubt I’ll read it—I don’t want to risk spoiling Kazan himself; I want to leave him, and Gray Wolf too, in my mind exactly the way they are.