We were accustomed to early sunsets and white snowscapes by this time. Even the calendar finally recognized it was winter, and we knew it would be a long and cold one. The first time we heard wolves howling, was during Daddy’s Christmas visit. Even with his comforting presence, their eerie sound gave me chills. Now, with him gone, they seemed much closer and more foreboding — especially after seeing The Mother Cat’s reaction.
In her new fierce predator mode, she appeared fearless — eventually even summoning the courage to attack the woodchuck in the grove behind the barn. But the first night she heard the wolves, she ran for cover — as far back under the bed as she could cram herself — abandoning her favorite warm spot, under the ash pit of the heater.
After that, we were afraid to go out alone at night, even when the wolves seemed quite far off. They might have stayed clear of the grove all winter, had it not been for the lamb….
Mother ordered a butchered lamb from Vokes. When they delivered it, she sent a leg of lamb to Daddy, and stored the rest in the car, where it froze. In the fall she had tried to keep meat and cheese in our cooler outside, but night-trolling scavengers devoured her stash. So far, the car had proved to be marauder-proof. Vokes had dressed and cut up the meat as she expected, but they also included the pelt, which was an extra surprise. With all of our reading on pioneer life, she was intrigued by the idea of curing the skin, so we could use it for a rug.
Several of our books had partial descriptions of how pelts were processed. We tried to combine the bits of information from various sources, to create a complete set of instructions. Afterward, we wondered whether perhaps there were some crucial steps they had all omitted, our interpretations were faulty, or the authors really didn’t know what they were doing.
Whatever the reason, we wound up with a soft woolly “rug” — which smelled like rotten meat. Mother clipped all the wool off the hide, and hung it on the wall of the shed, out by the wood pile. After that, we could hear the wolves’ howling coming closer each night.
Their eerie wailing aroused our curiosity, and we eventually overcame our fear. John and I decided we must see these elusive animals in the flesh. It took careful planning; we would wait for a suitably moonlit night, dress in our warmest clothes, climb up over the woodpile onto the roof of the shed, and sit and wait there until they showed up. John’s skis would be our weapons of self defense, in case the wolves tried to jump up and bite our feet. It never occurred to us, that if we could easily climb up the woodpile — the wolves could too….
Mother, who must have known that the brush wolves in the area would prefer to stay farther from us than we would from them, agreed to the plan. The wolf pack had firmly established its territory, because the howling now came every night. We waited for the full moon, and prepared ourselves according to plan. With great bravado, we pulled on our sweaters, socks, overshoes, jackets, caps, scarves and mittens — each additional layer of clothing heightening our thrill of adventure. It was clear and cold outside, so the dark woods and shed stood out sharply in the bright moonlight.
The skis were a bit awkward to handle as we clambered up the woodpile. The pieces of wood were quite firmly frozen in place, but a covering of snow made them slippery. We finally reached the top, and mounted the shed roof, thoroughly warmed by our exertions — and eager for the encounter.
There was no evidence the wolves would cooperate. They had been silent so far, but we were still hopeful. We positioned ourselves on the front edge of the roof, in full view of the house. Through the veil of our breath, suspended in the night air, we looked around from our high perch, feeling very much like king and queen of the mountain. Moon-shadows draped every branch and feature over the frozen ground. Below us and across the yard, the soft yellow light of the kerosene lamps shone through the kitchen and front room windows.
We finally heard the first wolf calls, a good safe distance away. Tightening our grips on the skis and exchanging glances of keen anticipation, we kept silent, not wanting to betray our position. We felt quite secure that our legs, dangling over the edge of the roof, were far enough from the ground. We anxiously scanned the expanse of snow along the edge of the grove for dark moving forms. There were more howls, which were definitely getting closer, and seemed to be answering each other. I stared so hard my eyes hurt. My fingers and toes were beginning to feel the bite of the cold, and I could feel chills up my spine as the wailing got closer. A memory flashed in my mind of pictures I’d seen in books — of vicious fighting wolves with dripping fangs. The next howl seemed to come from the cornfield just beyond our trees….
John and I looked at each other and did not need to say a word — we had heard enough. Abort the mission. We threw the skis to the ground, slithered back down the woodpile as fast as we could, and bolted for the house — certain the fleet wolves would overtake us before we could reach the door.
Safe in the warm kitchen, with the door securely fastened behind us, we felt no sense of failure. We had bravely gone out to meet the wolves and had stayed long enough to require a daring flight to safety. We were perfectly content from then on to listen to their serenade from the comfort of the house.
The wolves were to provoke another incident, however. Being two years older, I had always fancied myself more courageous than John. I was hurrying back from the little-house one evening when he jumped out at me from behind the door with a ferocious growl. My prolonged hysterical screams scared him as much as he had terrified me. After Mother heard our respective versions of the story and restored calm, she had no difficulty convincing John that this was not an amusing game….