Wolves
Ryders in the Whirlwind
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I was blessed-I was born with wolves! If not in our house, then wandering about our orchards and our barns and through our few fields. We had a home in the wilderness of Central Ontario: no electricity, no running water, no indoor toilet. We did have running wolves and ambling bears year-round. And I loved that place. On late summer evenings and fortunate winter nights, silver forms would sing from the hills and valleys. On these occasions, somewhere in our rambling old house with two staircases, under warm blankets, a child would lie transfixed in mystery and enchantment. Here was another nat...
I was blessed-I was born with wolves! If not in our house, then wandering about our orchards and our barns and through our few fields. We had a home in the wilderness of Central Ontario: no electricity, no running water, no indoor toilet. We did have running wolves and ambling bears year-round. And I loved that place. On late summer evenings and fortunate winter nights, silver forms would sing from the hills and valleys. On these occasions, somewhere in our rambling old house with two staircases, under warm blankets, a child would lie transfixed in mystery and enchantment. Here was another nation, a different civilization, who needed nothing from us, distrusted us, even hated us. And rightly so. To all the adults I knew, nature was the enemy, something to be subdued. They had little interest or knowledge of the world outside. Rarely did they speak about it-hardly a bird's name or a flower's location. Infrequently, an aunt would express some fear or other, especially about poisonous snakes-we never found one-or skinks that might run up inside your pant leg to do considerable damage. Our evenings around the flickering lanterns were filled with tall tales about the Big, Bad Wolf. It was all fear and fearmongering. I believed none of it. This book is the story of a wolf who was never at a loss during his journey home across Algonquin Park. I call him Big Red. He travels during the day to avoid the wolves on whose land he is trespassing. His future will not be like his past. Tomorrow will not be like today. Every day is different. Big Red knows he must catch the apple when it falls and, sweet or sour, bite it hard! When he sleeps, he dreams of all things wolfen: warrahs, dingoes, coyotes, gray wolves, painted wolves, and so on. (This book has 231 color photographs of wolves, deer, and all their friends) His mother gave birth to him in an ancient den at the base of the plateau on which my home stands. In decades past, one of his ancestors sang for me on winter evenings as I snuggled under warm blankets. This book was born on those nights. This enchantment with the land and the wolves is still fresh in my memory. This happiness is still felt in my heart.
