Enchanting true stories about wolves.
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Wolf: Kindred Spirit
by Casey Crookston
“In a heartbeat my senses prickled and came fully alive. Nothing more then a visual whisper, some sleek and nimble creature weaved an agile path on the steep embankment. This was no squirrel or red fox, its presence was commanding and it slipped over windfalls with the agility of a ghost. Afraid of being noticed I planted my feet to the earth, yet I was certain the “thump THUMP” of my heart had already betrayed my presence.”
Thinking Like a Mountain
by Aldo Leopold
“We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes – something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.”
by Sigurd Olson
“I could hear them plainly now on both sides of the river, could hear the brush crack as they hurdled windfalls in their path. Once I thought I saw one, a drifting gray shadow against the snow, but it was only a branch swaying in the light of the moon. When I heard the full-throated bawling howl, I should have had chills racing up and down my spine. Instead, I was thrilled to know that the big grays might have picked up my trail and were following me down the glistening frozen highway of the river.”
Living with Wolves
by Ted Williams
“We put down our glasses and wandered out into a windless night fragrant with balsam and wet forest duff. The northern lights glowed faintly through solid cloud cover, and loons yodeled from Moose Lake. We drove to ridges around Ravenwood where we could make out the jagged tops of northern conifers wrapped like torn crepe paper around the margins of obsidian lakes. Each time we dismounted from the van there was no sound save our breathing and the whine of mosquitoes, and then Brandenburg would cup his hands around his mouth and howl–a long wail like the distant whistle of a Canadian-Pacific locomotive. At five locations within 30 square miles, wolves answered him. He didn’t have to howl from Fernberg Lookout; two lonely pups with high-pitched voices were conversing from opposite ends of the valley.”