Wolves

WOLVES I HAVE KNOWN

 

 

I spent several of my early teen years wandering the forests of Miller County Missouri on the north shore of the Lake of the Ozarks. Since my family had bought lots on the Lick Branch Arm, and were busily planning to build a cabin, we had to spend every weekend at the lake. I did not like this too much. My friends were all back in Columbia having fun and getting into unimaginable trouble, and I was stuck. We had a nice little run-a-bout outboard motor boat, but I wasn’t allowed to take it out. I could fish from the shore, but I could never catch anything worth keeping. The only other thing to do was prowl through the forest, and it was truly a forest. Large Oak and Hickory trees abounded. No roads, no houses, only barely discernable animal trails.

 

Since the Ozark forest was truly a forest, it had the usual forest animals. None of the musical songbirds or cute rabbits I knew at home.   The forest had crows and buzzards, raccoons, bobcats, black panthers, cougars, black bears, and…wolves. Now, before you laugh at me, I once took a shot at a couple of randy bobcats with my 12 gauge – they were disturbing my sleep.   The whole family got an up close look at a black panther that ran across the road in front of the car one night. And, although I never saw a bear in Missouri, they are regularly killed in the southern Ozarks. Wolves were another matter. The Missouri Conservation Department denied their existence 50 years ago, and still do today, but those of us that roam the Ozark forests know better.

 

I did my roaming back in the late 50’s and early 60’s carrying my single shot .22 rifle with no front sight. What good would that popgun be, you might ask, but I will tell you I learned to shoot a rifle with that .22 with no front sight, and I could drop a sparrow out of a tree top 60 feet up every time. I had no fear of larger predators, and they knew it. I think the confidence of being the top predator is picked up by all the others. I was always the hunter, never the hunted.

 

One hot July day I was walking up a dry creek bed through a particularly dense stand of trees and undergrowth. The sand beds were clear and untrammeled as they wandered from side to side, only my tracks marked the way… until I came across some really large dog tracks, several really large dog tracks. I squatted down to examine the tracks, and I knew what they were. The hair on the back of my neck rose up, and goose bumps ran down my spine.   These were undoubtedly wolf tracks…eight wolves….large ones. More than I could conceivably take out one shot at a time with my .22 if they came at me.   The sand was still crumbling into the paw prints…These wolves had seen me or smelled me or sensed my coming, and had run off in a group right up the hill on the left…there. There was no noise from the blanket of oak leaves.   They hadn’t gone far, and they weren’t moving.

 

I carefully ran my eyes over the undergrowth above me on the hillside and cocked the rifle.   Nothing. I could feel no eyes on me. I could hear no rustling of bushes. I could see no movement. But the forest was alert. Slowly, I stood up. Still nothing. I took out my little box of .22 long rifle ammo, opened it, and gently placed six or seven rounds between my lips for quick access. I stood there for seconds that felt like minutes, telling myself to think predator thoughts, wolf killer thoughts. No prey thoughts, no bunny food thoughts. I took the bullets out of my mouth and held them in my left hand. They were interfering with my hearing.   Holding your mouth open a little greatly enhances your hearing, and I didn’t want to miss even the tiniest of noises. The edge of the undergrowth was only 15 or 20 feet away.   If they came at me, I would get only one, maybe two, clear shots. Maybe more if the gunshots made them pause to think. But there were at least 8 of them in there.

 

So if they came at me, I would take my one or two, or maybe three shots, drop the rifle and pull out my razor sharp hunting knife. And then we would see what we would see. I stood very still. The seconds turned into minutes that felt like hours. Someone had to retreat, and apparently that would be me. Very carefully, but exuding confident predator scent, I hoped, I sidled sideways down the creek, following my own tracks, making absolutely no noise. Keeping my eyes fixed on the edge of the brush. Never turn your back on a predator. Nothing moved but me.

 

In 50 feet I could no longer see the likely location of the wolf pack, so I turned and walked very slowly away. Every 10 feet or so I stopped and turned back, listening carefully to the oak leaves. In 200 feet I picked up the pace and started to feel my heart pounding in my chest, adrenalin surging. It was another 2 miles back to the lots and our tent.   Would they follow me?

 

It took two hours to get back. I never saw them, but I had that creepy feeling. They did not have to track me by sight. To a pack of wolves, my trail in the air was as plain as a highway. So what to do now? Tell mom and have her scoff at me for having too much imagination, or tell mom and have her believe me and pack up to leave. How about neither. I would just keep this between me and the wolves.   I hung around our campsite for the rest of the day, keeping the .22 loaded and close by. It was the only gun, and keeping it loaded around my little sister was forbidden, but who would check. I was the only man at the campsite that day. Just me, mom, Nancy and Jan. If the wolves came, it would up to me to take care of them.

 

They didn’t come…that day.

 

……….

 

That night I had a little trouble going to sleep in our large box tent. The tent fabric would offer scant protection from sharp-toothed wolves. I slept by the flap, rifle along side curled up in my left arm. Soon enough, the owls quieted down and the whippoorwills started up, and I slept.

 

The next morning, Sunday, the wolves were, temporarily, forgotten. I rose before the sun and stepped out, stretching and enjoying the cool of the day. I left my rifle under my sleeping bag along with my hunting knife. In just a few minutes, it was time for my morning constitutional. Now, this was our first summer at the lake. Dad had not built an outhouse. He hadn’t even nailed a couple of boards between trees. When you had to go, you just climbed the hill, crossed the drive, walked into the woods, gathered a few Mullen leaves, dropped trow, and went.   If you got up there really early there wasn’t any chance of one of the girls coming across you, thus causing extreme embarrassment.

 

So, I walked a couple of hundred of feet into the woods just to be safe, dropped trow, and squatted down.   I finished quickly, but still squatted there enjoying the view of the lake in the distance between the trees.   Then I heard the oak leaves rustling behind me to the left. I jerked my head around, preparing to lambaste whichever sister was sneaking up, and saw….a full grown and very large gray wolf…all of 10 feet away.

 

Talk about your heart jumping into your lungs and gizzards. Here I was squatting down, jeans around my ankles, no gun, no knife, not even a stick. Keeping my eyes glued on the wolfs’ eyes, I held my pants with my left hand and groped around with my right for a rock. I found a nice big one, always plentiful in the Ozarks. Slowly, I stood up, pulling my pants up as I rose. Even more slowly, I raised the rock, preparing to brain the wolf if it sprang at me. I wanted to snap my pants so I would at least be able to dodge nimbly, but I dared not lower the rock.

 

So we stood there, staring at each other. I had no doubt this guy had followed me home. He was a good-looking animal. Long, light gray hair on his sides, dark gray on his ruff, intense yellow eyes. Seconds went by, each feeling like minutes, and a decision was reached.   Wolf would go back into the forest without attacking me. I would go back to the campsite without attacking him. So we simultaneously moved…obliquely…away from each other. Never turn your back on a predator.

 

When I got back to the camp I decided I should tell the girls about the wolf, this time. After all, they, too, would have to visit our forest outhouse today. They scoffed. No one believed me. I don’t know what would be better, believing or scoffing. I let it go, and the world changed.

 

Humans had come to the forest. The wolves would leave it to us.   I never saw them again.