Tracking the She Wolf
eyedclaar
Posts: 6,980
Tracking the She Wolf
Eyes crack open to a blinding light followed by merciless stabbing pains in my temples. Before passing out last night, I vaguely recall opening the bedroom curtains so the sunrise would serve as a natural alarm clock. The reasoning behind this decision is less substantial; a will o’ the wisp teasing me through the fog in some dark forest. I need more sleep. Why would I, nay, why would anyone, do this to themselves? Through the open window comes an uplifting chorus of bird songs and I suppress an abrupt urge to grab the .44 Ruger Redhawk always within reach of my bed.
Ignoring the screaming protests from both mind and body, I sit up and massage my shaved scalp with both hands. My throat stings, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my mouth tastes as though I have been gargling bong water. I experience a flashing vision of rotting teeth and saggy bare breasts being flung around in a smoky night club; the smell of cheap beer, cigarettes, and defeat lingering in my nostrils. Last night, my band rocked the dingiest meth bar on the local music scene. At the time, punishing ourselves with energy drink infused cocktails had seemed the most appropriate and brutally efficient method to atone for our sins. I’d refer to the bar’s clientele as more animal than man, but no animal has ever disgusted me enough to make such an unfair comparison. In any case, I’m glad Jamie had the good sense to stay home.
Thinking about my wife, I suddenly realize I’m in bed alone. Oh yeah! My memory seizes on our last conversation like a proud puppy fetching a stick for the first time. My lovely wife wasn’t about to sit around this weekend and wait for me to play the screaming rock star. She is out in the wilderness on a solo backpacking trip, no doubt still buried in a cosy sleeping bag or possibly just getting up to brew coffee in the brisk mountain air. That is why I left the curtains open; that is why I’m punishing myself. I agreed to meet her around noon at remote Grandjean campground, north of Lowman, and on the very edge of central Idaho’s massive Sawtooth Wilderness.
I drag myself into the shower, wash up, brush my teeth, down five Ibuprofens and drink nearly a gallon of water straight from the faucet. Afterwards, I throw on shorts, a t-shirt, lace up my hiking shoes, stuff a few supplies in a daypack, and hop into my little Toyota truck.
An hour later, I’m eating a banana and racing along highway 55 next to the roaring Payette River. Recently, a woman drowned nearby when her husband and children shoved off into class V rapids and none of them had any river rafting experience whatsoever. Only an annual handful of the most hardened and reckless kayakers even attempt to navigate this particular stretch of white-water. Needless to say, the family’s ride was over in about two minutes with the mom dead and the rest of them lucky to have survived.
I experience a fleeting concern for my wife’s safety. Like our powerful rivers, the high mountains can be very unforgiving to those with bad luck or poor preparation. I remind myself Jamie is a skilled backpacker and this is not her first solo expedition. Still, experience and education are no guarantees in the wild; potential obstacles are numerous and often times, life-threatening. Still, despite the inherent dangers of backcountry adventuring, the situations I worry about are those involving other people. Wild animals certainly don’t prompt me to worry about Jamie, or bring weapons into the mountains, but I can’t say the same thing about the unpredictable nature of humans.
The train of thought reminds me that in my packing haste, I left all of my weaponry at home. I am comforted by the fact Jamie has her hunting knife and .22 derringer. Not much, but certainly better than nothing. I am also comforted by the fact my headache seems to be waning with every passing mile. The smell of fresh pine has me feeling almost human again.
Soon after, I turn and drive northeast on Highway 21 for another hour before reaching Grandjean campground. The digital clock on my car stereo indicates I am over an hour early. Chances are my wife is still on the trail making her way down from the mountains. I find her car parked at a trailhead and examine the contents of the vehicle. All of her gear is gone. I look up at the towering and jagged peaks dominating the landscape. Sure enough, Jamie is still out there somewhere.
At the same time I make the decision to go find her, I realize my portable filtrating water bottle is still sitting next to the kitchen sink where I left it this morning. No weapons, no water… what is this, amateur hour? No more getting packed for outdoor activities when I have the functioning brain power of a zombie.
In light of my situation, I opt to take nothing. With no daypack and nothing in my hands, I’ll be able to cover a lot more ground. The June sun has already burned off the morning dew, but I figure I can walk at least six miles in the increasing heat without water. That means three miles in and three miles back out. After that, dehydration will set in quickly.
I drink my fill of water from a pump at the trailhead, soak my shirt, tie it around my head, and start up the trail. Almost immediately, I spot what is easily the biggest pile of carnivore scat I have ever seen in Idaho. The mound is packed with either deer or elk hair and couldn’t be more than a day old. WOLVES! I keep moving and find an abundance of sign. A pack containing some sizable members has been through here recently. Several of their tracks are clearly imbedded in the earth from when the ground was damp. The big ones have feet the size of my hands and I’m not a small guy. The tracks are heading in both directions; the wolves are using this trail as a highway.
Moving deeper into the forest, I also find traces of bear and mountain lion. However, the wolf tracks and scat continue to dominate the trail. I wonder if my wife has seen any of these majestic and elusive animals. I smile as a slight shiver runs down my spine. This is what I crave. This is what we as a species need. We need landscapes littered with predators like what existed three hundred years ago in North America. We need to spend one on one time in the pitch black of a moonless mountain night where every cracking twig and rustling leaf is amplified tenfold. We need to feel the undeniable sensation of being watched and even followed as we hike remote trails. We need to know there is something wild out there, something powerful, something with glowing eyes that flash in the campfire light, and above all, we need to embrace those things as something vital in our lives and not as something to dread.
As usual, I get lost in my philosophies while hiking. I think about fear and how it has motivated so many horribly short-sighted decisions throughout human history, especially concerning our role within the natural world. I think about my own fear of other humans. I know full well that I would trust a pack of ravenous wolves over last night’s lecherous, addicted, and criminal bar crowd. Surely, if we can let real monsters share the city streets with our children on a daily basis, we can find a way to let wild animals exist in as much peace as we can possibly ensure. Their lives are difficult enough without further burdens placed on their shoulders by the hands of man.
A sudden fork in the trail brings my wandering mind back into focus. I have only walked about two miles but my throat is already parched. The left path looks as though it will soon hit a series of cutbacks climbing an exposed and steep mountainside, while the right one heads in the direction of more trees and what sounds like a distant stream. I have no idea which path Jamie would have chosen. I close my eyes and open the rest of my senses to the wind, rocks, and trees all around me. Within seconds, I feel the universe tugging at me. I am supposed to go right.
No more than a hundred yards later, the trail runs straight into an icy stream still surging from the snow melt. From my vantage point, crossing the stream seems impossible. Well, so much for my natural instincts.
I am about to turn back when I notice a solitary backpacker crouched on the bank filling a water container. She is a petite but strong looking young lady with long brownish-blond hair, exposed muscled arms, and a hunting knife strapped to her hip. For a moment, I am tempted to slip into the trees and wait for her to walk past before springing out in surprise. However, I don’t feel like getting shot or stabbed today. Instead, I sneak quietly within ten feet of her and wait for her to turn around. She does, but instead of the startled expression I was hoping for, I am greeted by a serene smile. She is dirty and obviously tired, but my wife couldn’t look any more at peace with her rugged surroundings.
“I had a vision you would find me here,” Jamie says with a smile as she steps into my embrace.
Eyes crack open to a blinding light followed by merciless stabbing pains in my temples. Before passing out last night, I vaguely recall opening the bedroom curtains so the sunrise would serve as a natural alarm clock. The reasoning behind this decision is less substantial; a will o’ the wisp teasing me through the fog in some dark forest. I need more sleep. Why would I, nay, why would anyone, do this to themselves? Through the open window comes an uplifting chorus of bird songs and I suppress an abrupt urge to grab the .44 Ruger Redhawk always within reach of my bed.
Ignoring the screaming protests from both mind and body, I sit up and massage my shaved scalp with both hands. My throat stings, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my mouth tastes as though I have been gargling bong water. I experience a flashing vision of rotting teeth and saggy bare breasts being flung around in a smoky night club; the smell of cheap beer, cigarettes, and defeat lingering in my nostrils. Last night, my band rocked the dingiest meth bar on the local music scene. At the time, punishing ourselves with energy drink infused cocktails had seemed the most appropriate and brutally efficient method to atone for our sins. I’d refer to the bar’s clientele as more animal than man, but no animal has ever disgusted me enough to make such an unfair comparison. In any case, I’m glad Jamie had the good sense to stay home.
Thinking about my wife, I suddenly realize I’m in bed alone. Oh yeah! My memory seizes on our last conversation like a proud puppy fetching a stick for the first time. My lovely wife wasn’t about to sit around this weekend and wait for me to play the screaming rock star. She is out in the wilderness on a solo backpacking trip, no doubt still buried in a cosy sleeping bag or possibly just getting up to brew coffee in the brisk mountain air. That is why I left the curtains open; that is why I’m punishing myself. I agreed to meet her around noon at remote Grandjean campground, north of Lowman, and on the very edge of central Idaho’s massive Sawtooth Wilderness.
I drag myself into the shower, wash up, brush my teeth, down five Ibuprofens and drink nearly a gallon of water straight from the faucet. Afterwards, I throw on shorts, a t-shirt, lace up my hiking shoes, stuff a few supplies in a daypack, and hop into my little Toyota truck.
An hour later, I’m eating a banana and racing along highway 55 next to the roaring Payette River. Recently, a woman drowned nearby when her husband and children shoved off into class V rapids and none of them had any river rafting experience whatsoever. Only an annual handful of the most hardened and reckless kayakers even attempt to navigate this particular stretch of white-water. Needless to say, the family’s ride was over in about two minutes with the mom dead and the rest of them lucky to have survived.
I experience a fleeting concern for my wife’s safety. Like our powerful rivers, the high mountains can be very unforgiving to those with bad luck or poor preparation. I remind myself Jamie is a skilled backpacker and this is not her first solo expedition. Still, experience and education are no guarantees in the wild; potential obstacles are numerous and often times, life-threatening. Still, despite the inherent dangers of backcountry adventuring, the situations I worry about are those involving other people. Wild animals certainly don’t prompt me to worry about Jamie, or bring weapons into the mountains, but I can’t say the same thing about the unpredictable nature of humans.
The train of thought reminds me that in my packing haste, I left all of my weaponry at home. I am comforted by the fact Jamie has her hunting knife and .22 derringer. Not much, but certainly better than nothing. I am also comforted by the fact my headache seems to be waning with every passing mile. The smell of fresh pine has me feeling almost human again.
Soon after, I turn and drive northeast on Highway 21 for another hour before reaching Grandjean campground. The digital clock on my car stereo indicates I am over an hour early. Chances are my wife is still on the trail making her way down from the mountains. I find her car parked at a trailhead and examine the contents of the vehicle. All of her gear is gone. I look up at the towering and jagged peaks dominating the landscape. Sure enough, Jamie is still out there somewhere.
At the same time I make the decision to go find her, I realize my portable filtrating water bottle is still sitting next to the kitchen sink where I left it this morning. No weapons, no water… what is this, amateur hour? No more getting packed for outdoor activities when I have the functioning brain power of a zombie.
In light of my situation, I opt to take nothing. With no daypack and nothing in my hands, I’ll be able to cover a lot more ground. The June sun has already burned off the morning dew, but I figure I can walk at least six miles in the increasing heat without water. That means three miles in and three miles back out. After that, dehydration will set in quickly.
I drink my fill of water from a pump at the trailhead, soak my shirt, tie it around my head, and start up the trail. Almost immediately, I spot what is easily the biggest pile of carnivore scat I have ever seen in Idaho. The mound is packed with either deer or elk hair and couldn’t be more than a day old. WOLVES! I keep moving and find an abundance of sign. A pack containing some sizable members has been through here recently. Several of their tracks are clearly imbedded in the earth from when the ground was damp. The big ones have feet the size of my hands and I’m not a small guy. The tracks are heading in both directions; the wolves are using this trail as a highway.
Moving deeper into the forest, I also find traces of bear and mountain lion. However, the wolf tracks and scat continue to dominate the trail. I wonder if my wife has seen any of these majestic and elusive animals. I smile as a slight shiver runs down my spine. This is what I crave. This is what we as a species need. We need landscapes littered with predators like what existed three hundred years ago in North America. We need to spend one on one time in the pitch black of a moonless mountain night where every cracking twig and rustling leaf is amplified tenfold. We need to feel the undeniable sensation of being watched and even followed as we hike remote trails. We need to know there is something wild out there, something powerful, something with glowing eyes that flash in the campfire light, and above all, we need to embrace those things as something vital in our lives and not as something to dread.
As usual, I get lost in my philosophies while hiking. I think about fear and how it has motivated so many horribly short-sighted decisions throughout human history, especially concerning our role within the natural world. I think about my own fear of other humans. I know full well that I would trust a pack of ravenous wolves over last night’s lecherous, addicted, and criminal bar crowd. Surely, if we can let real monsters share the city streets with our children on a daily basis, we can find a way to let wild animals exist in as much peace as we can possibly ensure. Their lives are difficult enough without further burdens placed on their shoulders by the hands of man.
A sudden fork in the trail brings my wandering mind back into focus. I have only walked about two miles but my throat is already parched. The left path looks as though it will soon hit a series of cutbacks climbing an exposed and steep mountainside, while the right one heads in the direction of more trees and what sounds like a distant stream. I have no idea which path Jamie would have chosen. I close my eyes and open the rest of my senses to the wind, rocks, and trees all around me. Within seconds, I feel the universe tugging at me. I am supposed to go right.
No more than a hundred yards later, the trail runs straight into an icy stream still surging from the snow melt. From my vantage point, crossing the stream seems impossible. Well, so much for my natural instincts.
I am about to turn back when I notice a solitary backpacker crouched on the bank filling a water container. She is a petite but strong looking young lady with long brownish-blond hair, exposed muscled arms, and a hunting knife strapped to her hip. For a moment, I am tempted to slip into the trees and wait for her to walk past before springing out in surprise. However, I don’t feel like getting shot or stabbed today. Instead, I sneak quietly within ten feet of her and wait for her to turn around. She does, but instead of the startled expression I was hoping for, I am greeted by a serene smile. She is dirty and obviously tired, but my wife couldn’t look any more at peace with her rugged surroundings.
“I had a vision you would find me here,” Jamie says with a smile as she steps into my embrace.
Idaho's Premier Outdoor Writer
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You see, I, too, am a she wolf.
"what a long, strange trip it's been"
Well we certainly need more she-wolves in our midst. Glad you like it. There's a poem in here somewhere that I wrote called Hunted, which is about an actual she wolf. We had a brief little stare down. Locking eyes with a wild wolf is not something you ever forget.
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Wish you were here...
♥~RIP Dad
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Wish you were here...
♥~RIP Dad
i love the outdoors as you do.
when on vancouver island, B.C.
a lady friend and i were walking
the pacific rim national forests's trails
endless gigantic ferns, moss, and huge trees engulfed us.
all of a sudden i read a sign; beware of wolves.
with a list of what not to do and what to do shit.
moments later we were surrounded by fresh wolf tracks.
i felt them watching us from within their labyrinth of ferns and trees.
i felt peace and love.
i felt small and joyous.
raw energy ran through me as if i were the trail itself above the waves of the pacific ocean.
thank you for sharing your writing with us mr. eyed.
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
Godfather.
congrat's !!!! but I'm not really suprised,your stuff is great.
Godfather.
I really do appreciate the feedback. Thank you for taking a moment to read it.
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My pleasure, Sir Chadwick. One day, maybe we will hike a trail somewhere...
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when i get healthy again i do look forward to hiking a lot more.
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
______
I've been good for so long
tackling chore after chore
doing the things that must daily be done
but a few weeks back
I gave myself permission
to disappear for one day...
sunshine was blowing
trails still snowpacked and crunchy
did some poking around
on the South slopes that were bare
but now I'm in a fever
and I'm trying to resist
the upper elevations
are still getting snow
and there's nothing but slush and slime
on the trails down below
I tell myself my time
is better spent here
doing chores and preparing
for what I know is near