Following tracks

Finding a little hope in a corner of the wild

Our frozen river

We follow the tracks through the snow. They started at the road and went straight through the parking lot—arrowing back into the state natural area without hesitation or diversion. One of us holds the dog back while the other two scurry ahead, studying the tracks within our old snowshoe tracks. A fine dusting of snow obscures the details of pads and toenails. And then there is how they lay upon each other, one paw-track covering the next, interlaced, a double effect.

Wolf? Coyote? We toss the possibilities back and forth. We crouch beside the tracks and put our hands up to them, curling our fingers over so our fingertips press into the tops of our palms. THAT BIG. But is THAT BIG three inches or four? Is it one animal? Two? More?

We keep guessing as we walk. The dog doesn’t stray too far off the trail—she’s more alive to the scent and presence of these animals than we are, and her daredevil streak only extends as far as squirrels, rabbits and the occasional deer.

Over the berms, through the woods, to great-grandparents’ summer cabin site we go. We pass the trail to the lake. We pass the old logging road, so choked with small trees that you wouldn’t know it was a logging road anymore, would you, unless someone pointed it out. The forest is reclaiming it, erasing human presence. We pass the Grandmother Trees, white pine guardians of this place that we steward and love. Great-grandpa’s old gate sits, partially hidden, just beyond the Grandmothers. Still, the tracks unravel before us, never deviating from our snowshoe trail.

Through the berry patch, past the other logging road, through the other berry patch. Ahh. Here we are now, under the big trees, mixed red and white pine, and their lofty boughs reveal a story the old road trail couldn’t. Here, the tracks continue, their outlines more defined. Bigger. Clearer.

Wolves, Dad says.

This big, Mom says, holding up her hand with the fingers curled over.

Your distant cousins, I say to the dog. She looks skeptical.

The wolves—for that must be what they are—pad on ahead to the river. Our trail ends here, at the campsite, but the wolves continue. They pass the big white pine where eagles and owls perch. They meander along the high bank of the river, above the otter holes glowing black through the snow pack. They go over downed logs and through patches of blackberry brambles. They leave dark yellow patches of urine which the dog examines, her eyes enormous.

And then, in a place where there’s a broad, gentle access to the river, tracks explode everywhere. All across the river—we imagine paws prancing, running, tumbling. It’s as if they opened a dance hall right in the middle of the river and invited everyone they knew. What were they doing? we wonder. There’s no sign of struggle, no indication they were tracking prey.

“Well,” Dad says after a long moment, “even wolves must play.”

Was that what they were doing, out there on the white curve of the river? Frolicking in the snow, leaping and nipping and laughing, the way my dog laughs, teeth shining and tongue lolling? Playing?

We find another trampled area on the bank. There’s a spot that looks like the indentation of two long legs, laying down. Did they bed down here? Did they tuck themselves into the snow, nose to tail, bodies touching, safe and familiar in each other’s presence? Did they sleep—did they dream?

What do wolves dream of?

The world aches with hardship right now. Everywhere you look, it seems. I’m scared—scared to see our country fracturing, people suffering, progress reversed, intolerance celebrated, climate changing. In a few decades, I wonder if there will even be enough snow here for the wolves to play. I’ve been wondering what to write on this Substack, when it feels like the world is shifting beneath our feet. But you don’t need me to tell you all this.

Wolves. That’s what I’m here to tell you. There were wolves playing on the river. The snowy, frozen river. The river that winds on for miles downstream without a house on it, except that one falling-in shack. There’s more wildness here than you think. There’s more mystery than we know. The natural world is more fiercely intelligent and interconnected than we understand.¹

For me, wildness and mystery make hope. I hope that my hope gives you a little hope, too.

What do wolves dream of, anyway?²

1. Just read Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard, which I recently finished, for an example of this.

2. Don’t tell me they just dream about wolf things! Or, like, wolf experiences. As a human, I dream about lots of things I have not experienced. For example, the other night I dreamed about a close encounter with unicorns and merfolk, who I cannot say I have ever met in waking life—but that is a story for another post.