The first few minutes there is a welcomed silence. Each of us understands the value of this time. The lanterns extinguished, and poker chips lay still, each in a bunk allowing the days aches and efforts to settle into fatigued muscles, we listen and allow in through the cabin screens, the sounds of the night, undisturbed.
There is a battle occurring now. One where the body craves sleep and the mind begins to wander. Typically the body wins out in short order and the acceptable level of snoring begins. For those who win the battle on any given evening, and move their mind outside the log walls, there lies the ripe and seasoned fuel for the imagination.
The mind’s eye wanders high above the pine and spruce and sees the rock hills and waterways that reach out on in all directions, in this road less uncivilized territory. And while the grand picture entertains him, it is steered to a particular sound emanating from the wood. The knowledge of the diversity of creatures here makes immediate identification difficult initially, but then, as it continues and draws closer to the cabin, it becomes unmistakable.
Wolves. A small pack of young wolves out on their evening hunt. But the eerie sounds of these wolves were noticeably different. They were like Indians before the attack, rallying and whining, and piercing the usual calm of the forest. The snoring all stopped. We all sat up in our bunks and listened attentively. There was some nervous banter, but for the most part we all knew we were experiencing something primeval, the call of the wild. So rare for modern man, yet so natural.
