On Following, and Being Followed

Sunday was my favorite type of Minnesota day.  Below zero temps with clear, blue sky, and a fresh coat of overnight snow.  The kind of snow where the flakes are perfectly discernible, and they glitter in the sun like diamonds.

Remember the sun?  Yeah, I almost forgot what it looked like during December, too.

We were at the cabin, so after Jon's Latte Delivery Service returned from town with some espresso-milk-maple syrup heaven, I decided to walk across the bay to the eagle's nest.  There were no eaglets this year, so not much hope of finding feathers (or the remains of whatever unfortunate animals became eaglet breakfast,) but it is a pretty destination.  The nest is in a giant red pine surrounded by cedars.  An eagle will often coast over to inspect my trespass (it did,) and, with binoculars, I spotted a lonely raven outside an even lonelier fishing house.  Otherwise, it was incredibly still.

New snow on Northern White Cedar

When cold from sitting, I followed my tracks back for lunch.

The narrative would have ended here, uneventfully, had I been able to let go of how annoyed I was about the night before.  I really wanted to photograph the cabin.  The first quarter moon was setting early--providing a great opportunity for some winter shots with the stars as a backdrop.  Cold temperatures mean less particulate matter in the atmosphere, and therefore a sharper sky, but two nights in a row, I was shut out by clouds.  These clouds brought the gift of new snow, which ultimately writes the end of this story--snow so light, so beautiful.  Such a perfect canvas.

Tracks fascinate me.  They always have.  It probably doesn't surprise anyone that I was a really nerdy kid--very into nature, photography, learning, random outdoor projects.  I once sewed a small owl, and then rigged it with fishing line (so it would flap when I tugged the line from a distance) in an attempt to lure in other owls.  I convinced my dad to build me a bat house that must have weighed 40 pounds when it was done.  We always had a bird feeder.  I spent an entire summer journaling a beaver family that lived a mile away, riding my bike down to their lodge every night.  My mom managed to get us to Maplewood the day two pair of Trumpeter Swans were released as part of their reintroduction to Minnesota.  And, for awhile, I was really into plaster casting tracks.  (Fortunately, I had parents who put up with all of this.)  My whole life--no matter where I have lived, or what I have done to earn money--all I've every really been at heart is a naturalist.

I saw my first wolf tracks when I was 11 years old.  We were hiking at Itasca, and came down to an open part of the shore on Allen Lake.  There was a mess of tracks in the soft mud.  Every size and age. This was back when the park wouldn't tell you there were wolves there--people would ALWAYS ask, at the end of the little interpretative programs, and the answer was, "No, there are no wolves in the park."  But, at this point, it was becoming increasingly hard to convince people of that.  I plaster casted a track of a younger wolf.  A copy of it was accepted into the Itasca State Park time capsule, to be opened at the bicentennial in 2091.  Please, go if you're around.  I'm not planning to be.

While running this summer, I followed a set of wolf tracks down our access road, to the end of our driveway.  That was almost a magic moment for me--after that day, I started seeing wolf tracks everywhere.  Not because there really were more sets, just because my intuition for finding them was better.  Soon, I was finding them on every hike.

Look out, Bambi!

Much to my dismay, no matter how many tracks I followed, they did not lead me to any actual wolves. I was always too late.  Sunday, however, I was too early.

Notice Bambi in the very top left.  And by my arch.  And straight out from my toe.

Photography is kind of grueling.  You spend so much time scouting areas, and thinking about how you would set up a shot, getting into position, and then it often falls apart.  Like my starry night backdrop fell apart.  You have to adapt, look for something else, be an optimist.  So, cold day...bright sky, west facing cabin?  Never hurts to hang around after the game, head home a few hours later than normal--stay just long enough to see if there might be some parhelia to photograph.  The trees were blocking the sun as it dropped lower, so I bundled up for one last trip down the slope to the lake.

I was about half way down the steps when I saw the tracks.  The unmistakable, easy, single track of a wolf coming from the south.  When you tell someone you saw wolf tracks, they often brush it off--if not to your face, on the inside.  "Probably just a big dog."  In reality, wolf tracks are super easy to identify.  The track is laid with purpose, with a literal hunger.  Dogs meander, they gallop, they turn around and make big circles.  Dogs snuffle around in the snow, they are curious little time wasters, because their lives do not depend on where they are headed.  The energy radiating off a wolf track is electric: graceful, wild, driven to survive.

I froze.  I looked around.  Nothing.  Once on the ice to inspect, the tracks came from as far away as I could see, from around the south point.  They slowed, with a careful dip of the nose, as the track intersected my own path from earlier.  The wolf casually followed me, as if we walked together to the eagle's nest every day.  Eventually, it turned north and went to the part of our beach that is easiest to climb.  Apolo and Mac boost up in that same spot all summer.  Then the tracks headed down the bank to the north point, and vanished.

We missed the entire thing while microwaving lunch and watching the Vikings.  What do you do?  I never would have seen the tracks had it not been cloudy, had I not missed the photo I wanted, and been forced to "settle for" what I found instead.  The wolves of northern Minnesota are some of our most elusive neighbors.  They do not live among us, but us among them--happy to offer a lesson of patience and flexibility.