part2

A View from the Wolf’s Eye

(for the Love of an Island)

by Carolyn C. Peterson

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wolf-moose home

2. The 1980’s, Teaching. Rolf and I continued to migrate between Isle Royale and Indiana. By 1973 we were "hooked" on the island and wondered how we could ever leave. Its size is perfect-- small enough to become familiar, yet large enough to pique one's curiosity year after year as weather, plants and animals alter the landscape. Rolf finished his PhD in 1974 and was pleased to stay on the project for a post-doctoral year. At the end of that year, Dr. Allen retired, handing the reins to Rolf, who was greatly honored by his trust. We wanted to be closer to the island, however, and sought a new winter home for the project. Houghton, Michigan, site of the park headquarters and Michigan Technological University (MTU), was eminently appropriate. Rolf signed on as an Assistant Professor of Biological Sciences at MTU, and we moved in the spring of 1975, renting another U-Haul. This time our cargo was much greater; we were hauling the 18-year collection of moose bones. We entered the real world that year, buying our first car and our first, and only, house. Still bigger changes lay ahead. During the next winter study, Dave Mech flew to Isle Royale and tempted Rolf with an offer for work in Alaska, a wildlife biologist's dream. The Kenai Peninsula, southwest of Anchorage, had wolves and moose to be studied, and Rolf seemed the best man to do the job. My reaction to Dave's proposal was unequivocal and strong: I sobbed myself to sleep for several nights. Things had seemed so perfect, both on Isle Royale and in Houghton; why risk it all? I was thankful that Rolf felt a strong attachment to Isle Royale and loyalty to Durward Allen. He negotiated an arrangement with the university and the United States Fish and Wildlife Service whereby we would go to Kenai for three years, though he would return each winter to Isle Royale for the winter study. Rolf seemed confident that this temporary move would be good for Isle Royale and for our marriage; I trusted him and dried my tears. At 28 years of age, I confronted that important question: What about having a family? I asked Mom why she and Daddy had decided to have children, but her answer, "If you have to ask that, we must have failed," made no sense to me at the time. We were content as a couple and knew the powerful ecological arguments for having no children, but I simply, selfishly perhaps, wanted this chapter in life's adventure. Also, I knew Rolf would make a terrific father. Alaska suddenly seemed a fine spot to have a baby. We left Isle Royale in the best of hands. Our competent summer assistant, Joe Scheidler, agreed to supervise the summer field season. For the next three summers, the tradition of thorough coverage of the island was maintained by Joe, his wife Lee, and their two assistants. We arrived in Kenai in July of 1976, taking another fine Isle Royale assistant, Jim Woolington, with us, and the two fellows spent the rest of the summer getting to know the study area, many times bigger than Isle Royale and home not only to wolves and moose but also brown bear, black bear, caribou and coyote. A four-wheel-drive truck replaced hiking boots, and Rolf and Jim mastered the techniques of trapping and telemetry. It was all I could do to learn the names of landmarks on trap lines; getting a feel for the place would take more time than I had, for our first child would be born in January. I bounced around in the research truck on those rugged roads until September, then began a temporary job as the Title I tutor at Soldotna Junior High School. This was my first teaching job, and while it was satisfying to help one 12-year-old boy learn to read, the authors of Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows did most of the work. I felt overpaid and underutilized; motherhood would provide a lesson in contrasts! Jeremy David Peterson greeted the world on the seventh of January, 1977, the second baby of the year in Soldotna's tiny hospital, where five moose browsed outside my window. Rolf was with me, having given up his seat in the research plane, a real sacrifice since he missed a rare sighting of wolves killing a moose. But holding a newborn is one of life's ecstasies, a moment for parents to share. I was surprised at the strength of the maternal bond that developed over the first weeks of Jeremy's life-- Never meddle with a cow and calf! But 29-year habits of independence are hard to break, and one morning I found myself halfway to the grocery store before I realized I had forgotten my child at home, asleep. But being an older mother had some advantages. As a couple, we were well-prepared in many ways to accept responsibility for a new life. And having no profession, I could willingly and joyfully relinquish a big chunk of my freedom. However, when Jeremy was just two weeks old and I was on the verge of exhaustion, Rolf headed south to winter study on Isle Royale. My confidence was at a low ebb and I felt terribly vulnerable. To help me through those dark winter days, Mom flew to Kenai for a two-week visit. I don't know whether her lack of knowledge of diaper-folding and bath-giving was real or feigned, but it was the perfect medicine for my insecurity. I had spent the whole pregnancy preparing for labor and knew very little about baby care. Mom's endorsement of things I was doing shored up my wobbly self-esteem. It was also good to learn that babies are resilient and blessed with short memories, since I made lots of mistakes. Because Rolf's work consumed much more than 40 hours per week, it was obvious that I would give the quantities of time parenting requires. However, his calm, positive influence was vitally important to me, and I appreciated his support, both moral and monetary. Rolf told me that bringing home the bacon gave purpose to the hardest days at work, and he never suggested I earn supplementary income. Neither of us desired the lifestyle that would require me to work for money. I found motherhood to be fascinating and fun, its responsibility awesome, its creativity unbounded. In retrospect, I wish I had shared Jeremy with more people, but I was a product of our culture of individualism and held tightly to the reins. Since we had decided to encumber the earth with a child who would inevitably consume a disproportionate share of Earth's resources, we wanted to raise a responsible person, and that would take time, love, faith, (and luck.) It was wonderful to reread favorite children's books and discover new ones, to go for slow walks, to take Jeremy to church, and to remember the joy of small and simple things. We lived out of town and Jeremy learned to entertain himself. He was so good at it that I was able to begin a new hobby, quilting, which prompted Jeremy's first sentence: "Mommy, no sew!" We spent two and a half years in Alaska, spectacularly beautiful. I often wondered how we would ever return to the Midwest. We lived in our dream house on 125 acres of land, complete with a creek in which King Salmon spawned. The garden produced huge vegetables in record time, almost like the giant ones you see on postcards. Since our sojourn was to be temporary, we traveled as much as possible, frequenting Denali National Park, famous for its broad vistas and wildlife shows. The friendships we made in Alaska were strong and filled the gap created by distance from families "outside." In some ways, however, Alaska made me nervous-- such a treasure in the hands of technophiles! Because of the oil boom, people could afford to penetrate remote areas with vehicles and weapons to carve out private estates; machismo was alive and well. The place brings out the competitive juices in a person. I was appalled at myself, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other fishermen, infected by the lust for salmon! More access roads were demanded, and on radio talk shows people like us, newly arrived from Oklahoma, Texas, or Michigan, suggested that "outsiders" no longer be allowed into the state.
Another problem for me was Alaska's magnitude. Isle Royale had taught me the value of familiarity with a natural area; Alaska's vastness was inspiring but unknowable, and my tourist activity damaged fragile landscape. And, of course, there were bears in Alaska. Doug Smith, one of our favorite Isle Royale assistants and now the director of the wolf project in Yellowstone National Park, told me that vulnerability is an essential element in his wilderness experience. Doug was far wiser than I-- with a baby in my backpack I was reluctant to become part of the food chain. Besides, whenever bears and humans tangle, bears ultimately lose. I am willing to give them exclusive rights to some territory. We returned to Isle Royale in 1979 with two-year-old Jeremy, eager for new adventures. Nature had been hard at work in our absence, and Rolf's winter counts showed that the moose population had been cut in half in the late 1970s. The wolves had built up to record numbers and were putting a lot of pressure on the remaining moose, especially calves. Although wolves had not been able to affect an increasing moose population, they could prolong its low point and thus help the forest recover. Stands of balsam fir, decimated by moose ten years before, were now given a reprieve. With moose numbers down, it was inevitable that wolves would decline, but Rolf was surprised to see it happen so quickly. From a peak of 50 in 1980, they fell to 14 by 1982. Because of the "hands-off" nature of his research, Rolf could not be sure of the reasons for the decline. Food shortage was a likely factor. Those old, vulnerable moose were gone, and the few remaining ones were thriving in the rebounding forest. Compared to the scrawny specimens we had seen in the early 1970s, young moose now seemed huge, certainly strong enough to fend off wolves. In desperation, wolf packs traveled outside their own territories to find food, and several were killed in interpack battles. During summers in the early 1980s our team found five dead wolves. A couple of them were nothing but skin and bones. These were the first complete wolf carcasses I had ever seen, and I was amazed at the story of hardship recorded in their bones. Cracked scapulae, jaws, skulls, ribs -- no wonder only the most experienced wolves attack moose, with pups and others serving as cheerleaders. Commonly, injuries were old and healed; starvation had dealt the final blow. In addition to a shortage of food, disease was a possible cause of the wolf crash of 1980-82. Canine parvovirus (CPV), a particularly virulent bug, ran rampant through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at that time. Even though dogs are not permitted on Isle Royale, CPV could have come to the island on the soles of hikers' boots or through some other means. The disease would have been particularly hard on pups, and, indeed, Rolf saw no pups in winter 1982, a first. For Rolf, not knowing the precise cause of the wolf decline was a major disappointment, and, in hindsight, he wished he had taken samples of some wolves' blood for testing. He began the effort necessary to get NPS permission to handle the Isle Royale wolves for the first time. The traditional, observational winter study continued in much the same way as it had since 1959, except for a change in pilots. Don Murray's retirement in 1979 was painful for Rolf. But a friend of Don Murray, Don Glaser, of Alaska, took over and has faithfully served the Isle Royale project ever since. Besides being a skillful pilot, he has spiced up the winter study scene with his unique, lively sense of humor. A dull moment is a rare opportunity for Don, a specialist in practical jokes. Winter study continued to mark the low point of my year, coinciding with post-Christmas doldrums. Having a child brightened some days but lengthened others. The hurdle I had to get over each year was my dependency on Rolf. Friends helped immeasurably, as did church activities, winter picnics in the yard, story hour at the public library and a weekly neighborhood coffee party. The island itself, frozen in ice but ready to come to life again in spring, gave me courage by raising my sights and broadening my perspective, helping me accept my deal with my vulnerability. I was always eager for Rolf's winter news, and on one occasion his research findings helped me directly. While in Alaska I had become a certified childbirth educator, teaching Lamaze relaxation techniques to help women cope with the pain of labor. Rolf told me about a wounded cow moose who calmly chewed her cud while wolves fed on her hindquarters. The cow seemed to feel no pain. The scientific explanation is that endorphins, chemicals released into the bloodstream during times of extreme stress, act like morphine. Researchers have found that endorphin levels in pregnant women increase just before labor begins. While I didn't want my students to equate giving birth with being eaten by wolves, I could encourage their faith in natural processes. Beginning in 1979, I came to Isle Royale as a mother instead of a research assistant, and I was concerned that I would be frustrated by constraints on my time and activity. How I had loved the exploration and adventure of those early years! It was difficult, at first, to forego the hiking, but introducing new summer assistants to the island, making sure they had the best possible food and equipment while afield, and spoiling them with homemade bread and pies when they returned gave me a new way to contribute. Once again, a dreaded change turned out to have some major advantages. The movement to and from Isle Royale each summer became more complicated with a child, but we never considered staying in town. Rolf's research was central to our family's existence, and my help still seemed important. Also, the island was always my recharging station, restoring my faith and optimism. The disruption of moving made me take stock, closing accounts left behind and establishing goals for the season ahead. After a few minutes at Bangsund Cabin, with smells of balsam fir and cedar and sounds of spring peepers, kinglets and loons, I was perfectly happy to be on the island. Initially I wondered if it was right to raise a toddler in isolation from his peers, but Jeremy was obviously happy in the company of wild things and Lake Superior. During our engagement, Rolf had given me Rachel Carson's book, The Sense of Wonder, and this provocative gem (reissued in 1998 by Harper/Collins) now guided me. Jeremy's inborn sense of wonder needed little nurturing. Taking Carson's advice, we did not insist that he learn names of flowers and birds; we simply gave him the chance to explore and look closely. Perched on the shore of an aroused lake whose gray, frothy waves pounded the rocks at our feet, Jeremy nestled into my lap, entranced and respectful. Lake Superior, a dominant force in Isle Royale's climate, has always been tangled up with my religion, and I wanted Jeremy to feel its power and know his place. Few human errands are important enough to challenge this inland sea when it kicks up its heels. Years before, I had found beauty at the edge of an Isle Royale beaver pond. Jeremy taught me to focus even closer to home. Like all young children, he taught his parents to slow down, to play "Poohsticks" in water flowing beneath trail boardwalks, and to celebrate variety in stones on the beach. One morning Jeremy announced he heard a blue and white sparrow singing outside his window; his joy was not diminished because he did not know the bird's proper name, nor was ours. Much has been written about a parent's gift to a child. The heart-warming laughter and refreshing perspective children give to adults should be put into the balance. All too easily, our vision and hearing become dull, we notice problems rather than promise and let our pride supplant our praise. My most difficult summer was 1980, a benchmark by which later years were measured. Our second son, Trevor, was just two weeks old when we went to the island, and he was not the easy baby Jeremy had been. Content only when carried, he made me walk miles inside Bangsund Cabin that summer. Even when half asleep, Trevor knew when I sat down in the rocking chair and would express his displeasure. And Jeremy, the sunny three-year-old in whom I had seen great potential, now seemed destined for a career behind bars. With Trevor so obviously helpless and miserable, Jeremy could understand that the poor baby was blameless, and since Mom and Dad had caused the problem, they would pay the penalty. I tried to teach Jeremy to recognize the voices of temptation and conscience with which we all deal. Something sank in: One morning, as I made the bed with Jeremy riding on the brass frame, he said he was climbing Mt. St. Helens, which had erupted the day of Trevor's baptism. When I told him to be careful because the volcano was still rumbling, he remarked confidently, "Don't worry, Mommy, Mt. St. Helens has a conscience!" In a rare quiet moment Jeremy summed up his difficulties: "Mommy, what I really wanted was a BIG brother."
"Why did we ever think we could be decent parents?" That summer's diary is full of such entries. Rolf coped by using a combination of earplugs and earmuffs, and we put in many late nights, typing and pacing. Hikes in 1980 were rare. When Rolf was in the field, I found it difficult to make a trip to the outhouse, let alone step outside with my binoculars to identify a bird whose unfamiliar song tantalized me. I did our laundry by hand and washed cloth diapers in a metal tub over a fire. My admiration for Mrs. Bangsund skyrocketed, for she had raised three children in this cabin. And finally, we worried about our tenuous financial situation at the university, where Rolf’s salary came from “soft money”, outside grants that needed annual renewals. One good thing about that summer was our superb field crew, Doug Smith and Mark Cramer, and I lived vicariously off their adventures. When they saw wolves frolicking in pools above a little waterfall, I was only a little bit jealous. Although we had different tasks to perform, we were still a team, looking outward together. After one hard summer with a fussy newborn, Isle Royale became a wonderful place to raise children. Awakened by gray jays, warmed by sunshine, entertained by a beach with an unlimited supply of stones to throw, lulled to sleep by loons, the children found life enchanting, both outside and inside. We replaced worn linoleum, but there was still no way to keep wildlife out of the cabin, so I rejoiced when my baby learned to walk, lessening his contact with the floor. Trevor outgrew his colic and became a delightful little boy, and Jeremy turned out to be a fantastic big brother. We were lucky to suffer no major illnesses or accidents. Once, Trevor got a bad cut on his hand from a broken bottle, but I, who had often fainted at the sight of blood, managed to tend his wound and calm his fears like a confident nurse, though I felt woozy afterwards. I worked out an efficient system of washing diapers and actually came to enjoy the sunny-day chore, except for hauling bucket upon bucket of water from the dock. Constrained only by lifejackets, the boys thrived on the freedom the island allowed. A hefty rope with a knot at the end, tied to an overhanging cedar, old fishing floats and driftwood, and a dishpan in which to mix "morningtop," a magical concoction of mud, pine needles and whatever else was in season, were far better toys than the plastic, battery-operated gadgets we left in town. The boys kept busy with their imaginings. I was glad they had each other, since I could not participate with honest enthusiasm in their creative games and bizarre motor noises. Each summer the boys built boats, which progressed from old boards tied to strings, which could be pulled around the dock, to elaborate but stationary contraptions devised from treasures found in the park scrap heap at Mott Island. Jeremy outfitted one of his more sophisticated on-shore boats with a sail made from a garbage bag and pulleys. Trevor wanted to be allowed to use it, so he devised changeable scenery on a scroll arrangement for the portholes. Jeremy could roll in halcyon or hurricane and then call the weather report to Trevor in his junk craft nearby. Trevor's ultimate model could be converted from a boat to an airplane in seconds. As the years passed, our boys' homemade contraptions actually floated. Jeremy's first, crafted from plans in The American Boy's Handy Book (Daniel Carter Beard, 1882, reprinted in 1983 by Nonpareil Books, Boston), resembled one of Pete Edisen's square net boxes. It was clunky but safe, and it served its major function well: a base for attachments such as "radar," "sonar," and "loran." Always on Jeremy's heels, Trevor soon launched his own rowboat. I relaxed when they were out on the water in two boats so one boy could rescue the other if there were a mishap. One tradition I was determined to maintain, regardless of children, was blueberry picking in August. Blueberries grow in beautiful places and are ripe when most of the bugs are gone. A compulsive picker, I couldn't let a good berry year go by without spending several days in a patch. Although I did not expect the boys to be of much assistance, I intended to keep them amused long enough to be able to fill a few buckets. One year I pitched a tent and set the boys up with Matchbox cars and crayons and paper, but the novelty wore off in less than an hour. Another day Jeremy brought along his new toy bow and rubber-tipped arrows. Before I unpacked the berry buckets, Jeremy shot an arrow into the air-- and in the course of our search for it he had a run-in with hornets. For me, it was just as well that the early 1980s did not produce bumper berry crops. When the boys reached school age, both of them began taking violin lessons in town during the academic year. Jeremy expressed his interest in the violin as a five-year-old, and I signed him up with the Suzuki teacher. He had always been a good singer, and now he took an instant liking to the instrument, making rapid progress. It undoubtedly felt good to be able to do something that his parents couldn't do. Trevor, when five years old, asked for lessons, too, even though he had witnessed major mother-son squabbles during practice sessions. Since the boys could play by ear, there was no limit to their repertoire, and it was rather nice to be free from the regimen of scales and etudes in the summer. Only one child could practice music at a time in our tiny cabin, so I assigned "school work" to the idle boy each morning. The cabin was a wonderful place to study. Once we declared recess to watch an otter catch and eat a herring less than 10 feet from the window. The boys chose the topics--Latin, world history, literature, and when 11 years old each wrote his autobiography. Most important, the morning regimen made everyone appreciate the rest of the day's freedom even more. Reading was one of our joys, never a chore, and rainy days allowed us to become immersed in some of the great classics of our language. I read aloud while the boys worked on art projects. If summer assistants had paperwork to do, they joined the party, sometimes asking me to read their childhood favorites. One effect of shared reading was that the boys were on the same wavelength when they played, inspired by The Adventures Tom Sawyer, The Wind in the Willows, and Treasure Island. Reading was a sacred, just-before-bedtime activity, and as the boys grew older and I spent too much time scolding, we all enjoyed focusing on someone else's adventures at the end of the day. We never spent much time fishing. Perhaps we wasted a marvelous opportunity, but since there was often a commercial fisherman living next door, we bartered homemade orange rolls and lemon meringue pies for fresh trout, whitefish and herring. Jeremy was our most persistent fisherman. One summer he fed worms to a brook trout under our dock, but in August, when he caught the fish, I think he felt he had betrayed a friend. In 1989 he was casting off our dock when two men in a skiff trolled past. "Any luck?" called one of the fishermen. "Oh, yes!" replied Jeremy cheerfully, "I got one four years ago!" The fishermen took pity and gave him a lovely three-pound Lake Trout. Trevor hasn't fished since he lost his lure to "a big one" which towed him in his boat quite a distance before breaking the line. He found it painful to think of that fish swimming around with a barbed hook in its mouth. He lost his innocence that day, realizing that his actions have consequences. Rolf and I had the equipment, the wilderness and the will to go camping, but the boys seemed uninterested. Backpacking is hard work, and the kids were content with their homemade boats and imaginative games. Our first major trip was in 1985, when we surveyed the island's nesting loon population. This was a canoe trip, however, and we could carry those "extras" that make camping pleasant. When backpacking, we found it best to make short outings with one child at a time. Three-year-olds are delightful company on overnight camp-outs, and for several years the wolves were near enough to the cabin so that a short hike enabled us to pitch our tent within ear-shot of their howling. Jeremy had to be taught to love the sound of a wolf howl. As a two-year-old, he first experienced that eerie sound on a tape recording we had made, and it brought frightened tears. I could empathize with him. I had spent a night alone in a tent with wolves howling from opposite directions, and one wolf had trotted, panting, right past the tent. I lay there, grasping my Mini-Maglite, visualizing grisly contingencies. Even though my mind reassured me that wolves are not dangerous, something made me afraid. While camping, we taught Jeremy about wolf language, and he became as excited as we were to hear howling. The greatest deterrents to enjoyable camping on Isle Royale are bugs and bad weather. We have been cold and wet for days, when our only dry things were food and sleeping bags. Black flies crawl up pant legs and sleeves and raise bloody welts behind one's ears. Mosquitoes can drive a person crazy with their persistent swarming and buzzing. My least-favorite pests are no-see-ums, whose bites hurt and then itch for hours. Deerflies circle our heads and backpacks as we walk in July and August. And stable (sand) flies, the scourge of canoeists and fishermen, specialize in biting ankles and seem impossible to swat. The boys and I made a memorable overnight trip one August. Camped on a ridge overlooking a lake with a resident loon family, the boys watched a peachy full moon rise while I read Longfellow's "Hiawatha" aloud to them. The boys tended to like facts and science, but there are other ways to look at the moon. The young men and women who assisted us each summer became important members of our family. Each time they returned from a trip they shared their adventures; research was always the focus of our Isle Royale life. In 1981, we covered our kitchen table with a topographic map of the island, a practical and symbolic move. As soon as the boys could hike a bit, they were invited, one at a time, to go on overnight expeditions with the assistants. In July of 1983, Edith Greene took Jeremy on one such overnight. I decided to camp in a different spot, which left Rolf at home with Trevor. The next morning Rolf met me on the dock with, "Tonight, I am going camping and you can stay here." A bat, which lived in our wall, had chosen to hunt mosquitoes inside the cabin, and Rolf had been up much of the night encouraging it to leave. Each year the boys ventured a bit farther into their big backyard. To the northeast of the cabin there was a grave, surrounded by a weathered, lichen-covered picket fence. We had heard various stories as to who was beneath the sunken ground, and the consensus is that a group of miners, killed in a brawl over liquor, lie in the spot. Most of those hapless miners had been buried on nearby Cemetery Island. The boys had no qualms about the grave, and Jeremy and a pal even camped inside the fence one night. Determined not to pass along my near-phobic attitudes about spiders and snakes to our children, I spent a lot of time watching these creatures. I learned how to remove garter snakes from behind cupboards and underneath Trevor’s crib. The boys' fascination with all things furtive and slippery helped me develop tolerance; I am still working on fondness. Now that we were staying close to the cabin, we got to know some long-time Isle Royale visitors. Stan and Margaret Van Antwerp were a colorful couple with an ambitious yet respectful approach to the island. They determined to explore all the inland lakes, which meant portaging their 12-foot homemade canoe through swamps and over ridges without benefit of trails. They caught and ate pike wherever they went and supplemented fish with cattail shoots, berries, and other wilderness bounty. Margaret was particularly proud of their camping style, challenging anyone to find even one of their campsites, for they carefully perked up the vegetation after striking their tent each morning. Dutifully observant, they took careful notes when they saw moose, loons, beaver or bones. We looked forward to their annual visit, toward the end of July, and counted on hearing their natural history observations. Colonel "Tempe" and Betsy Cawthorne came each summer in their Carver boat, which they "anchored out," so they could stay beyond the two-week NPS dock limit. The Colonel was particularly enamored of the island's mining history and guided his own tours to the Minong Mine for any McCargoe Cove campers who were interested. Betsy especially loved orchids that thrive in Isle Royale's cool, damp climate. Crippled by arthritis and needing two canes to get around, she managed to lead me to a patch of Showy Ladyslippers that bloom every Fourth of July. In 1984, I served as board chairman for the Isle Royale Natural History Association, whose mission is to provide maps, books and other information to Isle Royale visitors. In this capacity I was introduced to those few remaining families who held life leases to property in the park. These folks tended to stay close to their homes and did not get to know the island in the same way backpackers did, but their love for Isle Royale was just as strong as mine, and their experience and perspective just as valid. Of course, there were some times when I would gladly have given my life at Bangsund Cabin to any taker. One night in the middle of August, 1985, a rainy summer with Lake Superior at a high level, while Rolf was conferring with colleagues in Edmonton, Alberta, I did my best to hold our estate together through a rip-snorting thunderstorm. Fortunately, the boys were sound sleepers. The dock, somewhat anchored to the gravel shore with two three-foot sections of pipe, was bucking and pulling loose, so I moved the skiff, which was tied to a cleat on the dock, to the shore. I pulled it out of the water as best I could, but even with the bow nosed up to the cabin window, the surging waves pounded and rocked the boat until I piled rocks and logs in the bow, raising the stern above all but the highest thudding waves. I then found a rope and tied one end to the dock cleat and the other to the big cedar tree on shore. Meanwhile, our roof leaked steadily, and I had to keep an eye on coffee cans and dishpans that were set out to catch drips, making what Pete Edisen called "Chinese music." That night I wrote in my diary, "There are times I hate this place -- always when I am afraid." Even though we respect Lake Superior and tend not to take chances, sudden winds and storms have surprised and tested us. The boys and I once over-stayed a wonderful party on Minong Island in Tobin Harbor. Rounding Scoville Point in our 14-foot skiff I encountered "heavy chop" and large swells. Frightened, yet determined to appear calm for the children, I glued a smile on my face and sang a cheery sailing song, thinking all the while, "You fool! What are you doing out here?" (They were not duped by my acting and remember my stern voice telling them to sit on the floor of the boat.) Another journal entry, made in 1982, reminds me that motherhood is an uneven career. Some days I felt anyone could do a better job of raising children than I was doing. I was the primary care-giver and disciplinarian and had to live with Jeremy's pronouncement: "Mommy brings the bad news." My mistakes taught me to apologize; I hope the boys learned to forgive. If nothing else, they learned to see another human being in all stages, sometimes singing and dancing around the kitchen, other times in a fury. I like to believe that it is our imperfections that make us lovable. I hope, too, that our sons learned to cherish this earth, and that the words of an old camp song, sung before breakfast at the shore of a quiet lake, will always speak to their souls: "God has created a new day, silver and green and gold. Live that the sunset may find us worthy His gifts to hold." Like all mothers, I became an expert juggler. Once I had been totally immersed in Rolf's field research, but now each day was a unique mixture of domestic and research chores, bread-making and bone-measuring, with weather determining the schedule. I enjoyed having my whole family together, united by the work so important to Rolf. Jeremy and Trevor taught me to see the world through their innocent, honest vision. Trevor was about three years old when he spent a few days with my sister, the boys' beloved Aunt Deedee, at her cabin in the woods of northern Minnesota, and she told me they had watched a newly-fledged Red-breasted Nuthatch sit on a stump and beg for food. Months later, out of the blue, Trevor asked, "Why did the peanut shell sit on a stump and cry for its mother?" I wracked my brain. Too young for riddles, Trevor was asking a serious question. Several days later I made the connection: peanut shell = nuthatch! And one Christmas night in Houghton, as I tucked two-year-old Jeremy into bed, I asked him what he had liked best about Christmas. I was hoping he would recall the candlelight service at church that had brought tears to my eyes. Jeremy thought awhile, then answered pertly, "People giving me presents." Not really surprised, I explained that someday he would discover the joy of giving gifts. Again there was a long pause, then: "Will that be when I am old enough to use big scissors?" I suffered two miscarriages after Jeremy was born, and I feared I could not provide him a sibling. The second episode was particularly difficult because I was in the fourth month of pregnancy. As I lay on the living-room couch and cried, Jeremy, putting around the house in a little plastic car, asked me what was wrong. "I'm just down in the dumps right now," I replied, and he immediately put my words to music: "Mommy is down in the dumps; be back pretty soon, OK?" How close are joy and sorrow! In his poem on children in The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran advises parents to "strive to be like (your children), but seek not to make them like you." In town one September, after attending his first football game, Trevor piped up from the back seat, "Why don't they play with two balls so they don't have to fight with each other?" A few years later, as Trevor's Cub Scout den mother supervising a relay race, I watched a group of 8-year-olds spontaneously arrange themselves into teams that would produce a tie. A shortage of babysitters made it impossible for Rolf and me to hike together when our boys were young, and I realized that if I was going to do any exploring I would have to master navigation by compass and topo map. After a few mistakes, I gained confidence and sometimes discovered something of interest, such as a loon chick, a dead moose, or an abandoned, rusty coyote trap. I hiked slowly and had time to learn the ovenbird's exuberant flight song, sung in evenings over clearings. Alone in the woods, I was quiet, open to the magic of the place. I have rarely felt so close to God, so tuned in to "The Force" which flows through creation, and it occurred to me that this was "the peace that passes all understanding" I had felt from time to time in church. Years earlier, on my knees, saying the words of the General Confession ("We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep...."), I had felt connected to people who, for hundreds of years, had made the same admission, and, kneeling between my near-perfect parents, I realized that I would never outgrow this human experience of blundering, confession and forgiveness. Both in church and in the woods, I felt completely alive, accepted, "a part of the main", overwhelmed with joyful humility, and loved. What a revelation, to be able to see that Christianity is completely compatible with my love of nature! How many other ways have people experienced this sense of oneness, the power of the Spirit? As a camp counselor, I had made a collection of wise sayings, and one by Karl Rahner comes to mind as I try to describe this indescribable feeling: In love, the gates of my soul spring open, allowing me to breathe a new air of freedom and forget my own petty self. In love, my whole being streams forth out of the rigid confines of narrowness and self-assertion which make me a prisoner of my own poverty and emptiness. One consistent effect of my solo reveries was that I returned home content and eager to pick up whatever burden I had left behind; deep gratitude demands expression. With small children at my feet and Rolf's research project always in need of help, my duties were clear. Refreshed and restored, I was pleased to have purposeful work to do. Like Laura Edisen, I put my praise into action through everyday chores.

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