The weather had been playing it’s favorite bait-&-switch game all day. Earlier, great gusts of snow-laden wind had suddenly darkened the ranch yard where moments before bluebirds had been cavorting in the sun. Now, the snow had momentarily turned to a cold mist that lightened the surrounding hills.
A long echoing howl floatd down, followed and then overtaken by melodic harmonies alternately holding a note and then fading, just to have another take it’s place with a yip and chittering yowl.
Rushing to the spotting scope, I beheld my first sighting of a Frank Church wolf pack. Sitting perfectly and spaced as precisely as if choreographed, the ten wolves were surveying the lower kingdom from their perch on a high crest. The light snow falling at that elevation softened their outlines through the scope, but the details were still evident. Nine grey with black members arrayed themselves around one monstrous white wolf, sitting off-center in the pack.
As I watched, the white wolf lifted it’s muzzle to the side and formed a perfect “O”. Immediately, several other mimicked the motion. Seconds later their brief serenade drifted to my wondering ears again.
Then, within moments, a decision was made with no visible sign. The pack rose & turned left and disappeared as a unit over the crest. But, as if to tantalize, a few reappeared briefly, then they too faded into the darkening eve and let the snow cover their tracks.
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