DREAMING WITH WOLVES

When I was little, I had a recurring nightmare.

We lived in Glasbury-on-Wye’s village hostelry, The Harp Inn, an old stone building with uneven slate roof tiles.  The building had all sorts of nooks and crannies complete with an extensive network of cellars.

I hated that subterranean world. In daylight it was a damp flagstone route to our extensive garden through a doorway that was actually a window with steep steps on either side. No matter the daylight cast by the naked light bulbs in the ceiling beams, dark shadows created a gloom that made the space just plain creepy.

At night it seemed to have a mind of its own, pitch black with periodic drips falling from above.

The dream began with my father asking me, actually imploring me, to go down to the cellar for some item he needed urgently in the bar.  I froze on the spot because I knew there were wolves hiding between the cider crates and beer barrels. I had no choice but to go.  

Stepping from the kitchen scullery with its various buckets containing coal for the fires, scraps for the pigs and compost for the garden I entered the hideous world of the cellar.  Gripping the hollow tubular handrail I began the descent down uneven wooden steps.

With a lump in my throat I reached the paving stones at the foot of the stairs.  Passing the meat locker with its battered netting door and wooden frame, its red paint peeling, I could feel their presence and almost smell their damp fur.  The wolves leaned forward, their piercing eyes, salivating lips and sharp claws ready to snatch me up and carry me away.

And then I would wake up.

Over the years this childish dream has been buried deep in my consciousness but the moment I came face to face with a beautiful grey wolf on the shores of Hudson Bay those memories came flooding back.  But somehow I had been released from the nightmare.  

There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

We had been watching the wolf for a while as he stalked his way across the headland hunting for fowl or goose.  Unsuccessful, his attention turned to us as he strode purposefully towards us through the scrub and bushes, now ablaze with the colours of autumn.  Sidestepping the puddles that had formed on the muddy tundra he stopped to survey us with a front leg raised slightly. 

It was a long curious stare ending with a nose raised in the air as if new quarry had revealed itself from the ether.  He looked away as if to investigate the source taking a few steps then quickened his pace away from the gobsmacked audience.


Later we encountered the rest of his pack who had taken up residence on the dirt runway in front of Nanuk Lodge. Safely in the Lodge’s great room we watched a black bear emerge from the undergrowth that skirted the chain link fence between Lodge and the great outdoors.

The bear lumbered across the runway and to our horror the wolves followed.  I must confess to a sinking feeling as to what might have happened next beyond our view. Thankfully, reports later confirmed the wolf pack had moved on and the black bear was back, unscathed.

I decided that wolves may have had a bad rap given my childhood memories because the experience had left me struck by their curiosity, their piercing eyes signalling such a strong sense of knowing and intelligence, and quite possibly a mutual understanding.