Consequently, whenever we were fortunate enough to hear the wolves’ sonorous songs piercing the twilight, we felt as though the wilderness itself was singing us a lullaby.
Almost imperceptibly, however, their howling became more and more infrequent until one summer in the early 1960s, we realized their voices had stopped altogether.
“Have you heard the wolves yet this summer, Daddy?” we asked.
“No,” he answered, a sadness crossing his face, “I have not.”
He said no more. He knew what we children did not: that not everyone loved the wolves as we did. Due to occasional livestock attacks, human fear, and stubborn myths, wolves were being eradicated from the Northwoods faster than one could say, “Bull’s eye!”
“My father was one of those wolf hunters,” a Wisconsin friend told me recently. “I remember twenty or more fresh wolf pelts strung up in a row on our barn siding to dry. He hunted them because there was a bounty on them and we needed the money.” Blasting guns replaced the wolves’ mournful lament, and without their singing, the forest seemed lonelier.
Thankfully, over the course of several decades, improved education and sustainable wildlife awareness have altered the wolves’ death sentence, and the animals are beginning to make a comeback in some states, including Wisconsin.
Because they were listed as an endangered species and under protection of the law, their numbers grew, so much so that gradually over the last several years, reports of seeing and hearing wolves began to surface around our Northwoods lake once again.
Oh, how I longed to be one of those witnesses!
On the tenth anniversary of September 11, I happened to be on our cabin porch, the same spot where I had last heard the wolves fifty-three years earlier. Saddened by memories of the day, I decided to play my flute, something I often did on the porch as a child, and began to perform some favorite old hymns to the empty lake and forest.
I warmed up with two verses of “This Is My Father’s World,” and as I let my last note fade off into the woods, a song of sweet, low harmony echoed back to me.
My heartbeat quickened. Was I hearing what I thought I was? Yet, I recognized their voices immediately, as if they were long lost old friends.
Wolves!
Loud and clear, their howls issued forth from the same old Willie the Wolf wetland home of years gone by. There were at least three of them, their howls alternating and blending with each other like an encore to my flute.
Their song lasted only a minute or two, so I quickly began to play the hymn on the next page, “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” I could barely believe it—the wolves once again sang back to me! Not wanting to stop the magic, I played a third hymn. Again, the wolves performed their own discordant descant.
Intent on making this spontaneous symphony continue, I turned the page to whatever hymns were next. On came “Silent Night” and “Away in a Manger.” Each time I played, the wolves followed with their own mystical version.
Finally, however, I sensed their sudden absence. Like the murmurs and applause of a satisfied audience, the only sound that greeted me was the soft wind whispering through the pines and the gently lapping waves upon the shore. The wolves had moved on.
I’m happy to report that I have heard them several times since. Just this August, sitting with my family on our old cabin porch, our after-dinner conversation was suddenly interrupted by a loud, clear chorus of wolves. Surprised by this moonlight serenade, my husband, sister, and I hurried down to the lake so that our aging ears would not miss a note.
With twinkling stars as the stage lights and a forest-rimmed lake as our amphitheater, we sat side by side in a couple of worn chairs on the dock as though we were at our own personal wolf concert. Not chancing to break the spell, we sat in utter stillness, mesmerized by the melodies floating skyward to the Milky Way.
Haunting, lyrical, rising, falling. As though in a woodland a cappella choir, each wolf wove its voice among the others’. Sometimes a soloist would take the lead, emanating a long low howl against the backup singers. Sometimes they kept a sprightly round going, each wolf entering at a different time. And sometimes they just sang to the beat of their own drums, those ancient melodies resonating into the night.
Gradually, their voices began to fade, and, in too short a time, we were left once again to a silent amphitheater. Climbing back up the old log stairs to the cabin, the three of us sensed without speaking that we had been graced with something magical.
Recently, the government allowed hunting season on the wolves to recommence in Wisconsin. We have come full circle from their near extinction to their now well-populated but controversial status. Some argue that their numbers have thinned the trophy deer, some complain that they prey on livestock, some say out of fear and loathing, “Just shoot, shovel, and shut up.”
But I say, having listened to the transcendent song of the wolf, that I have heard something beyond myself, beyond the controversies of our society, even beyond understanding.
I have heard the harmony of a shared creation.
And, in doing so, I have been blessed.
Listen!
Swimming across Big Water
The lake loomed lovely and large. It sparkled and winked in the early morning light, daring me to take the plunge. I tried to ignore it, but it was no use.
Perhaps it was the fact that my husband had greeted me as the sun rose on my sixty-fifth birthday with a cheery, “Welcome to the Senior Citizen Club!” Or maybe it was because I had just bid a tearful farewell to my son, daughter-in-law, and three little granddaughters after a splendid week together at our Northwoods cabin. It could have been the knowledge that I was successfully signed up for Medicare, Social Security, and a renewed driver’s license. Or maybe it was just that I needed to do something big in defiance of growing old.
I stared out at the wild beauty of the water and answered its challenge. Why not swim to an island out in the middle of the lake to celebrate turning sixty-five? It seemed just the ticket for me. And maybe someday it would serve as an inspiration for my grandchildren, particularly my five granddaughters. I had to try.
No stylish wet suit, goggles, flippers, or swim cap for this old Northwoods girl. Instead I threw on a well-worn swimsuit, clipped my gray-streaked hair to the top of my head, stepped off the shore, and waded into the water. Its cool silkiness greeted me like a strong embrace. “Refreshing!” as my family likes to say. With my husband willing to row beside me in our old aluminum fishing boat, I was off. A loon floated nearby like a welcoming escort.
Over forty-seven years ago, I earned my Life Saving and Water Safety Instructor’s certificates as a physical education requirement for college. But although I am a good swimmer, I am not a long-distance swimmer. The longest I had ever swum was thirty minutes in a lap pool at home or, when up at the lake, out and back about fifty yards three times in a row. Serious swimmers would yawn.
In addition, though I love to swim, I prefer a leisurely pace utilizing the breaststroke, sidestroke, or backstroke over the more aggressive crawl that most swimmers use. After all, what’s the hurry? I find swimming not only a relaxing physical exercise but also meditative. Sometimes I get my best ideas doing the sidestroke. Besides, who wants your face in the water when you can look at the clouds?
When I was a child spending summer vacations at our family’s log cabin, Wake Robin, at the other end of the lake, my mother used to challenge my four siblings and me to swim to an island about three hundred yards off our dock. She would row beside us, cheering us on. Our reward was a piece of birchbark inscribed with our accomplishment and tacked to a cabin wall. We have continued the tradition with our own children; all five cousins rose to the occasion, as had their parents before them.
As I started my swim, I was reminded of those endeavors. In spirit, I was not sixty-five years old but ten. And although my siblings and I still own and use Wake Robin, my husband and I spend most of our time at the other end of the lake at our retirement cabin,
purchased to accommodate our growing family. Although it would be a big stretch for me, I decided my goal should be Picnic Island, right in the middle of the 750-acre lake and between the two cabins. It seemed like a symbolic link between my youth and my new designation as Senior Citizen.
As I breaststroked away from our dock, my destination was hidden from view. I would need to round a point of land that jutted out slightly in the middle of our bowl-shaped bay before I could see the island. Amazingly, it wasn’t long before I was past the closest neighbor’s dock, about fifty yards out. I had never swum this far from shore, and, I have to admit, it seemed a bit daunting, especially since I wasn’t even sure I could make it to Picnic Island. But with my husband rowing calmly by my side, I knew I could grab hold of the boat’s gunwales and rest if I needed to. Life jackets were at the ready, or, if I was really fatigued, I could climb the old boat ladder we had thrown in at the last minute and call it a day.
Safety nets, so to speak, were in place, and as I swam on, I wondered how far my strength would take me. Who knew? Each stroke took me closer to the deepest part of our lake, on record at sixty-four feet, and not far from the island I was headed toward. Our lake is known for its great fishing, and I tried not to think of the giant muskies that roamed the deep beneath me. I was grateful my route did not have me skimming over any waving weed beds. Instead, I chose to observe the trees, the blue sky, and the landmarks I was slowly but surely passing, one by one.
Here came Candy Island on my left, a final destination I had first considered. I had never swum there, but that goal seemed too easy. On this special day, I needed a goal I was not sure I could achieve; otherwise, where was the challenge? Still, it was a thrill to glide past Candy Island and know that, yes, I could have made that one! I was glad I was pushing on; otherwise, my swim would have been over, and at this point, I felt like my adventure had just begun.
As I passed another neighbor’s dock or a signature tall pine, it seemed as if each ricocheted me forward with the energy of a pinball machine. On I swam, farther and farther out.
Slowly, I closed in on Musky Point, the farthest outer peninsula of our bay, and at long last I could see my destination. Picnic Island, with its spires of elegant red pines, site of many a fine campfire meal, was within reach. I knew I could make it.
Yet, as I eased out of the bay and entered the wide waters of the lake, a surprising change occurred. Not only did the wind and waves pick up, but I suddenly realized I felt exhilarated, not fatigued. Glancing down the lake to the far north end, I could just make out the dock of my youth. It called to me.
“I’m feeling good,” I shouted up to my husband. “I think I want to try to make it to Wake Robin. It looks like I’m about halfway there.”
“Better change course then,” he said. “No need to go to Picnic Island.”
And so, like Peter Pan, I hung a right and turned toward my home star.
As though anticipating my move, Sisters Wind and Wave greeted me with an encouraging boost, adding a bonus buoyancy and current to help me along.
Oh, such freedom!
All around me the lake sparkled in the morning light. I was far from any shore, and with no other boats around, I felt like an otter at play. Surprisingly, my strength and confidence improved with every stroke.
All this time, my husband patiently followed me in the fishing boat, its battered silver sides reflecting the morning light.
“Are you getting tired of rowing?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “It’s pleasant out here and a beautiful day.”
Actually, at my speed, he was more drifting than rowing. He should have brought a beer and tossed in a line. Is it any wonder I’ve been married to that man for forty-four years?
Backstroke, sidestroke, breaststroke, float. Whatever worked at the moment was my stroke of choice; there was no rhyme or reason to my pattern. Why ruin the ambiance by counting?
Sometimes it seemed I was hardly moving at all. The spire of pine I had designated as the next landmark to pass occasionally appeared to stay in the exact same place, as if I was only treading water. The brilliant white head of an eagle perched high in its branches seemed to follow my every move.
Perhaps he thought I was prey. Maybe I was.
At this point in my swim, my body seemed to go on autopilot, freeing my mind to the whims of conscience.
For some reason, faces of old friends and family showed up in happy abundance, reconnecting me to pleasant memories from the past. It was like swimming back to the watery playground of my youth, physically, mentally, and spiritually.
After a while, however, I found myself floating on my back more often, breathing more deeply of the pine-scented air. Above me the sky glowed brilliant blue. Sculpted white clouds moved over me, casting me in alternating shadow and sunshine. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what heaven looked like. Peace with my youth and peace with aging joined hands in unified harmony. And because of that, more than anything, I felt grateful. Grateful for each day of this achingly sweet life.
It took me one hour and twenty minutes to swim the mile and a half across the big water of the lake, but I did it. As I hauled my wobbly legs up the ladder of Wake Robin’s dock, rather than feeling exhausted, I experienced another surprise: the liberating gift of renewal and energy. My fear of growing older moved on with the waves.
I was stronger than I thought, could go farther than I knew. Oh, youth! Why did I not know that then?
And yet, at that moment, I realized it was not too late.
Dear twilight of twinkling possibilities! Whatever stars are within my reach, let me not miss the opportunity, but hang my hopes on the brightest one in the Milky Way and sail on.
Acknowledgments
With a grateful heart, I give thanks to:
♦my husband, Dave, for his endless encouragement, insight, and wisdom as my armchair editor,
♦my sons, John, Bob, and Tom, for their gracious acceptance (especially after the fact) of anything I wrote about them, and for continuous, sincere interest in and good cheer for all my writing efforts,
♦my daughters-in-law, Lara, Jennifer, and Rachel, for their tender and loving friendship and support,
♦my sister Nancy for her “O for Awesome” proofreading and formatting skills on my original manuscript, and for my brothers, David and Tom, and my sister Mary for always being there with lots of love,
♦my late father, a.k.a. Sourdough Sam, for passing on his joy of storytelling, and my late mother, Woody, for instilling a love of family history,
♦my large extended family of “out-laws” for all the kindness and fun they bring to the mix,
♦the Congregational Church of Batavia for the many faces of faith that have inspired me through the years,
♦the entire outstanding staff at the Wisconsin Historical Society Press, especially Kathy Borkowski, Kate Thompson, Elizabeth Boone, and Kristin Gilpatrick,
♦and most importantly, my wonderful editor, Elizabeth Wyckoff, for her thoughtfulness, enthusiasm, clear insight, and beautiful suggestions,
♦my delightful former editors, Denise Joyce of the Chicago Tribune and Bob Musinski of the Daily Herald, for opening doors to numerous writing opportunities,
♦First Writes—a fine, funny, and talented group of writers—for sharing the journey from the get-go,
♦Happy Hooker Bait and Tackle Shop owners Pat and Lori Jones, for their generosity in allowing me to park my car by their air hose for long periods of time in order to use their Wi-Fi connection in the Northwoods,
♦my many dear friends (you know who you are) who have given me long years of happiness, laughter, and listening hearts,
♦and most notably, my cherished grandchildren, Lily, Amber, Joy, Elena, Ryan, and Alice, for continually sharing with me their inspiring creativity and enchanting love, and for sometimes choosing my first book, Return to Wake Robin, for their very own special Show and Tell moments at school.
About the Author
> Marnie O. Mamminga was born and raised in the Chicago area. She attended the University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign where she earned undergraduate and master’s degrees in English. Over the years, Mamminga raised three sons, taught junior high and high school English, and worked as a freelance writer and columnist.
Her publishing credits include the Chicago Tribune, Chicago Tribune Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Daily Herald, Detroit Free Press Magazine, Lake Superior Magazine, Midwest Prairie Review, Reader’s Digest, and several Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
Mamminga has presented at many writers’ workshops, including the Wisconsin Writers’ Institute, and often speaks at bookclubs, organizations, and events. Her first book, Return to Wake Robin: One Cabin in the Heyday of Northwoods Resorts, a memoir of evocative Northwoods remembrances, received a starred review in Publishers Weekly, was chosen by Parade Magazine as one of the best reads of summer 2012, and was selected by Wisconsin Public Radio for their renowned “Chapter A Day” series.
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