Clouds and Wolves

A monster shelf of clouds has been towering over the mountains west of Helena all day. I caught a glimpse of it just minutes ago as the final traces of navy blue sky gave way to black. If there were any real threat within that mass of clouds, I imagine some people around here would be worried. After all, when danger lurks, it's nice to be able to see it. But night has arrived. Day is somewhere else. And I'd be left with nervous speculation for a companion if I believed that those clouds posed any risk.

I think back to the opening events in Jack London's White Fang. During the beginning of the book, London vaults the reader right into a serious struggle (he uses toil or a form of it repeatedly, and it is brilliant use of a verb). Two men are journeying through the frozen, hard north country. Their task is transporting a casket, assisted by their team of sled dogs. A hungry wolf pack begins taking the dogs one by one. Eventually all the men's dogs, and even one of the men, fall prey to the wolves. The second man is rescued, quite literally, at the last possible minute.

What is interesting, however, is how London crafts the pack's presence. Specifically, how the men sense the wolves at night as the pack moves around their camp, just far enough from the glow of the fire to avoid being seen. If you have read the story, then you know full well just how effectively London grabs you and shoves you right into that camp, and how nerve-racking it is to be there. The danger is out there. London's characters know it. Daylight in this part of the book, by virtue of the north's winter season, is scarce. The darkness outside of the fire's glow only serves to amplify the men's fear. Their enemy--the pack--is active, and it is excruciating not to know what the enemy is doing in the darkness.

For various reasons, I've had some discussions with my wife recently about things like danger and safety. I'm the kind of person who wants certainty. I can deal with ambiguity in some areas of my life. In other spaces, however, I want to know what to expect. I want to know what things mean. I want to know why some things I've heard were said, and what I'm supposed to do about them. Some of my questions have turned out to be my nemeses. They have become my wolves. My enemies. And it doesn't matter how mammoth my campfire is, they remain, it seems, just beyond the light. They circle and dance, and when dawn breaks down that firelight wall around the camp, my wolves retreat to the groves of "dark spruce" (to borrow terms from London). They take off to the other side of a nearby hill. But they return with the blackness. They always do.

The good news is that my wolves are quite tame. They do not stop life the way London's wolves did. But there are times when my uncertainties are potent. My wife had some good things to say about those times when I find myself there, listening to the wolves slink around my camp: "You just gotta do whatever you need to do to prepare yourself for whatever might come your way." She's right. And it's right for everyone.

Preparation is the key. It could be learning or training or storing food or loving your kids or any number of things. For London's two men, the key would have been to bring more ammunition. They had a rifle, you see. They had the beginnings of what they needed. But when the wolves started causing problems the men only had three cartridges left. The situation deteriorated quickly. Things clearly would have been far different if they had packed more of what they needed. Many of us have found ourselves situations where we wish we had brought more, or bought more, or studied more, or ventured out into learning something new. My list of those experiences would likely be longer than one page.

Once again, I need to listen to my wife. As I prepare myself in as many ways as I can for whatever may come, my uncertainties will weaken. My wolves will become poodles. And if the looming clouds around Helena ever do pose some kind of threat, I'll be ready.