y first encounter with an ermine was one I’ll never forget. I was 9 years old, and my dad had a side business doing cabinet and wood work in our garage. He had a large pile of scrap lumber that would pile up in the winter behind the garage. Being a young boy, I would often tinker with the endless toys that a pile of wood scraps would provide. One day the rear garage door flung open and my father yelled, “Get out of here!” Out came a weasel, as white as the driven snow with a black tip on its tail. Into the woodpile it went. Between the woodpile and the garage is where it remained for
