Traps Along the Trails

By T.J. Dunn, DVM

This engaging story of a man and a wolf illuminates how similar the two species are in experiencing joy, pain, relationships, affection and even surviving life-changing trauma.  Michael Ferris, a young and very successful wildlife photographer and sculpture leaves a troubled home after high school graduation.  His excitement about the natural world in Alaska lures him north to Anchorage.  Serendipitous interaction with a like-minded young lady from the Chicago suburbs, and a big lug-nut of a dog named Malik, the couple develop strong bonds of love for each other and empathy for sentient animals.  The artist learns from from a fleeting but life-changing glimpse of secretive wolf about the meaning of empathy and how to embrace the consciousness and struggles of a wolf the locals in the Alaskan outback called CRIP.  The parallel  life events of the wolf and the man are skillfully rendered in the author's captivating prose.  Long after reading the last page you will ponder the life lessons and individuals the author presents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098050849

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Early Years

Kids don’t remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are.

—Jim Henson

Summer, 1972

A peaceful stillness pervaded the early morning scene. Pecking at nondescript tidbits, the small group of pigeons was working the center of Culver Road, intent on filling empty innards before some intruder swept their bird morsels away. Cooing in contentment, the generic-looking gray pigeons were safe in their predawn surroundings while living out their pigeon essence by doing what pigeons do.

And then came the faint sound. Wings maybe? No, a mechanical, unreal sound, getting louder, higher-pitched, closer. Whirr, whirr. Out of the gray morning mist burst a frightful figure, legs pumping with determination, white teeth showing through a tight-lipped grimace. As if blasted from a shotgun, the pigeons exploded upward toward the safety of the sky. The swift steel rod sliced through the empty spaces among their struggling wings.

Darn, I missed ’em again. The bicycle slowed from its all-out racing mode, and the whirring settled back to a steady low whine as the rider, fishing rod in hand, looked back over his shoulder at the fleeing birds.

Mike Ferris, nine years old, bike beneath him, fishing pole, tackle box, lunch bag, and can of worms in various modes of attachment, was on his early morning way to Cobbs Hill. He was going fishing, and he was as free and happy as a kid could be.

He always wondered why the only time the pigeons would bunch up in the road was very early in the morning and never any other time of the day. With the millions of miles he’s traveled on his bike, the closest he’s ever come to capturing a live bird was very early in the morning. He needed to knock one out of the air and hold it. Nothing else. He just needed to capture a live bird, touch it, feel its wings, look it in the eye up close, talk to it, and let it go on a frenzied feathered flight to freedom. Then, maybe someday he could fly away too just as the pigeons do.

Culver Road, Cobbs Hill, the chilly dampness of five o’clock in the morning, pigeons in the street, and being first at the pond, these were important aspects of his life and worth staying up late after watering the lawn in order to entice the fat brown night crawlers to the surface, worth asking Mom to fix a lunch that most certainly would be eaten before anyone else was even having breakfast, and worth climbing out of bed when it’s still dark and mysterious outside. It was worth it because maybe today Mike Ferris would catch a big bass at Cobbs Hill. He’s seen them, and once in a while, somebody else would catch one. Someday he was going to catch one too and show his dad.

Mike liked spending time at Cobbs Hill. He considered it his territory. He, at nine years of age, knew better than any of his friends the best bike trails through the woods or where the best vines were for swinging Tarzan-like beneath the bending branches. He knew the fastest shortcuts to the reservoir at the top of the hill and which old buildings housed the witches or the spooks and the ones that were safe for roof climbing. He knew from experience where the poison ivy patches were and the secluded, private paths where the teenagers would go to make out.

Exploring new areas was always a fascination, mostly because he’d find out that the subtle sense of fear he had when stepping into unknown territory would give way to the pride of bravery when he mastered the new territory and claimed it as part of his own.

And just like any nine-year-old, he was always testing the natural world around him. One of his favorite experiments was conducted on the stunted bluegills that infested the pond at Cobbs Hill. Curious to see the effects, Mike, on occasion, would slice off one or another of the fins of a bluegill and gently set it back in the water and with focused scrutiny watch the now confused fish relearn to swim.

The best place for these observations happened to be through one of the knotholes that pocked the wooden planks of the huge casting deck. The wooden structure was a sacred place with circular rings, metal bells, and other targets various distances out in the water; it was used only for serious casting practice. There was even a sign that said, No Fishing from Deck: For Casting Practice Only. But young Michael Ferris fished there anyway.

Mike knew this exact spot held the greatest number of fish in the whole pond, which was the major reason he liked to be at Cobbs Hill early, so no one else would be around to kick him off the deck for fishing there. Being on the casting deck also prompted within him one of the real fears in his life—big kids who’d boss him around or threaten to steal his tackle box or grown-ups who’d yell at him for fishing from the casting deck. Sometimes there were grown-ups in the park who’d try to get him off his bike or yell at him for riding too fast. Those fears were always lurking nearby, covered up only by his comfort in knowing that this place was his place and he liked being here.

Nevertheless, it was always a risk to be someplace where there might be someone bigger or older than you, like the incident that burned into his nine-year-old brain that happened one day.

Mike was fishing from shore one morning when he heard the laughter of some kids coming along the tree-lined path surrounding the pond. Mike hoped they’d keep going and thought if he kept his head down, kept looking into the water, they would hardly take note of him.

Hey, kid, whatcha doin’?

Mike pretended he didn’t hear the older voice. They stopped their bikes right behind him.

Another one said, What’s the matter? Ya deaf? My buddy asked ya a question!

In faked bravery, Mike answered with a strong tone, I’m fishing. What does it look like I’m doing? And he thought as a lump formed in his throat, Please God, make them go away.

Whatcha got in the tackle box?

Lures and hooks, Mike responded.

Let’s see ’em. We’ll tell ya if they’re any good. And the four boys started coming closer.

Mike didn’t like the looks of these four kids or their tone of voice. Mike’s heart was pounding, and he was breathing fast; his eyes got watery as he wondered if he should make friends with these guys, play along and show them his tackle box, or just the opposite and bluff a strength he knew he didn’t possess. For sure, these guys meant trouble.

Gimme the tackle box, kid. And the biggest one laid his bike down and came right up to Mike’s face. In a low, mean voice, he repeated slowly, Gimme that stupid tackle box! Without warning, he slammed his flattened palms into Mike’s heaving chest sending him backward and off-balance and tripping over another intruder who’d crouched right behind Mike to assure he would land flat on his back.

It happened so fast. Now Mike could hardly breathe he landed so hard. Mixed emotions flooded his brain nearly to overload; he hated these guys and wanted desperately to be strong enough to fight back, but they had him. He felt anger and frustration that he was crying and with all his strength tried to suppress the tears of fear and frustration. He was mad because they hurt him, but even angrier because they stripped him of his pride by making him cry.

Oh, look at the baby. He’s crying! Why don’t you run home to your mommy, ya baby?

Then one of the boys jumped off his bike and walked over to where Mike lay pinned on his back. He kicked dirt into Mike’s face and hair and said, Crybabies aren’t allowed to fish. So maybe ya don’t need these lures anymore.

And one by one, the intruders began tossing Mike’s most important worldly possessions into the water.

Cut it out. Those are mine, you idiot! Mike screamed, still on the ground trying to catch his breath between sobbing convulsions.

What? Idiot? Did you call me an idiot? Is that what you called me, you little pipsqueak?

Now the others joined in with mock amazement and disbelief that this wimpy little kid would be so crazy as to call their buddy an idiot.

As the encounter proceeded, two of the boys held Mike down while the other two tore open the brown paper bag containing his sandwich, apple, and candy bar his mother had packed for him. One ate the apple and candy bar, while the other ate half of the sandwich and complained about what a lousy sandwich it was and that it could only have been made by a lousy mother.

The intruder took some dirt and with mock tenderness placed it into the sandwich, pronouncing it now fit to eat.

Mike was still on his back with his head between the knees of the biggest kid and two others holding his arms and legs painfully pinned to the ground; what was left of the sandwich was stuffed into Mike’s mouth. He wanted to scream, he wanted them off, and he gasped for air while struggling in vain to turn his head away. Then he felt very hot all over, then calm, and then like he was floating.

As he choked up the dirt and bread, his brain registered the sight of this bicycle fifteen feet away entering the water with a quiet splash accompanied by the nervous laughter and brazen smart talk of the four boys.

Hey, crybaby, next time tell your stupid mother to put more butter on the sandwich!

Then they were gone.

Mike Ferris, fisherman, slowly walked the three-and-a-half miles home. He was angry and wanted to get even somehow, but he resigned himself to being helpless against odds that clearly overpowered him. But on that long walk home, he comforted himself by making a solemn vow that when he got older, no one and nothing would ever take anything from him and get away with it. Mike intended to tell his dad about the incident, and on the long walk home, his thoughts were occupied with questions about just how his father would react. Mike could never figure out why most of the time his dad would generate a sense of comfort and encouragement, give him the impression of invincibility and wisdom, and then on other occasions act very weird and foreign. Whenever he got like that, Mike made sure he vacated his dad’s immediate area. Deep in some unnamed part of him, Mike would get a sick, empty feeling whenever his dad got like that. So he’d go hide someplace where he felt safe.

Oddly, for all its potential for unwanted excitement, Cobbs Hill Park would be for Mike such a place of safety, especially whenever Carver Dean was there. That’s what Mike and all the other kids called him; no one actually knew his real name, but as far as they were concerned, that was his real name, Carver Dean.

To the kids and even some adults, Carver Dean was the embodiment of Santa Claus without the red-and-white uniform. He was big and round-bellied and had scruffy white hair and a billowy beard. Situated in the shade of a huge umbrellalike cottonwood tree, Carver Dean would talk softly, almost as if to himself, and his speech had a deep, wet sound to it. And since he never said too much at any one time, the youngsters who orbited his chair would listen intently to his words of wisdom. They trusted this old man.

If you asked the kids of Cobbs Hill, Carver Dean was the smartest man in the world. Every so often when he was in the right mood, he would tell original stories to anyone who’d listen, but it was obvious the younger the crowd, the more fanciful the content. And there always seemed to be a moral or lesson to his concluding storyline. Sometimes the stories would be about Buffalo Bob and his faithful horse Thundercup. On other occasions, there would be tales of the mountain wilderness beyond the mighty Mississippi that was the home territory of wolves and mountain lions. And he had volumes of tall stories about explorers and fur trappers and their unhappy fates. People liked to sit in the grassy shade of Carver Dean’s cottonwood and watch him do what he did best—create exact replicas of animals simply by working over a block of wood with his pocketknife. Slowly, deliberately, with thickened and wrinkled weather-worn hands, Carver Dean would ask, Whatcha like me to make? to no one in particular. Somehow, he’d decide what response seemed most worthy of the next hour’s attention, and he’d set the blade to that block and carve the dead places out of it and bring the wood to life.

Countless were the days that Mike Ferris, having run out of bait or maybe simply for the closeness, would sit right next to the old man and watch the knife blade peel across the wood. Often, it would be just the two of them, a young boy and an old man, one real smart and the other learning how to be. They’d philosophize about a curious assortment of worldly mysteries such as what worms eat, why you can’t hear the sun burning, and how you can still see a black-and-white image of a bright scene if you squeeze your eyes closed real tight.

One day, Mike asked, How come fish don’t drown?

Carver Dean mulled over the thought momentarily and then responded, ’Cause the good Lord constructed ’em with special water breathin’ lungs tucked up under their gizzards that allows ’em to suck oxygen direct from the water so’s they don’t need no air. It works much better ’n our way of breathin’ ’cause fish only require one or two good gulps of water and they’re set for a full year. And mostly they do their breathin’ at night so’s there’s only one or two people in the whole world who’s ever seen a fish breathe.

Oh. And now Mike knew why fish don’t drown.

All the youngsters, even the girls, carried little pocketknives wherever they went. It was a requirement to have these two possessions, a bike and a pocketknife, and as a result, impromptu whittling sessions were a common occurrence under Carver Dean’s cottonwood tree. He’d show anyone how to make a real whistle out of a two-inch piece of branch by simply making a few properly placed cuts, boring out the middle, and plugging one end with mud. Wooden fishhooks were a specialty. And tricks about how to make good letters sent the kids off on a race to see who could be first to carve out their full name.

These were good days for the young lad, days he’d bring with him on the ride through the rest of his life. Often when he was older, he’d reminisce about the gentle strength of the old man in his chair under the cottonwood tree. He could see him making small talk with strangers, showing the kids how to best grip the knife to control the cut through the wood, and making up nature lessons that always provoked further questions from his attentive listeners.

In later years, Mike Ferris not only had memories of the old man to hold on to but also had a four-inch-long relic of the artist’s creation.

Carver Dean, I like bass. Can you cut me one?

And in no time at all, the leathery, stubby fingers of the old carver scraped out a miniature fish with fins sticking out and tucked up somewhere inside near some unseen gizzard were fish lungs.

Neat! I wish I could make ’em like this, the boy said in thanks.

From beneath bushy gray eyebrows, the dark, hazy eyes of Carver Dean looked squarely into the bright blue eyes of the young lad. The wet, raspy voice said, Sonny, now just who’s tellin’ ya that ya can’t?

Chapter 2

High School and the Formative Years

Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again.

Wisely improve the present, it is thine.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

April 12, 1976 to 1981

Why not, Dad?

Because I said so, that’s why not. And don’t argue with me! Brian Ferris was yelling again and quite unnecessarily. His son, Mike, was asking no more than any other eighth-grader would.

Dad, all the other guys on the team are going and—

Stop right now! he commanded with tightly curled lips and fire in his eyes and came at the boy with his fists ready for a fight.

Dad, why do you get like this? Mike screamed in desperate frustration and ran out the back door of his house, not failing to flip the door vigorously shut as if to slam it permanently.

If he could keep his father out of his life for good, he would, but when you’re in junior high school, you’re a long way from independence. Mike hated these nasty, sometimes violent, encounters with this father. They seemed to crop up unexpectedly and for no good reason. Mostly, though, they’d happen late at night while Mike and his older brother Jeff were in bed and supposed to be sleeping.

For as long as he could remember, Mike had to listen to the awful quarrels and loud, scary fights his mom and dad would have down in the kitchen. Furniture would suddenly get pushed around, his mom would be crying and pleading, and Mike’s dad would threaten to leave forever.

Certain words and scenes punctured their way into Mike’s life and echoed back to him later, long after the late-night battles were over. Sometimes during class, the cries of his mother repeatedly yelling, Stop! Stop it! would jar him into a realm distant and unknown to his classmates sitting nearby. He’d look around, certain they’d heard her pleas too, and then he’d struggle to regain a more studious frame of mind, safe from the painful recollections of his mother’s torment.

A hundred times he listened to his father threaten to leave. Don’t make me do it, woman! Don’t make me walk outta here!

And Mike could never figure out what his mom could have done to make his dad so angry. During the day, nobody ever acted like last night happened, and at times Mike had some disbelief, half wondering if he dreamed up the fighting and screaming. His mom and dad didn’t seem to talk much to each other, and if Mike said anything to his mom about how his dad acted, she’d brush it off with a verbal Band-Aid. Oh, your father’s just under a lot of pressure at work. He really doesn’t mean what he says when he gets like that.

When he gets like that, Mike heard himself using that phrase a million times about his father. Mike loved his dad, but not when he gets like that. And his dad was usually nice to him and Jeff, but not when he gets like that. And he was never mean to his mom except when he gets like that.

Mike hated most those endless nights trapped in bed, confined to the darkness of his room, with nowhere to hide from the drunken noises. The one time he did come down to see what was going on, he got picked right up off the floor and, while his dad suspended him with one arm around his middle, butt-wholloped the daylights out of him.

Don’t you ever, ever come down here again when your mother and I are talking. Do you understand me?

Yes, Dad! Mike screamed.

While still smacking Mike’s buttocks and legs, Brian Ferris would demand again, Do you understand?

Yes, Dad! I said yes!

And Mike never came downstairs again when his dad got like that. As agonizing as lying in the dark of his room was, it was more secure than venturing into the certain violence of the kitchen even if in defense of his mother. Mike wondered why he acted like that to his mother and pushed her around and made her scream. She was the nicest mom in the whole world.

On the quiet nights when no fighting occurred, Mike would be just as tense in anticipation of an encounter, conditioned to expect the nightmare to break out any second. Merciful sleep would finally overcome the boy but serve only to hasten the coming of the next day’s realities. And he gradually got used to the silence, got used to holding inside the burning questions he longed to discuss. The loner in him began to take root.

Mike often went over to Jimmy Carey’s house where the entire Mel’s Sports Shop Little League baseball team would spend Friday night, and then all went to their Saturday morning game together. They set up Jimmy’s garage like a bunkhouse, with sleeping