A pack of wolves and one very lonely husky
We’ve been occupying ourselves with “uglification” projects. We are in the process of turning our beautifully crafted log home into a plywood box. The skills of the craftsman who lovingly whittled each log and pole to create this beautiful house are just no match for Neil and I with a generator, a DeWalt drill and some sheets of 8x4.
Our house was built high, one and a half stories, with a sleeping platform in the eaves. There is a painstakingly crafted rail of spruce poles creating an indoor balcony. All the heat from our barrel stove drifts upwards and over the rustic railings so when temps drops we have to sit downstairs in our parkas and then sweat our Primark pyjamas off in bed.
The move between indoors and outdoors requires the putting on or off of so many layers of clothing, I’m buggered if I’m going to do that inside the house as well. So we’re in the process of sealing off the upstairs space with 8x4s. If that doesn’t solve the problem, we’ll make another bed and sleep downstairs so we can at least live in one climate indoors.
Wolves
Anyhow, work has come to halt because of a pack of wolves. We heard by email that a dog was taken from the yard of a homestead down river in Alaska. We know those people. They have about 50 sled dogs so poor Homer, all on his tod in our yard, is looking a bit vulnerable.
We know a guy near Dawson who had all 12 of his sled dogs eaten previously and so we had brought in materials to make a strong pen for Homer for days we’re away or wolves are close by.
We woke yesterday morning to the howling of wolves. I love the sound. It is wild and lonesome and spine-chilling and every other cliché you have ever imagined. In a land that throws wildness and spectacle at you in such abundance that it sometimes feels like a theme park, I think this is the most beautiful sound. It echoes between the hills, melodious, haunting, nothing like the tuneless cacophony of a bunch of wailing huskies. But when you have animals to protect, or when you are out snow shoeing alone and unarmed, it reaches very deeply to a place of fear.
Wolves only attack humans in the most exceptional circumstances and, in my rational mind, I don’t fear being attacked by them. We are far more likely to be killed a gang of hooligan squirrels. But Homer would be a light snack and fair game to them so we’ve stopped work on other projects to work on the pen.
These wolves are across river and will be long gone once the river freezes but there are well-worn wolf trails following our creek and we had them in the yard last year. We were delighted at the time. Homer won’t be.
A pen for the shit-eater
We can’t bring him inside as he has been a working sled dog all his life and, as well as not being house-trained, he is hardwired to eat everything he can reach. That includes: anything plastic, anything we have touched, his own shit, anything else’s shit. So leaving him in the house whilst we sleep would result in large sections of the house disappearing overnight and a dog that ate himself to death rather than being eaten.
Also, huskies must live outside in order to develop their winter coat. Our last dog, for some weird genetic reasons, did not grow a decent winter coat and had to suffer this indignity.
It’s cold here. You need a coat. And we don’t have a jumper that will fit Homer.
When Homer heard the wolves he stayed very, very close. Like, this close-
The fencing is difficult to unravel and u-nail fasteners are impossible to work with unless you have fingers the size of a marmoset’s (imagine trying to fashion porcelain figurines whilst wearing a pair of oven mitts). We get so tangled up in the maze of wire roll and so struggle to secure it, we might be better off just shoving Homer into the middle of the roll. He’d never find his way out, and the wolves would never get in.
We are using the posts of our upper level porch to create the pen so it is right next the house. Homer is probably safer there, we are very lazy and it is easier like that. However, returning to the idea of uglification, we are creating the pen outside our kitchen area window. That means we’ll be looking out now through wire fencing, as if in prison.
We have also obstructed our view of the mountains by building our cache on that side. Add to that the new regime of interior design (silt-stained plywood box) and we have managed to create, in wonderful counterpoint to the jaw-dropping wilderness that surrounds us, a home that feels like a prisoner of war camp. I’m expecting to be machine gunned from the cache next time I leave the yard.
Yet another triumph of laziness and utilitarianism over aesthetics and craftsmanship in our lives.
Mantraps and medieval weapons
By coincidence we also managed to create a mantrap this week on our new main trail on to the property. Could be useful as we get more “bushy” and less inclined to receive a rare visitor?
There is a large hole about 4’ deep that was once used as a smoker. The stove is still there, rusting away. We had it well covered with sheets of old tin, but as Homer keeps cutting his feet on the junk in that area of the property, we decided to tidy the whole lot up.
We removed the jagged tin and started to cover it with old spruce poles. Then we got bored. So we just threw some rotten plywood on it. It is effectively, now covered in light snow, a mantrap for any unsuspecting visitors.
Unless we accidentally drive the snowmachine into the hole and have to hoist it out, I imagine that’s how things will stay. We’ll check it in the spring to see if anyone came by.
The junk appears to be the remains of an old fish wheel and drying racks for salmon. Hard to tell as it had been smashed to hell by ice. The trees bear the scars of a rough spring break up.
The water and ice must have rushed through in a wave wiping out everything in its path. The brush was filled with sharp scraps of tin and poles so full of nails they looked like medieval weapons.
We decided to scoop it all up into a big pile. It is much safer for the dog, but now very noticeable, so the first thing anyone will see if they ever come to visit our POW compound will be an enormous and lethal looking pile of junk. That will be shortly before they plunge into our mantrap.
Looking at tree damage I’d say the ice went within 20’ of the old cabin at the edge of our yard. Not reassuring as if it reached the top of the bank it would most certainly have swept on to the house and through it.
Homer, carpentry genius
Homer’s moment of psychic cleverness this week came as we puzzled over where to draw marks for cuts in a piece of plywood. We had to work on the reverse side. It was a brain-ache situation at the end of a long day and Homer kept thigh-barging us to get some attention.
“Christ, shall we just put him up?” I said, after he tried to dab his paw on the clean side of the board that would be our ceiling. Yes, you guessed it- it was only once we had him back on the chain that we realised he put his paw just where the cut marks needed to be made. I’m really not making this up.
Global warming
He has still not disclosed to us the date he thinks the river will freeze up and we are still wondering about it. It is scarily warm so I reckon he’s hedging his bets for a bit. I don’t think the Yukon River has ever not frozen, but I’m feeling very pleased that we always come in with a winter’s worth of supplies, and a bit concerned at the rate we are getting through them.
After a brief spell at normal temps (around -16C) we shot back up to zero. What the hell is a girl to wear? I haven't even unpacked our winter gear and we are still walking round in hiking boots we bought in Britain. Whilst global warming seems to have gone off the agenda due to other world events, up here in the subarctic it is very much on our minds.
The wolves are still howling today. They are further away, but they are still howling. Will we unravel the wire fencing in time to prevent Homer becoming wolf bait? Find out next week.
Our house was built high, one and a half stories, with a sleeping platform in the eaves. There is a painstakingly crafted rail of spruce poles creating an indoor balcony. All the heat from our barrel stove drifts upwards and over the rustic railings so when temps drops we have to sit downstairs in our parkas and then sweat our Primark pyjamas off in bed.
Wolves
Anyhow, work has come to halt because of a pack of wolves. We heard by email that a dog was taken from the yard of a homestead down river in Alaska. We know those people. They have about 50 sled dogs so poor Homer, all on his tod in our yard, is looking a bit vulnerable.
 |
| Listening to the wolves and looking a bit vulnerable |
We woke yesterday morning to the howling of wolves. I love the sound. It is wild and lonesome and spine-chilling and every other cliché you have ever imagined. In a land that throws wildness and spectacle at you in such abundance that it sometimes feels like a theme park, I think this is the most beautiful sound. It echoes between the hills, melodious, haunting, nothing like the tuneless cacophony of a bunch of wailing huskies. But when you have animals to protect, or when you are out snow shoeing alone and unarmed, it reaches very deeply to a place of fear.
 |
| Our attempts at audio recording didn't work so just imagine haunting and melodious sounds |
We can’t bring him inside as he has been a working sled dog all his life and, as well as not being house-trained, he is hardwired to eat everything he can reach. That includes: anything plastic, anything we have touched, his own shit, anything else’s shit. So leaving him in the house whilst we sleep would result in large sections of the house disappearing overnight and a dog that ate himself to death rather than being eaten.
Also, huskies must live outside in order to develop their winter coat. Our last dog, for some weird genetic reasons, did not grow a decent winter coat and had to suffer this indignity.
It’s cold here. You need a coat. And we don’t have a jumper that will fit Homer.
When Homer heard the wolves he stayed very, very close. Like, this close-
 |
| "Please build my pen quickly." |
We are using the posts of our upper level porch to create the pen so it is right next the house. Homer is probably safer there, we are very lazy and it is easier like that. However, returning to the idea of uglification, we are creating the pen outside our kitchen area window. That means we’ll be looking out now through wire fencing, as if in prison.
We have also obstructed our view of the mountains by building our cache on that side. Add to that the new regime of interior design (silt-stained plywood box) and we have managed to create, in wonderful counterpoint to the jaw-dropping wilderness that surrounds us, a home that feels like a prisoner of war camp. I’m expecting to be machine gunned from the cache next time I leave the yard.
Yet another triumph of laziness and utilitarianism over aesthetics and craftsmanship in our lives.
Mantraps and medieval weapons
By coincidence we also managed to create a mantrap this week on our new main trail on to the property. Could be useful as we get more “bushy” and less inclined to receive a rare visitor?
 |
| "Shall we put some spikes down here?" |
We removed the jagged tin and started to cover it with old spruce poles. Then we got bored. So we just threw some rotten plywood on it. It is effectively, now covered in light snow, a mantrap for any unsuspecting visitors.
Unless we accidentally drive the snowmachine into the hole and have to hoist it out, I imagine that’s how things will stay. We’ll check it in the spring to see if anyone came by.
The junk appears to be the remains of an old fish wheel and drying racks for salmon. Hard to tell as it had been smashed to hell by ice. The trees bear the scars of a rough spring break up.
 |
| Damage done to trees by chunks of ice during break up |
We decided to scoop it all up into a big pile. It is much safer for the dog, but now very noticeable, so the first thing anyone will see if they ever come to visit our POW compound will be an enormous and lethal looking pile of junk. That will be shortly before they plunge into our mantrap.
 |
| Trees felled by ice. Cabin in the background. |
Homer, carpentry genius
Homer’s moment of psychic cleverness this week came as we puzzled over where to draw marks for cuts in a piece of plywood. We had to work on the reverse side. It was a brain-ache situation at the end of a long day and Homer kept thigh-barging us to get some attention.
“Christ, shall we just put him up?” I said, after he tried to dab his paw on the clean side of the board that would be our ceiling. Yes, you guessed it- it was only once we had him back on the chain that we realised he put his paw just where the cut marks needed to be made. I’m really not making this up.
Global warming
He has still not disclosed to us the date he thinks the river will freeze up and we are still wondering about it. It is scarily warm so I reckon he’s hedging his bets for a bit. I don’t think the Yukon River has ever not frozen, but I’m feeling very pleased that we always come in with a winter’s worth of supplies, and a bit concerned at the rate we are getting through them.
After a brief spell at normal temps (around -16C) we shot back up to zero. What the hell is a girl to wear? I haven't even unpacked our winter gear and we are still walking round in hiking boots we bought in Britain. Whilst global warming seems to have gone off the agenda due to other world events, up here in the subarctic it is very much on our minds.
The wolves are still howling today. They are further away, but they are still howling. Will we unravel the wire fencing in time to prevent Homer becoming wolf bait? Find out next week.
Comments
Post a Comment