Some years back, my blackpowder huntin' buddy, Mikey, and I were out for a week in muzzleloading season camp. We'd set up my big wedge tent with the woodstove in it and were having a wonderful time not getting deer. New Year's Eve dinner was corned venison, boiled up with whole potatoes, carrots, onions, and a head of cabbage. Mikey had made biscuits on the stove top and wer gorged ourselves well and truely.
We sat up mending gear and cleaning barrels, weaving conversation in and out of the pleasant tasks of primitive camp. Round about 11:00 p.m. we brought in the last couple armloads of firewood for the night and blew out the candle lanterns. The ponderosa pine knots in the wood stove snapped and crackled comfortably and we were each lost in our own thoughts as we drifted off.
In the dark and crystal black night a single howl rose up from a low contralto to sweet and pure soprano note. The note was held without vibrato or quaver, none of the yip-yip-yippee of a coyote call. No, this was a larger canine. Much larger. I held my breath and strained my ears in the dark.
Again came that call that Jack London ascribed as the "Call of the Wild". Only this time another voice joined in. And yet again, and again, and again more voices joined in. At least 6, and maybe as many as 10 of these large canines were singing that clarion call in the pines of the Black Hills of South Dakota.
"I didn't hear that, did I?" I said softly in the dark. "No, you didn't. And I didn't hear them either," came back Mikey's voice muffled by a wool blanket. "Nope, no wolves in South Dakota, couldn't have heard that by any stretch of the imagination," I said. A few more whispers in the dark and then everything went silent.
Slide down the timeline to next June and I am having coffee with a friend that lives in that part of the Hills, north of Custer, SD. I mention that Mikey and I had been serenaded for a good 20 minutes on New Year's Eve. He asks where we were camping, and I gave him the location. He chuckles and says he heard it too that night. In fact, he and his wife were right in the middle of 'em when their neighbor got 'em singing. Apparently their neighbor is big into dogsled racing and wanted to show off how good his string of mushers were at singing.
I was saddened to know it was not what I thought it was, but it was still one of the finest operas I have ever heard.