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    This web site contains a variety of subjects, from writing and songs to bats and railroads with a few other critters mixed in for good measure.

    My dog was a wolf. His name was Maska. Well..., he was only a part wolf. His mother was a Siberian Husky from California and his father, from Alaska, was one-half Husky and one-half Wolf.

    As we cruised up the East coast of Lake Huron, at 15,000 ft. altitude, I felt relaxed, and at peace with the world around and below me. Suddenly we went into a roll and in a split second our little Chipmunk aircraft was inverted. The farmland of Ontario was gone, and so was Lake Huron.

    This was not the magnicificant gray timber wolf that I had expected to see. This one looked old, feeble, and hardly able to move. "Caught in a trap!" I gasped. "You poor old wolf."

    Ramblin' 'round in my Wrangler Jeans,
    I'm riding pony all day.
    I like tortillas and refried beans,
    He likes his alfalfa hay.
    Pony likes alfalfa hay.

    My boat is sailing on a broad reach in an easy breeze just off Soquel Point. The whirrrr of my fishing reel brings me to attention. I grab for my fishing rod, while unknowingly releasing the tiller. I reel in my first salmon. The boat heads up into the wind and my second reel begins to whirrrr. The sails are flapping. I reach for the tiller and step on the fish in the cockpit. I fall back, breaking my number one fishing rod in two. I reel in my second salmon. As I am getting it into the boat, the wind begins to blow. I haul on the main sheet to steady the sail. While trying to straighten up the mess, I slip on the fish and fall, breaking my number two fishing rod. The west wind is blowing us toward the rocky shore.

    The protage is about one-half mile, up the dry river bed, above the Big Mushaboom Lake. We ease our canoe to the ground and stop for a rest. "Look, Dad," I whisper, "over there on that rock by the trees. There's a big dog." "That's not a dog!" Dad tells me in a low voice. "That's a fine, handsome timber wolf."