Peg Silloway

As the sky glowered a dismal gray, the first visitors stepped carefully down the slick cobbled streets of Mount Vernon Place at Baltimore's Book Festival. I guess we should have expected this; in past years the Festival has been cancelled at least once when a hurricane came through. But still, we hoped that on this Saturday dry weather would keep the thousands of books in scores of booths from curling. It was not to be.

First it drizzled, then it rained, and then you couldn't hear yourself think over the pounding of the downpour. The picnic tables sat soggy and forlorn while the food vendors smiled hopefully at the passersby huddled under umbrellas. Even with the lights that the City of Baltimore provided inside the tents, there was no way to dispel the gray sogginess.

But in publishing, as in theater, the show must go on. And thanks to stalwart visitors and an engaging young writer, the MidAtlantic Book Publishers Association's booth was a good place to be. In the couple of hours that we (author Margaret Rome and I) were there to volunteer, we talked with writers of fiction, non-fiction, memoir, and poetry. MBPA's president, Sheila Ruth did a great job of setting up the booth, assembling information packets, and displaying the association members' books.

I love to see the creative covers that come from people not constrained by big publishing's limits. Sheila's husband, Nick, was "wearing" the cover of his book, Dark Dreamweaver, and son David was in the spirit of things with his purple cape. It was David who stood outside the booth and stopped visitors with his smile and invitation to take one of MBPA's information packets. And every packet that left had in it a post card for Margaret's book, Real Estate the Right Rome Way, and one for my own book that I'm scrambling to get out before the holidays, The Writer's Book of Days.

Despite the low turnout and the river running through the booth, we had fun. While waiting out one of the heaviest downpours at the Book Festival, I talked with a woman who had come on a bus trip from New Jersey just for the event. It took me back to my days at craft shows when even bad weather wouldn't keep the die-hard fans away. And it gave me renewed hope that the well-written, independently published book is alive and well in America.

It was a sparkling late August day, typical of New Hampshire's Lakes Region. Blue sky, fair weather clouds, and glacier-made lakes reflecting the first signs of fall. Too soon for leaf-peepers but not yet Labor Day, so there were still plenty of tourists thronging to the outlets and "family attractions." We had a different destination as we drove east into Maine and meandered north criss-crossing the state line until we turned off on a dirt road that led us back over a mile into the land of the wolf and wolf-dog.

Fred Keating started taking in animals over 20 years ago when a small pack of wolf dogs lived in his back yard. The small group grew as people learned that there was someone who would take the animals in. Neighbors didn't take kindly to having a wolf pack in the town, nor to the nightly chorus of wolf song. So as land became available, Fred created the refuge with donations and grants, and moved his four-legged friends to a new home where they live as wolves should.

And so it was we were creeping along that dirt road to the Loki Clan Wolf Refuge. Keating created the refuge for wolf-dogs on about 63 acres of way-out-there land on the Maine/New Hampshire border. Once he was a breeder himself, but found that people don't understand how much wolf there is in the combination, and didn't take care of them properly. Too often, the animals ended up at the humane society or were simply abandoned. Since any wolf-dog that goes to an animal shelter cannot be adopted out, it was a one-way journey.

On rolling land of trees and brush, he has fenced in 17 pens of an acre or more that the wolves share in small packs, just as they would live in nature. The high fences keep them in their areas, and access to the refuge is restricted to protect both the animals and foolish humans. All the animals have been rescued from as far away as California – one was even found wandering the streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant in New York City. They have been neutered, and many are used to and even fond of humans.

It was this last that we found fascinating. Fred's assistant, Dan, gave us a tour and introduced us to some of the animals that he helps care for. The first one we met was Tinga, a wolf-malamute cross who had just arrived from Vermont. He was in a pen by himself near the entrance so that they could observe him, learn about his personality, and decide which pack he would join.

Dan told us that these animals have an IQ similar to an 8 to 14 year old human, and that they will naturally roam 30 to 60 miles a day, just as a wolf will. Imagine a pre-teenager with long legs, fangs, jaws that bite with more than 1,500 pounds per square inch of force, and a desire to roam. Wolves make some 60 sounds for vocal communication, and use a complex body language, too.

What was most surprising was how friendly some of these creatures are. Even Tinga, who was new, came up to the fence and licked our hands. And as we walked around, some watched from back in the woods with those yellow wolf eyes that see into your soul, but many came to the fence to sniff, lick, and lean into the fence so that we could scratch their heads and backs.

Since it was daytime, we didn't think we would get to hear the wolf song, but all of a sudden one voice started, then another, and the howling rolled up the hill to where we stood. For about 15 seconds there were dozens of voices raised in mournful howl. Then suddenly they stopped all at once. Dan laughed and said, "They're just gossiping." Whatever it was, standing a few feet from a wolf-dog as she raised her head and howled with the chorus was the highlight of our visit.

All the photos were taken that day, including the improbable sight of a wolf eating watermelon – buy yes, that is Atlas' favorite treat!

As we left, I was more than happy to make a donation to help support the refuge. I admire people who find a cause that matters to them and who are able to make it their life's work. Fred Keating lives simply – more simply than most of us would like – but he has ravens, eagles, and coyotes for neighbors in the rolling mountains of New Hampshire and Maine, and some 76 wolf-dogs as friends in the wild.

If you've never sat in the midst of a patch of blueberry bushes and enjoyed the delicious anticipation of picking wild blueberries, this may not mean much to you. But one of the delights of going to the mountains of New Hampshire for vacation – for me, at least – is picking wild blueberries, freezing them, and bringing them home to become mid-winter blueberry muffins, pies, and cobblers. I know you can get "blueberries" in the grocery store, but to me those factory-farm-grown gigantic puffs are tasteless in comparison to their wild cousins.

The real thing grows on bushes that may be knee high (high bush) or only a few inches off the ground (low bush.) Ripe berries hide under the leaves, but turn the branches back and there you find blue/purple treasure.

Near where we vacation is a nature preserve, the Ossipee Pine Barrens. Primary access is off the main road, but a Class 6 Town Road (really an unpaved track) leads off our secondary road into part of the preserve. So one day I took my new walking stick, my bottle of water, camera, and berry bucket, and headed into the quiet of that tree-shaded road. An hour later I came out with my back and knees a little the worse for wear, a few mosquito bites, and my berry bucket holding a bonanza of wild blueberries.

All the time I was wandering and picking, only one other soul appeared – a man on a bicycle who called and waved to me as he went pedaling by. Otherwise, it was just me, the breeze, sunshine, and the blueberries. A perfect vacation day. To be followed by delicious wild blueberry muffins for New Year's breakfast.