Gone Wild
By Milissa Link

I. The Ice House

         As winter solstice approaches, all I want to do is go to a cabin in the woods and hover in that place just this side of sleep. Though I feel used up and hollow, something begins to burgeon inside of me. A part of me I could really love: my own personal (baby) Jesus. To bring forth life in the dark season I need a cave of sorts. Or a stable, enfolded by gentle beasts.

         "Next year," I keep saying to friends, "I'm going away for two weeks." I envision settling into a loamy place where a lighter me can gestate in the earth's womb.

         I went on a brief retreat, with my husband Brien, on the darkest weekend this year. We drove north, to a deluxe lake home owned by a friend and her M.D. husband. It had a dishwasher and king size pillow top bed. Though time in the wild was the impetus, I couldn't refuse comfort. Especially during the time of year when the head hits the pillow hard, poised to recline for eons. Like the stilled earth, and hibernating animals, I needed a rest. I used to host a ritual for dozens of women at the solstice. We'd chant and weep, and finally dance the light back our way. But, in my late forties, I don't want to do the regaling. I'll wait for the sun to rebirth itself.

         Brien and I arrived at the cabin just after 3:00, on a grey dream of a day, about to evaporate into night. He opted for tea, slippers and Cineaste magazine while I went for a walk. Lean Lake Ida, usually deep and choppy, is still and quiet, except for burps when the ice shifts. It's a little scary-thinking of falling into the lake's bowels through a crack-but it's been cold this year, and there are ice houses with attendant ATVs dotting the surface. Seeing smoke rising out of the chimneys, I'm assured that the water is firm as terra. What a lot of work, it seems to me, to haul, construct, furnish, bundle up and get yourself transported over lunar-like crust: just to drink MGDs with buddies, play poker with kin, and check the line, once in awhile, to see if a northern pike has been hooked.

         The dusking air envelops me, like ether, and I feel spacy. Here, there's no need to put on a sunny face, like at those holiday parties, so I surrender to the unknown that's stirring within. I begin trekking across the lake's encrusted surface, and my body smiles, despite the wind's slap. Through the heavy atmosphere, I navigate toward one of the ice houses, which looks like a Monopoly token from far off. An international symbol for abode, shelter, domicile. Though I think it mars the natural landscape, without this reference point I'd have no bearings in the vast space.

         Expanding beyond my usual corporal boundaries, I feel like I could tumble off the side of the planet, which appears to be at the other shore. But even the ice house, in reality, is too far to reach; and I'm getting cold, as what wan light there was bleeds out of the day. I'm afraid of being run over by a snowmobile. Or being sucked up into the night sky's void. Or down into the bottom of the lake. So I about face, and begin to tramp back to the cabin, which glimmers on the high ridge of the eastern shore like a star.

II. The Coyote

         At Christmastime I'm evicted from the womb prematurely. All the pressure to be sociable and generous comes at a time when I'm not ready to share my unformed self. The inducement comes when my mother and mother-in-law (both widows) have nowhere else to go for the holidays. So I find myself doing what I least want to fill my time with: cleaning, cooking, wrapping, baking. I will open our home to others, though we don't even have a Christmas tree. I decorate, with Japanese temple bells and pinecone gnomes, a sculpture constructed of bare elm branches.

         On the way to pick up Mom for Christmas dinner, I parked by the river to walk the dog. Our terrier, Dewey, defied the constraints of domestic life when he first came to live with us as a pup. At eight-years old, he'll trot gamely beside me, tethered by a leash and wearing a little green coat. I always carry meaty treats, knowing that if he were to get loose he'd disappear unless I had a lure. Even that might not be enough to counter his instincts. Scenting, marking and scavenging his way across the city, he'd finally become hungry and cold, and charm some other humans-with the "sit" and "shake" we'd taught him-into supplying rawhide chews and squeaky toys (those barely adequate substitutes for the spoils of the hunt).

         Christmas afternoon, snow came down in gauze sheets, reminding me of fiber that swaddles something fine. A newborn soul. Or a dazzling trinket in a little box. This would be the best part of my holiday, and I savored unwrapping the gift. I opened the car door, and the dog and I entered a world of trees and frozen water, where the only sound was of ever-so-light flakes drifting down and touching snow. Here, within mere miles of jets roaring down runways, there were, for a time, no artificial sounds: not a car engine whirring, a bus's brakes shrieking or a stereo's woofers thrumming. Even the wheeze of my breath was muffled by the curtain of snow and sky, meshed into something like velvet. In this tableau, there were no other players, just Dewey-his snout deliberately seeking a scent in the fresh powder-and me, in mukluks, feet palpating the earth.

         The precipitation, the clouds, the coated tree limbs, the ice floes on the river, were all different shades of white. Not even a dog's yellow graffiti marred the spotless surface. Usually we descend the riverbank to the dirt path, but with the parkway car-free we walked the frosted bike lane. No one-and it seemed like nothing-encroached. I was getting a much-needed dose of solitude, silence. It felt holy-way beyond church-this communion, for me. My footfalls sang a hymn as I entrained with the surroundings, praising this place I come to often. Familiarity expanded my vision, the way ritual does, repeating the mundane until it becomes again a mystery.

         We walked without rushing, and I noticed off to my right side that a piece of the wintry landscape went from still to animate, something ascending the ridge. An off-leash animal gets my adrenaline flowing, knowing feisty Dewey can flip on a canine Cuisinart switch. Teeth gnashing and fur flying, somebody's going to get sliced and diced (most likely him). My mind tracks quickly: A shepherd mix . . . Where's its person? Who's going to get this animal under control? But there's no human in sight, and the canid keeps walking, calm as can be, paying us no mind. I get a good look at the star-like ruff that garlands its neck, the pricked ears, the long legs that plow a wake in the snow. I'm stunned. I've not heard of a coyote sighting around here, across from my old urban high school.

         The wild dog doesn't even bother to glance at us, preparing to promenade right past me, and its domesticated inferior, up the hill, over the path, and across the street to the school grounds. It's like the coyote's got an invitation for Christmas dinner somewhere in the neighborhood. But, crossing the threshold into domesticity, it leaves its den behind and packs no bag. The coyote remains unconcerned about how it will protect its feralness upon entering the world of lawn ornaments and chain link fences. Unlike humans, who take along the house to keep the natural world out (even while playing at intimacy with "nature"), the creature takes no such precautions in visiting the metropolis.

         It's probably a mistake to trust us with her freedom, and maybe that's why, as I breathlessly view the animal lifting her left paw to take that next step toward city life-her full coat drizzled with the same eggnog hue that I see in the frozen eddies on the river below-I break the silence, warning her off. "Dewey, look!"

         As soon as I've spoken, I regret it. I've broken the silent pact that allowed our worlds to overlap. The coyote halts, looks our way, then lets herself be resorbed into the winterscape. Without a sound, a flash, she's gone, before Dewey even catches the scent.

         Knees trembling, I fumble for my cell phone, and point it down the ravine, hoping to get a photograph. I want something to corroborate our wildlife encounter. Something to convince others, and myself, that this visitation wasn't a whiteout hallucination, an apparition, or just plain wishful thinking. I seek proof that I've connected with more than a specter of my own unfulfilled wild life. My heart beats hard, but on the lit screen I track only fallen elms, gnarled stumps and scattered stones, the contours of the riverbank offering shelter to the beast that's returned to the enfolding whiteness.

2008