Written April 28, 2025
Hello, Dear Readers,
My wife and I just got back from our trip to visit my father—successfully, I might add, which is more than I can say for the general state of our lawn. But forget the grass—this trip’s highlight was a double feature of historical drama and lupine charm: the Battle of Tippecanoe site and Wolf Park, both nestled in the flat but surprisingly rich plains of Indiana.
Now here’s the kicker: I spent my entire high school career in West Lafayette, lingered after college, and even circled back post-grad. Yet I had never visited either attraction. Apparently, I had to move away and return as a tourist to see what was in my own backyard. Classic.
Wolf Park was our first stop, and I confess, I was initially skeptical. The wolves live in a vast, protected enclosure—with rivers (yes, plural), open fields, and enough terrain to host a decent reenactment of The Revenant. From the visitor’s area, though, you can’t see much. And Indiana, true to form, doesn’t offer any dramatic peaks for convenient wolf-spotting.
Thankfully, my worries were as unfounded as a Bigfoot sighting.
After admiring some curious red and grey foxes lounging in smaller enclosures like furry aristocrats, we spotted our first wolf. He had just finished a casual swim across one of the rivers (because apparently, that’s his cardio routine) and decided to stretch out in the sun like a seasoned retiree in Florida. My wife lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
Then came Timber—a silver-white vision of a wolf with a name straight out of a wilderness novel. My wife stared in awe and launched into a nostalgic monologue about a book she adored as a child by Ernest Thompson Seton. In most stories, wolves are the villains—slinking in shadows, blowing down houses—but this book had made her see them differently: noble, misunderstood, and incredibly majestic.
We got lucky—two wolves ventured close to the fence and, just when we thought it couldn’t get better, one of them howled. Right there. Close enough to give you goosebumps. I caught it on video, naturally, because if a wolf howls in a park and no one posts it online, did it even happen?
Since then, my wife has been drawing wolves a lot. Wolves lounging. Wolves howling. Wolves that could probably beat us at chess if they had thumbs. She was enchanted. And honestly? So was I.
These weren’t wild wolves, sure—but that didn’t diminish the experience. There’s something ancient about being near them, something that brushes up against the mythic. My wife often mentions how in Japanese tradition, nature isn’t just nature—it’s sacred. You tread lightly because you never know when you’re walking through a god’s living room. Every time she says that, I flash to Greco-Roman myths. Turns out, the gods of Olympus and the spirits of Shinto might have been sharing notes.
And maybe that’s the heart of it. Strip away the noise—the phones, the emails, the doomscrolling—and you’re left with something quiet, wild, and oddly familiar.It was a good trip. No, scratch that—it was a soulful trip. And I’m already wondering when we can go back.