I owned this book as a child and thought I would buy a copy for my children for when they are old enough to read. Sat down to re-read it myself and the font is so small it is like you are reading the fine print on the back of a Tylenol bottle. Sure my eyes are not what they used to be but ALL of my other books I can still read.
I re-bought it for my kindle and loved it.
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From the Publisher
Jean Craighead George's Newbery acceptance speech
In Mount McKinley National Park we found Gordon Haber cutting wood beside his cabin at Sanctuary River. Jays sang around him, and ground squirrels watched him, for Gordon was part of the ecology. He had spent three summers with the wolves and was preparing for his second winter. When I explained that I was in Alaska to write about wolves, he took Luke and me to watch a pack at their summer den.
For ten days we lay on our bellies, peering through a spotting scope and binoculars at these remarkable beasts. We saw the black alpha awaken, saw his pack nuzzle him under the chin ceremoniously, heard him open the hunt song with a solo. When all were alert, he would swing through the willows, his huntsmen at his heels, to test their crop of moose and caribou for harvesting. We never witnessed a kill, but we saw the ravens hover over kills and the hunters return home as fat as barrels to regurgitate food for their pups. We watched the puppies play bone ball, tug o’war, 'jump on the babysitter'; and we became wholly involved in wolves. Luke, who had come to Alaska to fish, never strung up his rod again.
One dawn we joined Haber on a trip to the deserted nursery den of his pack. We hiked through bog, sphagnum moss, and over the tundra to a remote valley. Pushing our way through tangled willows, we climbed to a bluff high above the river. There in a layer of white sand was the birthing den, a generous tunnel dug into the earth. It was topped with flowers and set beneath a small garden of twisted spruce. The entire home expressed family love. A play yard was worn in front of the den. Around it were the large saucer-like beds of adults. I could envision them watching the tumbling pups, grins on their faces.
Most heartwarming, however, was a shaft that led straight down to the nursery chamber. It was a sort of telephone. During the first few weeks after birthing when the female remains in the den with the pups, the other adults stand over this hole and listen to the sounds from the den below: whimpers, sucking sounds, the contented grunts of happy puppies. When an adult wags his tail, he says, “all is well”; and the other wolves wag their tails, too.
Just before leaving the den site, I sat down beside the entrance and scanned the wide valley. I wanted to see the rocks and mountains as the wolf sees them. I looked down, and my blood turned to ice. There below was an enormous grizzly, head down, fur swinging as he came down our trail. Instinct warned me to stand still, but reason told Gordon to act. He wanted us ahead of the bear so that we would not meet him face to face when he turned around to go home. “Run!” Haber said. Luke shot off like a prong-horn antelope; Gordon like a deer. I ran as if I were weighted down with lead, but I must have been zooming. As I leaped down a frost heave, I passed a jay in flight.
When we were safely ahead of the bear, we heard a wild sound as if an orchestra were tuning up. I looked back. On the top of the hill stood the female wolf and her nine fat puppies, who bounded forward to greet us. One yip from their mother, and all the pups vanished. If there was any doubt in my mind that wolves speak to each other, it was banished in that moment.
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