Legend Of Instructor Wolfs name

 

The Legend of My Name.

One of my most fun and perplexing ice breakers I play when meeting new students, is the “Story Of Your Name”. In this modern age where more children grow up with more iPads than sticks,  it is endlessly surprising to this GenXer that few young people know why they are called what they are called.

Inevitably we go around the circle and land on myself. I always go last in these games.

My name wasn’t always Wolf – although that is my legal, real first name..

The story begins many moons ago in the 1980s. As a child, my parents used to take me to a place called Algonquin Park camping in their giant Land Yacht,  Grand LeMans Safari station wagon. These were very common and popular at the time with upper middle class families.

Arriving at the park we set up our tents. My mother always took the lead for camping as my father barely tolerated it. My slavic mother always ensured there was enough food for an entire forestry operations crew. The air around the campsite had the distinct odour of mildew canvas that any military veteran will fondly recall. Large heavy tents, big aluminum poles, a far cry from 21st century carbon fibre and nylon chiffon tents that we currently use.

Like any young boy in the 1980s, Independance was king! There were no “helicopter moms” when I was a boy. It was a case of “Go find something to do and leave me alone for a few hours”. In an environment like Algonquin – it was easily done! The smell of pine and canvas tents everywhere, nearby campers always offering a young, barefoot, dirty child hot dogs, hamburgers, or whatever they had. Everyone lived the philosophy It takes a village to raise a child.

Heading into the spongy, pine covered woods was always a treat. Unlike modern children shoes were entirely optional. Parents never chimed on “be careful” or “watch for glass”. No. It was a case of “If you slice yourself out there, don’t come crying to me.” and that was the end of the discussion.

It felt like I had been wandering for days. Finding cool rocks on trails and putting them in my army surplus canvas rucksack, grabbing a huge stick to carry as my staff and weapon. Wading through lakes and rivers seeing how deep I could go.

By sunset the pine sap I had walked through literally created stuck on shoes on the soles of my feet, allowing me to go everywhere, even over the rocky sections with ease!

The sun was setting, it was time to head back to camp. I pulled out my compass, but as a child had no clue how to use it. No idea where to go. I was lost in the mass expanse of Algonquin Park.

Night fell, then more days, and endless nights. Listening to the howl of the wolves.

It was over four decades ago and most of the details are sketchy and lost to time.

Search and Rescue was called for a few days, helicopters and men in  hard hats wandered through the woods. I was not found.

What they did not know is that howling was like a beacon in the woods. I crept up to the howling wolves of Algonquin Park and spend the rest of the summer with one of the various wolf packs that called the park home.

Perfectly happy with life, I learned their ways, I ate their food and was perfectly happy and contented with my furry companions.

As the wheel of the year turned, and the autumn leaves started to change, so came hunters into the park at the time. I was recovered and returned to my parents, unharmed but a bit more feral than before. News of my disappearance and then recovery made local newspapers and television at the time.

To this day I still feel kinship with wolves and dogs, I even took up sled dog racing as a profession, then hobby for many years. Dogs are a central theme in my life. I prefer to be surrounded by them and the forest than be a part of the world of the humans. I may have left the wilderness but it never left me.

As a result, my parents called me Wolf. Yes that’s my real name. No, I do not know my birth name as it was no longer relevant.

Today I use my nickname Wilkołaak, which is Polish for “Werewolf” or “Hairy Man”.

Sadly as the events happened long before the internet, there little to no record, few newspaper clippings. Perhaps you will find the articles buried in long forgotten reels of microfiche somewhere in an ancient dusty library.

So is the story of my name.

People sometimes ask me if it’s true. My response is always the same: “We’re all just stories in the end. Make yours a good one” ~Doctor Who