Charlie was surprised, as always, how Wolf Rock appeared out of nowhere just beyond
the wall of oaks and ashes. “Want to go to the top?”
Boyd grinned. “Don’t we always?”
Boyd climbed first. Thirty feet up, he disappeared onto the long flat top of the formation.
Charlie followed him, pulled himself over the edge, and stood. The uneven and broken top of the
rock table extended a hundred feet to their left and fifty feet to their right.
“Why do they call it Wolf Rock?” Boyd said. "Sounds like a song title.”
“You always ask that. I don’t know. Guess there used to be wolves up here.”
Boyd laughed. “The first time you told me that, you scared me to death. I expected to find
a wolf around every corner.” He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “But I knew you’d protect me.”
They turned left and walked along the expanse of rock. As they approached the end, they
stopped and looked in all directions.
“Steve left because of me?” Boyd said. “Steve just doesn’t get it. He’s no artist.”
“Keep your mouth off Steve.”
Boyd’s eyebrows went up and his mouth opened. He pursed his lips and shrugged.
“Sorry.”
“Want to eat?”
They went back by a different route, as they always had, down the steeper path on the
western side of the mountain. Hot, tough going. The trail was precipitous, embedded with worn,
slippery stones. Trees were wide spaced and small, symptom of the forest fire here some years
back. By the time they reached Jeopardy Rock half-way down, the sun was reaching toward the
top of the mountain opposite them. They rested on the rock shelf and watched darkness fill the
valley and start up their mountain. Wind swept up the slope, cool and lively. It caught the
saplings on both sides of them. Branches swayed, trunks leaned to one side and then the other,
and leaves twirled in the slanting rays from the sun.
“When are Sheila and Timmy coming back?” Charlie said.
Boyd lay back, closed his eyes, and pointed his face into the sunshine. “They might stay
in Philadelphia a while.”
TOM'S TALES