When I was in middle school my parents moved our family from a circa 1876 manse in Wadhams that they’d restored gradually over a decade, to a new home tucked into a tree-lined meadow near Lake Champlain.
Formerly part of the Higginson farm, the homeowners association comprised a little over a half dozen camps and homes tucked between Rock Harbor and the Split Rock Wilderness Area. During the next two years before I headed off to boarding school this wild wonderland dished up a daily buffet of adventures.
Recently I’ve been remembering the spring that we discovered foxes. Or the foxes discovered us. In the spring of 1985 a pair of red foxes got themselves in the family way and unwittingly lured my brother, sister and me into a full-scale Vulpes vulpes obsession.
I don’t remember now if there were two or three fox kits, but I do remember that their mother would let them play around the house while she hunted for mice or freshened up the den or got her hair done or whatever it is that vixens do when they get a little time to them