While hiking along the Wisconsin River, I see raccoon tracks. They’re distinctive because they’re shaped like human hands. I’m near the same ridge where, earlier in the spring, I heard the frantic cries of a baby raccoon in distress. I was sure it had been separated from its mother. I forced myself to keep walking, and sure enough, when I returned from my walk, mother and baby must have been reunited because the woods were silent.

Today I listen as I pass by what I named “Raccoon Ridge.” If I would have found evidence that the mother was dead and the youngster was still crying, I would have been tempted to take it. Maybe even raise it. I realize the allure is partly due to a beloved childhood book, “Rascal: A Memoir of a Better Era.” I was reminded of the classic last week when I viewed a PBS episode, https://bit.ly/40GhS99, which toured the Edgerton home of the book’s author. The Sterling North home and museum include memorabilia relating to Rascal.

Set in 1918, the semi-autobiographical novel describes the pleasures and trials of raising a baby raccoon. Images of Sterling putting rascal in his bike basket and entertaining customers on his paper route are still vivid in my memory. Fun scenes, such as the “ringed-tailed wonder” helping Sterling during a pie-eating contest, are offset by more serious topics. After Rascal steals sweet corn from the neighbors’ gardens and raids hen houses, Sterling must make the tough decision to release him far away, knowing he’ll never see him again.

I wasn’t the only one who loved this coming-of-age memoir. It sold millions of copies, inspired a 1969 film, and became a beloved 1977 Japanese anime series.

I turn around and head back toward Raccoon Ridge.

As a child, I fantasized about having a pet raccoon as my aunt and uncle had done. My dad’s brother, who never had children, caught a large raccoon eating corn in their barn and killed it. It had a youngster. He and my aunt raised it, and it was rumored they even allowed it to sleep in their bed. 

Much to my dismay, my father never brought home a baby raccoon. He did find feral kittens which my mother took in and loved. He tried to convince her to let us kids keep a baby skunk (he knew how to de-scent it) but that didn’t fly. I’m not sure a baby raccoon would have either, but I would have been willing to plead its case.

Like Sterling, I’ve grown up and have had to face reality. I no longer have a romanticized view of raccoons. Back when I was raising ducks, tracks showed the presence of a coon stalking around the cage. Worried he would get my pets, I baited a live trap with tuna. I didn’t sleep well that night. In the dim morning light, I investigated the trap and saw a huge bundle of fur with a masked face. The trapped raccoon had managed to dig, flinging dirt around, and was in an attack position. Like Sterling, we released it far from our home.

A friend told the story of a coon drowning her black lab. Another friend described how one got in her chicken coop, killed chickens, and stripped their skeletons of every bit of flesh. Not exactly the image Sterling North painted of his adorable bandit.

Back at Raccoon Ridge, I sigh. My fantasy of romping the fields with a pet raccoon will just have to be satisfied by visiting the Edgerton museum, https://bit.ly/3NY5mtV, when it reopens in May or rereading the book which could have been titled, “Rascal: A Memoir of Fanciful Imaginings.”