Big Salmon Lake valleys formed where the wolf had lain

It was an ermine that he had scented. Mustelid musk was pungent and hard to miss even beneath the snow; Skwol was well aware that the weasel had moved on from this spot. But while the small predator's presence had started the white wolf digging, he had continued for the enjoyment of the action itself. For the feel of his hard nails scraping and churning the snow and ice, for the work of the powerful muscles in his limbs, and for the momentary distraction it provided to his presently aimless life.

Skwol stopped digging and throwing snow when he heard the chuff, plush ears cupping backwards and sideways to listen and pinpoint. He lifted his head. Several inches of snow had gathered across his broad snout and head, and flakes clung to the fur on his brows and cheeks. He shook himself clean and blinked as he focused on the black wolf before him. Instinctively, he tried to take in her scent, but immediately squinted and made a face as crystals tickled this inside of nose, drawing a sudden sneeze-snort from him.

Nostrils clear now, he could smell her — and the mischievous ermine too. Skwol gingerly took a step forward, concentrating with his ears strained forward, to hear the scrabbling of tiny claws beneath the snow. This was the art of the fox. But Skwol was no fox. His pounce was not a limber leap with a swan dive. When he dove forward he sent a wave of snow flying at the she wolf, driving his face into the snow only for the weasel to shriek and come bounding off his skull, before scampering across his spine and sailing off his hindquarters.