Whitefish River Impede

Understanding on an instinctual level the dangers of a fear-driven herd, the bear’s fiery gaze was the only part of him to trail after them. He kept away, distance remaining between himself and them, and low to the earth; a wintry mound to become one with the snow, hidden—until he could hide no more, the herd gone and another wolf approaching. A voice came with him, words directed towards the young leader, and he knew he could remain hunkered down no longer. Slowly, he rose back up to his feet, shaking his coat free of any clinging, frosted clumps.

“I didn’t get close enough to be in their way,” he responded. “I saw them and stopped—I heard them first, actually.” The sound of the stampede was enough to keep him from approaching, whereas the sight of it encouraged him to take extra precautions; there was something about it all that screamed danger from a part of his mind he was unaware existed up until that very moment.

“Are you okay?” the bear asked next, curious. He couldn’t see any signs of injury, nothing obvious, but that didn’t always mean there was nothing there.