Bitterroot Valley That's what it's always been

I'm nabbing a bunch of lonely threads with Artax. ^__^

Onward, onward. Jorma's legs kept him moving, and he had all the time in the world to waste. Heading this way, heading that way, heading whichever way the winds of the world blew him. He was no spring chicken, but he certainly wouldn't consider himself old. Sure, he'd seen plenty of this life, but he was certain that he would see plenty more. Years, at the very least. He had plenty of time, and he fully intended to spend it meeting and greeting any wolf who crossed his path.

When he spotted the white and black wolf up ahead, he gave her a woof to draw her attention. Trotting to catch up, his yellow eyes were bright and cheerful. Welcoming, even.