Lost Creek Hollow Those Who Wander

Dakota doesn’t care much for rain—or about it, either. He’s forged through worse on the trail. Still, it makes him grateful for what shelter he can find, and these towering trees do just the trick. Mixed with the rainfall is the soothing hum of flooding creeks, snow melting down a hillside, beckoning him deeper into the canopy.

Could be a nice day for a hunt. Any lingering humidity is kept at bay by the shade, and the rapids flush out burrow after burrow; a quick sniff would tell anyone else that plenty of bedraggled prey have staggered from the undergrowth in the past few days. But Dakota doesn’t know, doesn’t know that he doesn’t know, and that is bliss.

Instead he trots along, unbothered, tail plume raised high as it physically can. Birds protest his presence; Dakota throws his head back in a carefree laugh. So what if he’s back? He’s not gonna throw himself up trees for a mouth full of feathers; what’s their problem?