Bitterroot Valley a head start in hindsight

An hour before sunrise, he rolled over and staggered to his feet. Then he puked his guts out.

Impossibly, the stuff tasted even sourer the second time - coming up instead of going down. And evilly hot, too. The crisp, cold, dry morning air turned over with the odor of decay and bile. Skífa held the position, head down and back arched, until he'd relieved his stomach of its contents and his nausea receded like an ocean tide. The world grew steady. His sides hurt. But at least he felt better.

The stars were fading out and a steely color was growing brighter on the horizon. The chilly winter breeze felt soothing on his cheeks and forehead. He nosed the air, then realized he'd have to walk away if he wanted to smell anything besides his sick. So, he slunk from the brambles and bracken covered rocks that'd been his shelter for the night; he was shaky and a little weak, but moving felt good. He made his way into the desolate, open fields of Bitterroot Valley, sugared far and wide in a fine layer of snow. Barely enough to count as more than frost. His breath smoked around his muzzle.

Skífa tried smelling the wind again. South - maybe. Southwest? He still tasted acid in the back of his mouth and he was sure it was screwing up his sense of smell. But he wasn't about to wait around second-guessing his nose. The only way he'd know for sure was to take a look - to see if there really was water nearby.

So, south-southwest he began trotting. Slowly. Stretching against the aching stiffness in his limbs. Along the way, he smirked mockingly at himself. What a stupid position he was in, and what a stupid reason for it, too. But his smirk was a little less acerbic than he really wanted it to be, and it evaporated as the sun really started coming up, painting the puffy sky in hues of pink and gold.