Bitterroot Valley kiira-k ikug-luk

The wolf sniffs the air. He is not oblivious to the scents she carries and does not recognize any of them, only that there are many.

A winter camp. He looks around as if a clue might fall with the snow, but he does not see far. The way the low clouds spread like mist as they empty of snow gives everything a haze, limiting vision. He wonders where she has come from and sees the path behind her of freshly fallen white laid out across depressions; the path she has walked.

Take me to your camp. Your prayer is what drove the caribou from my grasp. It had been my prey for six long nights, but it was this morning that ended my hunt. It was your useless prayer, snow-woman. Thought the wolf with a shine of disdain to his eye.

What do I call you? Algaksruiruk? The wolf smirks, but there is nothing humorous about him. It is an ill-fitting mask.