Bitterroot Valley who's never left home, who's never struck out?

Sega lowered himself beside her, the weight of his frame sinking into the frost-hardened grass. His breath came in slow clouds, golden eyes soft beneath the heavy ridge of his brow as he listened.
Moontide, he echoed, tasting the word like salt on his tongue. Far… south. His gaze drifted to the horizon she had come from, as if he might see her coast through the mist. Then, quietly, he shook his head. Not here, he said, the words broken but sure. I… not born here.
He lifted his muzzle toward the north, where the wind rolled down from the peaks like a great sigh. I born in Big Sky, he murmured, voice low and rough. Far, far place. Ice, wind, no tree. Only hunt, only family. His expression softened, almost wistful. I come here long ago. Valley kind to me. Give food. Quiet.
His gaze returned to her, steady and warm now despite the cold. You stay, he said, nodding once. Maybe you like north too.