Frostbite

The sun was setting. I needed to get back to my den, before it was to cold to travel. My paws made a dull thudding sound against the icy snow. It was snow all year round, here in northern Alaska. Snow, ice, wind, and cold, all the time. No four seasons. Winter everywhere, as far as you can see. And as a wolf, I can see very far. I live at the northmost point of Alaska, where no human dares go, for fear of freezing. With my thick white fur coat, however, I am safe, for the most part. There are other wolves in the area, but I belong to no pack. I am known among the packs as Frostbite. Frostbite the Wanderer, the Renegade, the Stranger.

I started running, for night was coming fast. It would be night for many hours. Day lasted only a few, but it was getting longer and longer. Summer was approaching. Summer meant better hunting, no more weeks of fasting. Fasting was hard on our bodies, as wolves. Our systems are not built for long fasting.

I walked up to my den. It was very cozy. The ice behind it was like a hill, a glacier that had become part of the ground. I had dug a hole in its base, which became my den. It was deep, with the opening facing southwest, so the breezes were warmer than from the north, over the cold water. In the den were a few feathers, and the occasional bit of dirt. There was not much, however, for the ground was frozen nearly solid. There was a small chunk of meat in the corner, from a meal a few days ago. Hunting had become nearly impossible these days, as the gulls had flown farther south for the winter.

I tossed the meat up in the air and caught it easily in my mouth. It was near frozen, but I gobbled it up anyway. I was starving. I had not eaten yesterday, or the day before, maybe the day before that. The gulls were returning, but slowly, yet still the hunting was better than last month. Last month was a famine. Wolves were eating smaller, weaker wolves. It was madness. It was very good that the pups would not come for a few more months. I myself do not have any, nor am I going to. I live alone. I hunt alone. I am alone.

I do not mind much. I have been alone as long as I can remember. Even as a young pup, I have been alone. I was only a month old when the hunters came. They killed my pack. I ran as far as I could, straight north. I knew the hunters could not follow me there. It was much too cold. They would freeze there. I found an empty den, and slept there for a few months, going to the shore and fishing for food. At around six months old, I found a hill of ice that I made my home, and stayed there ever since. My life has been a hard one. I learned to hunt the gulls by watching another pack, then trying it myself. The first few days of this were very difficult. After I got how I had to do it, though, I got about eight birds per week. Until winter.

Suddenly I had wished that I had saved up those extra birds, instead of eating them right away. I nearly starved that first winter, but I learned my lesson, and my way of life. I had stayed alone for over a year with no pack, and lived. I operate best alone. I am now five years old, and still solitary. That I lived is not a miracle. It is me.

I am Frostbite, and that is my story.