Wolf Pointe

It was fun running with Dad again, shoulder to shoulder, along a path we'd scratched out of the forest over the years. Even wild wolves followed this path on occasion. The pointe had a great view and the sound from there, well, you could hear and be heard for miles.

Dad and I weren't the only wolves in the woods tonight.

I could tell from the scents in the area that the wolf sent to represent the Arctic Wolf had been around for the last few days.

The old grey was laying on the stone of the pointe. When I looked at him I saw only a wolf.

There was another smaller wolf, friendly and unafraid, sitting on the trail. His coat was more yellow with black on its back and tail.

"A Mexican wolf," said Dad in surprise, shifting to speak. "Rare in the world these days. Hola, Lobo," Dad said, greeting him in Spanish.

When I looked through Spirit Wolf's eyes I could see others gathering.

The shy wolf I had seen hiding, not wanting to be found, had come despite his fear. He was ranging at the edges