The distance I cover over the span of half and hour is miniscule but I am on the hunt. The hare twitches it's nose, large ears moving to catch all sounds and I take extra care when placing my furry paws into the snow so that the crunching is minimal. Over my lifetime I had become a skilled hunter, preferring solitary hunting to large groups, and prided myself on the variety of creatures I had taken down. Indeed, I had taken a pelt from each new animal that I caught and my den was packed with them. My favorite was the beaver pelt I had - he had been a tricky creature. It had taken a long time and lots of planning to catch him.

A winter chill sweeps across the mountain, sending some of the snow up in drifts, and I use that as my cover. With skill I run at the rabbit, boudning in long leaps so that my feet barely touch the ground. Less sound that way. As it clears I leap, coming down with my jaws wrapped around the hare's body. Then I jerk my head up, toss it into the air, and catch it as it falls. I place it beneath my paw, grab its neck and twist. All the time spent for such a scrawny thing, but I feel pleased with my catch. I sigh into the cold air, closing my eyes for a moment before grabbing the hare in my large jaws and heading down the slopes of Spirane.

I find a well worn path that meanders the edge of Spirane and take it at a fast clip. My body seems much larger and shaggier with my winter coat and I hardly feel the cold. What little I do soothes me. It reminds me of my parents and their love of the snow - or at least laying in it together. Even in their last moments. Sometimes I felt guilt that I hadn't been the most devoted of sons but I knew that they understood. They would be proud of me. I hope.