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Clay and I can play at being irresponsible--stopping for sex at outrageously inappropriate times is one of our specialties--but it's just a game. Neither of us would be able to really relax and enjoy our run unless we felt, in some small way, we were still doing our job and fulfilling our Alpha's expectations.
The map in the article was very rough. It showed the highway, one side road and two X's to mark the kill sites, with no concept of scale. So until we talked to locals, we were guessing at the location. But neither of us realized how much we were guessing until the highway left Anchorage.
In daylight, I'm sure the scenery was spectacular. The highway weaved along between an inlet on one side and mountains and valleys on the other. In the predawn darkness, it was awe-inspiring--the endlessness of it all, the choppy water and the looming hills and the snowy fields and forests.
The road wasn't empty. Steady headlights streamed toward us, people making their way into Anchorage for work. As for where these commuters came from, I had no idea. There were certainly no suburbs I could see--just the occasional sign suggesting an unseen town down a long, dark road.
Finally we turned off onto one of those long, dark roads. Clay drove a mile, found what looked like a service road and parked along it.
I hopped out... and sunk knee-deep in the white stuff. The air, though, wasn't as bitterly cold as I'd feared. I'd been in Winnipeg earlier this winter, when the temperature hit minus twenty Fahrenheit, but this didn't feel any colder than Pittsburgh.
At least I was dressed for the season, having boots, a down-filled jacket, hat and mitts in my luggage. Clay--returning from Atlanta--wasn't so lucky. I'd grabbed him a toque in the airport, but he was only wearing it to humor me. Cold weather never bothered Clay. I always joked that he was like one of those werewolves from medieval legends, with his fur hidden under his skin.
We left our valuables--watches, wallets, wedding bands--in the locked glove compartment, then set out, tramping through the deep snow. If I had to walk through this I'd have been cursing with every step. But because I chose to, in pursuit of an activity I was giddily anticipating, I didn't mind at all--laughing and lurching, grabbing on to Clay and dragging him down as I fell, getting tossed face-first into a drift, returning the favor...
We didn't go far from the road to Change, but it took us a while to get there.
The area was wooded enough for us to find separate thickets. I was finally past the stage of insisting on that, though I do make Clay turn his back if we share. I don't consider myself particularly vain, but I'm not keen to have anyone see me mid-Change, even Clay.
I undressed and put my clothes in a plastic bag I'd grabbed at the airport. And then it got cold--"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!" cold. When I got down on all fours, and sunk in snow up to my breasts, I was gasping for breath.
It took a few moments for me to relax enough to begin the Change, but once it started, the cold was the last thing on my mind. My body is shifting from human to wolf; it's not going to tickle. As I learned when I had the twins, a Change is a lot like giving birth, except you skip the labor pains and jump straight to the "what the hell was I thinking?" screams of agony. Once you accept that it's a natural process and nature will see you through, you grit your teeth and bear it because you know it'll be over soon, and when it is, the reward will be worthwhile.
So I suffered the body-ripping, bone-cracking agony of the Change with only a few grunts and whimpers, as I'd done at least once a week for the last twenty years. And when it was over, I collapsed onto my side, panting, muzzle buried in the snow to cool off.
Once I'd caught my breath, I rose slowly. The pain was only a memory now, but I still took my time, finding my footing on four legs, paws crunching through the snow crust, icy shards prickling between my foot pads. I blinked hard, adjusting to a gray world, giving my brain time to convert the shades to colors.
My ears and nose were already in action, ears swiveling to pick up every distant crackle of falling ice, nose wiggling to catch every molecule of prey scent, both senses urging me to hurry up, get on with it, get out there and start exploring. I ignored them and stretched. My eyes slitted in bliss as my muscles ached, endorphins shooting to my brain, sweet as champagne.
I swished my tail against the snow, then stepped forward and back, reestablishing my center of gravity. After twenty years, all this was completely unnecessary, but it was like foreplay--delicious on its own, even better as a way to whet the appetite, anticipation and frustration growing.
Speaking of frustration...
As I stretched, footfalls padded around my thicket. Gold fur flashed, glistening under the moonlight. Then Clay's smell wafted in--that glorious rich scent, starting a whimper deep in my throat. I swallowed it and braced my legs against the urge to bound out and greet him.
Clay circled again, faster now, impatience growing. I lowered myself to my belly and slunk forward, slow and silent, until my nose was at the thicket's edge. Then I bunched my muscles, hindquarters rising, wiggling, waiting, waiting...
Clay loped past and I shot out behind him. By the time I heard the crunch of his sharp turn, I was running full out, tearing across the open stretch, eyes half closed, wind sluicing through my fur, moving so fast my paws didn't break the crust.
Clay's heavier mass meant he did break that crust, and he fell farther behind with each stride, the huff of his labored breaths interspersed with growls as I pulled away. I crossed the clearing and dove into the forest, but as soon as I did, I realized my mistake--protected by the thick canopy, the ground had only a thin layer of snow, and I lost my advantage.
Soon Clay's huffing was right on my heels. Then a grunt and a whoosh, and I knew he'd leapt. I tried diving to the side, but as my hind paws flew up, he caught one and wrenched. My front feet skidded out and I belly flopped.
With a snort, I bounded up and spun around. He was twenty feet away, prancing away, tail waving. Every instinct said to chase, but I toppled back down into the snow and whined in pain. Now Clay knows better than to fall for that. He really does. But he can never bring himself to run off, in case this is the one time I really am injured.
He circled me, wide and wary. I licked my foreleg. He came a little closer, staying out of lunging range. I struggled to my feet, paw raised, then gingerly touched it to the ground. He came closer, head lowered, nose working hard to catch the scent of blood. I lifted my paw and whimpered.
Closer, closer...
I sprang. He danced out of the way and took off. I hesitated, then started snuffling the ground. He stopped, head tilting. I kept sniffing, checking out all the prey trails. Vole, hare... is that lynx?
He dashed past so close I felt the draft.
I kept sniffing. Marten, porcupine, more hares ...
Another dash, this time snagging my tail hairs in his teeth and tugging. I snapped and snarled, then went back to sniffing. More voles, more marten... Hey, what's that? I scratched off the top layer of snow, trying to uncover the scent.
Clay whipped past again, this time veering and sending a tidal wave of snow over me. I shook it off, nose still working, trying to pick up the mystery scent. When I glanced up, I caught a whiff of it in the air. I tracked it to an old tree with missing chunks of rough bark. There, caught on one loose piece six feet from the ground, was a tuft of brown fur.
