For the last two weeks, my reality has been the flat, frozen expanse of the river or the undulating white waves of the valley floor, a world of sweeping horizons and open spaces.
But the High Basin is different. It's a world of jagged black granite and violent geometry, where gravity is constantly trying to pull you backward.
We've been climbing for three hours. The snowmobile is behind us, hidden in a spruce grove two thousand feet below. We're on snowshoes, kicking steps into a forty-degree slope that leads to a narrow chute in the rock wall.
"Breather," Nash says from above me.
I stop, leaning into the slope, gasping for air. The cold burns my lungs. My legs feel like lead. But when I look down, the view steals whatever breath I have left.
The valley is a map spread out below us. I can see the river, the frozen wetland, and the dark line of the timber where the wolves are waiting.
"We're almost there," Nash says. "The chute opens up into a hanging bowl. If Waldo is up here, that's where he'll be."
"Why …" I wheeze, "why would a caribou climb this?"
"Safety," Nash says, offering me a hand to pull me up a rock step. "Wolves don't like exposure. They don't like scree. Waldo is trading calories for security."
We push through the final chute, a narrow crack in the rock that feels like a gateway to another world.
The amphitheater is breathtaking. It's a perfect bowl of white, rimmed by towering black cliffs that look like broken teeth biting into the sky.
And there, in the center, seemingly oblivious to the hostile world around them, is the herd.
Waldo.
He's lying down in a patch of sun, chewing his cud with the regal indifference of a king. The three cows are grazing nearby, and the young bull is standing watch.
"There he is," I breathe, grinning behind my face mask. "The magnificent bastard."
Nash hands me the scope. "Look at the entrance. The chute we just climbed."
I focus the lens on the narrow passage leading into the bowl.
"What am I looking for?"
"Defensive position," Nash says. "See how he positioned the young bull? He has a clear line of sight down the chute. Nothing comes up that trail without them seeing it."
"He feels safe here," I observe. "His body language is relaxed. Ears are neutral."
"He thinks he beat the pack," Nash agrees. "And he might have. It's a hell of a climb."
I pull out the telemetry receiver. The signal is screaming loud, a constant, rhythmic ping-ping-ping that matches the beating of my heart.
"This is it, Nash," I say, the excitement spiking. "He's stationary. He's calm. The wind is in our favor. We can do this."
"Distance is about three hundred yards," Nash estimates. "We need to get within fifty for the collar release signal to trigger reliably."
"Fifty yards?" I look at the open bowl. "There's no cover. If we walk out there, we'll spook them."
"We don't walk," Nash says. "We crawl. Along the east wall. The shadows are deep there. If we move slow, we look like rocks."
It takes us an hour to cover two hundred yards. Crawling through snow is an exercise in misery. The cold seeps into your knees, your elbows, your chest. My neck aches from keeping my head low. Every time a cow looks up, we freeze, holding our breath until she goes back to grazing.
But we get closer. One hundred yards. Seventy-five.
I can see the steam rising from Waldo's nostrils now, the heavy, shaggy texture of his winter coat. I can see the black leather collar around his neck, the one Thaddeus put there three years ago, the one that is now too tight and running out of battery.
"Range?" I whisper to Nash, who is slithering beside me.
