An old trapper was making his rounds one winter’s day. He had checked the traps in the gorge and the traps in the woods. They were all empty. He clapped his hands together because of the cold and he cursed his luck.

The sun was casting long shadows by the time he approached the river. He would follow it for a mile or so to the last trap and then head home. The thought made him happy. It had been a rough day. And he hoped to God there was something in that last trap.

The deep snow by the river and the hidden rocks made his progress slow. Still, it was a beautiful scene, the river. Ice clung to the shelter of the rocks and the clear, cold water flowed eternally, crying “Forward! Forward!” But the trapper knew that beauty is often seen from the outside, and he was very much on the in. Such matters are best contemplated later, exhausted and broken by the hearth.

So he plowed on, and the trap neared. Now the trapper knew his last trap was just around the bend. If he had not long since given up prayer in face of the realities of his work, he might have cast a look to the sky. He scrambled as the bank grew steep and he crossed the river where the rocks permitted. And there, a distance from the water, sat a wolf with his paw caught in steel.

Well, this was a welcome sight. He’s no mink, the trapper thought, but he’ll do. The wolf was young and lean. He looked at the trapper, but there was no menace in his eyes. The trapper dropped his rifle from his shoulder, cocked it, and prepared to kill the animal. But as he drew a bead, something incredible happened. The wolf spoke.

“Wait,” the wolf said. The trapper lowered his gun. Damn it all, he thought to himself, of all the wolves in the forest, I have to go and trap this one. Sure, he was surprised, but he was sure as hell frustrated too.

It hadn’t been easy for the wolf either. He had become separated from the pack during a hunt the night two days earlier, and was now trying to close the miles long gap, pressing through the early morning snow and into the afternoon. Food in the winter is always scarce, but this winter was worse. The pack had been searching wider areas, and so he was not surprised when he caught the scent on the other side of the river. For as long as the wolf could remember, the river was the boundary of their territory.

But these were trying times, and the wolf had followed the scent around a bend and across the water, and ultimately into the jaws in which he sat now. He was no fool, the wolf; he knew what the trap meant. And where he now sat were the signs of struggle, and the snow was packed hard and sunk in. The snow around the trap was stained red and yellow, and if tears had a color, they would surely stain too. The entire afternoon, the wolf grappled with the scene. His paw had numbed within the first twenty minutes, but there remained the mental pain, and it stabbed him every time he glanced down.

Every way he looked at it, the trap meant death. Death if he waited it out and death if he gnawed his way out. The winter land quickly disposes of the lame. And so the wolf turned inside.

He dwelt for a while in the past, and he thought of the better times. He mourned the future, and he dreamed of a long life. And finally he resented the present, and he felt hate. But after these feelings passed, the wolf found himself meditating on the beauty of the river and the snow and the trees. He knew that beauty is often seen from the outside, and though he was very much on the in, he began to feel separated from the bank and the stones and the sky. He felt outside and beyond and he was less and less concerned about it. Still, something was missing, and when the trapper came around the bend, when he loaded his gun and took aim, the wolf was brought back in.

“Wait,” the wolf said. He saw the trapper hesitate, and then lower the gun. After a moment, the trapper spoke.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Sit down,” the wolf suggested.

The trapper looked into the eyes of the wolf, he looked for hatred and fear, but he found none. The wolf looked into the eyes of the trapper, he tried not to show fear or hatred or anything. Too often he had seen the panic in the eyes of an animal not ready to go. He didn’t want the trapper to remember him in that way. The trapper saw the clear eyes of the wolf, and he didn’t know what to do. He needed those eyes of panic, those eyes of fear. Without them, he was helpless. And so he sat down.

The river bubbled and a bird chirped a soft song. The sun was lower and the sky was darker. The trapper knew he had a long way home, but he hesitated.

“Alright,” the wolf broke the silence.

The trapper stood up and stepped back a few paces. Again he raised his gun, and he looked down the barrel. The wolf did not close his eyes and the trapper felt his cheeks flame. And when the shot went off, it startled the old trapper.