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There's a light dusting of snow on the ground that came overnight. The first of the year in town. Good for tracking animals. Up at dark I light the fire, put the water on for tea. Drive up to Bralorne after forcing down some it's-too-early-to-be-eating oatmeal and get in the truck with my friend and the guns. His quad is strapped to the pick-up bed in case we have to pull a dead animal out of the bush.

We drive down an old logging road that is an artery for some of the backcountry I have climbed on skis. The same road where I saw my first moose last winter. I wonder if it is still alive. He tells me stories of growing up hunting with his father, with his brother in-law on horseback, of the moose and deer. The cab of the truck smells like burning fuel.

I spill my honey-laden tea on my lap, on my fingers, then wonder about what happens with the blood. I know that it will be sticky if it gets on my hands. In the end there are no shots, there's no blood, no game. We did follow a couple of wolf tracks, and caught up with them around a bend in the road. He stops the truck, looks at them in the sight of his .33. Two huge, black Sanford-sized wolves that stick out against the snow like peppercorns would on top of a pile of salt. We watch them for just a moment before they notice us and dart off the road into the thick bush.

Later we check the swampy places for moose tracks. Nothing. No deer. No grouse. No moose. Just two wolves, which is plenty to see in my opinion. You could almost see their scary wolf faces from where we were. Could almost hear one growl to the other to "look there's someone there!" in a snaky wolf voice with death on his tongue. They were HUGE and absolutely beautiful.

We will head out again on Friday, and maybe then I will see where the line of my comfort is drawn. But maybe not; I am also okay with just watching for wolves.