Short Stories of the Arctic

The Beast of Yukon

     The sky of Yukon is dark as night. The snow was thick, almost as if it had been replaced by dense and white mud. Closing in in the distance you could see a man running very slowly. He tried to run as fast as he could but the snow was simply too concentrated. Each step he took felt as if he was trying to dash through quicksand. Even though the activity of running through the tall snow was cumbersome, it took a lot of effort on the runner's behalf. The reason he was running wasn't for exercise or a daily morning jog, nay, it was because his life was on the line. Behind the man was a ferocious wolf, foaming at the mouth and ready to rip one's head off. The wolf was much faster than the man for it was as if the beast was running on water. The man's breath was as wild as the wolf itself. The canine was gaining upon the fearful man and it seemed like all hope was lost. The explorer's foot tripped upon the dense snow blanket. The wolf jumped on him and was about to rip his face off. The man had both of his hand's around the beast's snout. The canine's claws were closing in upon the bloody, ripped skin of the victim. The man rolled with all of his might and found himself at the opposite end of where he was before, now on top of the wolf. He held the beast's neck with one hand and ferociously punched the animal with his other one. The wolf layed there dead and the adventurer continued his journey in the arctic wilderness. This was a very, very close call.