It was nine degrees when we arrived at 5 p.m., first cold, but not cold to those who called this small community home. All the way up the Klondike Highway, I wrote an old friend, a poet, the one man I knew who would understand this landscape without instruction. Dave was driving when a wolf crossed the road. The wolf stopped and peered into his eyes. Bob saw his tail; I saw nothing but two grown men howling at their good fortune.