Dad, as always, noticed first. Giant paw prints in snow behind a granite boulder. On the other side of the boulder, streaks where wingtips had swept, splashes of blood, round prints punctuated by points of claws. We followed the tracks up a nearby slope to the shade of a whitebark pine. The ptarmigan’s intestines were strewn in a winding, red tangle. I placed my hand next to the wolverine tracks, a rough scale for dad’s photographs. We were all there once, on that raw mountainside, feet and skin and claws and intestines of ptarmigan, wolverine, father, daughter. All alive once.
Alice Hotopp is earning her doctorate in Ecology and Environmental Sciences at the University of Maine. She writes about the intersections of science, beauty, and loss. alicehotopp.wixsite.com/my-site