The arctic wolf hunter uses a bizarre method to fell his prey. I would use a rifle, or at least a bow, but not the ancient Eskimo. He simply uses a blade… a single razor-sharp piece of cold steel. But it is not the blade that downs the mighty arctic wolf, it is his own savage instinct.

The hunter will dip a steel blade into a bowl of blood, lay it on the frozen snow, then repeat the exercise several times. The temperature of the tundra will cause the blood to freeze, leaving a course, crystallized coat on the blade. Then the hunter will fix the knife into the ground, blade up, and leave.

Like all canines, wolves have extraordinary olfactory senses and can smell their prey from miles away – even frozen prey. So as night falls and wolves begin their prowl, the faint scent of frozen blood is carried by the breeze across the arctic landscape. When the wolf’s keen nose catches the scent, his instincts are ignited and like a moth to the flame, he begins his trek to the trap.

As the wolf reaches the place where the blade is fixed in the snow, he inquisitively circles the odd-looking meal. It doesn’t look like food, but it sure smells like food. There is only one way to know for certain… does it taste like food? Cautiously and curiously, the wolf inches toward the blade and slowly begins to lick. The rich taste of blood causes him to throw caution to the wind, and he licks, fast and furiously, he licks the blade.

In the midst of the frenzied feast, the wolf begins to feel faint. The blade was cold. The blood was frozen. Because his tongue is numb, the wolf doesn't recognize the moment he slices his tongue like ribbons on the razor’s edge. He has no idea that the warm, salty taste in the back of his throat is his own blood. He just keeps licking hard the blade, feasting on his own lifeforce. Dazed and weak, the powerful predator finally collapses helpless to the snow. His last moments are spent gasping for life, his stomach full.

At daybreak, the cunning hunter will return to his trap and find lying lifeless before the blade the mighty arctic wolf. Ended by his own instinct. Downed by desire unchecked.

Shakespeare said there are sermons in stones. I wonder if there is one in the blade?