Moving to the cold desert of this island had been a self-inflicted exile from the madmen across the water as he liked to put it. That turned him into a madman himself in the eyes of almost everyone, particularly the natives and even more so when he started to inquire about the Great White Wolf. There had been reports of sightings for almost a decade, peculiarly without any losses among livestock or human casualties. The alleged encounters with the beast spread a fuzzy pattern across the isle. This made no sense neither to him and his fellow hunters nor to the weird zoologist who tried for the better part of three years to carve a PhD out of this ‘mere myth’ as her doctoral father had warned her. This, however, spurred his eagerness even more. He travelled to all the places, crisscrossed the island from east to west, north to south, hunted high and low. He spoke with people who claimed to have seen the beast or who knew people who claimed to have seen it, or with people he just happened to sit next to imbibing a couple of beers or a more effective drink. The tale of the Great White Wolf, he had to admit it, gradually lost its probability and withered away to just a phantasm. It became a ghost story natives told beside the fireplace to entertain strangers like him. But this stranger was not so easily entertained. He wanted to find the Great White Wolf. Alas, however hard he tried, there was not even proof of its existence, neither remains like paw prints, feces nor carcasses of prey, let alone a glimpse of the beast itself. It did not bother him the least what they soon began to talk about him behind his back: There goes the ghost hunter. He even liked this title and wore it a like a crown. He thought if they kept telling the legend of the Great White Wolf, they may keep remembering the Ghost Hunter as well and tell his story. The longer his endeavor took and the more desperate it seemed the more religious he became about it. He began to think of the Great White Wolf as a symbol. On the one hand people lived in fear of it, on the other hand they worshipped it. The fact that it could not be killed, let alone found, that it obviously did not have any predatory bloodthirst itself seemed to lead to one conclusion: it was a kind of its own. It was a being that was able to live in this cruel and crazed world out there, not only surviving it, but truly inhabiting it. Spirit, angel, god? You put a name to it and loose it. He put no name to it and it never left his mind. Apart from the few killings of lesser game to sell their hides and grab what he needed for his modest living, he was after the one and only. He was not even sure any more what he would do if he looked it in the eye. Catch it, maim it, kill it? Hunting ghosts or killing gods, it was all the same to him.