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Authors: Christopher Lane
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at its banks, reaching up muddy shoals, swallowing miniature islands of willows like a hungry serpent on a binge. An unusually warm summer had worn away the hidden pockets and reservoirs of snow that normally existed throughout the year in the shadowy recesses of the Endicott Mountains. Though not quite a torrent, the river seemed intent on achieving the status before the return of winter.
Lewis is a complete and total fool!
Ray surmised as the shore flew past. They were traveling at an easy 30 mph, virtually hurtling forward, and it was all he could do to keep the two kayaks pointed in the right direction. Lashing them together had seemed like a good idea thirty minutes earlier. Now? The question wasn’t
if
they would meet with tragedy, but
when.
Catastrophe was clearly headed in their direction. Or rather, they were racing to meet it.
Thankfully, the first few miles had been without obstacle. The river was wide here, the smooth, green veneer offering a pretense of comfort. But it was swift. Deceivingly powerful. The kayaks were being driven along like toothpicks, wholly unnoticed by the river. It was flowing effortlessly, relentlessly north, toward the Colville.
Somewhere along the line, they would reach their stop: the holy grail—caribou. But as Ray struggled to guide the rig, he wondered if they would even slow down before being dumped into Beaufort Sea, a hundred miles downstream.
“You okay?” he asked Billy Bob without looking at him.
“Yeah … I thank so.” He didn’t sound convinced. In fact, he sounded queasy. Ray decided that the cowboy was probably a few turns away from another bout of motion sickness. The good news was that they were on the open water, rather than in a small floatplane cabin, with two feet between their kayaks.
“Dis da greatest!” Lewis shouted. He followed this with an energetic wolf howl, as if the moon were full and he had just stumbled upon a fresh kill.
“Da
greatest,” Ray agreed cynically. He paddled hard on the left, then assaulted the water on his right.
“No maw trouble,” Lewis encouraged. “Dis da life, man!”
Aside from the fact that Lewis was an imbecile, unfit to be a Boy Scout leader, much less a Bush guide, and the fact that the trip had thus far been a comedy of errors, Lewis was right. This
was
the life. Being in the Bush, shooting the Kanayut … It did offer a notable rush: the velocity, the technical challenge, the exhilarating sense of flowing with the force of nature, of yielding to and embracing the Land. It was precisely what adventure travel brochures promised but seldom delivered, Ray realized.
The speed, physical challenge, and danger seemed to be heightening his sense of expectancy. They were literally rushing to greet the nomads of the north. Ray had visited the migration route every year for as long as he could remember. Except for the half decade he had been away at college, he had never missed a procession of the caribou.
Growing up, hunting had been a seasonal routine, almost a religious rite. Grandfather had seen to that. There was something unique about each hunt, special stories giving life and voice to various creatures.
Awaiting the caribou was a ritual unto itself. A party atmosphere prevailed as families gathered in the migration path, setting up makeshift dwellings, preparing meals, talking late into the night. Grandfather and the elders beat drums, danced, and sang about the man who left his wife and mother-in-law to become a caribou.
The semiannual gathering was punctuated by the arrival of the grazing herds. When the lookout signaled their approach, a wave of excitement would ripple through the camp: the long-anticipated moment had finally come!
The hunt itself had just one hard-and-fast rule: take only what you need. In good years, when fishing and whaling and other hunting had been plentiful, the hunters downed fewer animals. In lean years they harvested more, sometimes shooing whole skeins into crude corrals to be
Lewis is a complete and total fool!
Ray surmised as the shore flew past. They were traveling at an easy 30 mph, virtually hurtling forward, and it was all he could do to keep the two kayaks pointed in the right direction. Lashing them together had seemed like a good idea thirty minutes earlier. Now? The question wasn’t
if
they would meet with tragedy, but
when.
Catastrophe was clearly headed in their direction. Or rather, they were racing to meet it.
Thankfully, the first few miles had been without obstacle. The river was wide here, the smooth, green veneer offering a pretense of comfort. But it was swift. Deceivingly powerful. The kayaks were being driven along like toothpicks, wholly unnoticed by the river. It was flowing effortlessly, relentlessly north, toward the Colville.
Somewhere along the line, they would reach their stop: the holy grail—caribou. But as Ray struggled to guide the rig, he wondered if they would even slow down before being dumped into Beaufort Sea, a hundred miles downstream.
“You okay?” he asked Billy Bob without looking at him.
“Yeah … I thank so.” He didn’t sound convinced. In fact, he sounded queasy. Ray decided that the cowboy was probably a few turns away from another bout of motion sickness. The good news was that they were on the open water, rather than in a small floatplane cabin, with two feet between their kayaks.
“Dis da greatest!” Lewis shouted. He followed this with an energetic wolf howl, as if the moon were full and he had just stumbled upon a fresh kill.
“Da
greatest,” Ray agreed cynically. He paddled hard on the left, then assaulted the water on his right.
“No maw trouble,” Lewis encouraged. “Dis da life, man!”
Aside from the fact that Lewis was an imbecile, unfit to be a Boy Scout leader, much less a Bush guide, and the fact that the trip had thus far been a comedy of errors, Lewis was right. This
was
the life. Being in the Bush, shooting the Kanayut … It did offer a notable rush: the velocity, the technical challenge, the exhilarating sense of flowing with the force of nature, of yielding to and embracing the Land. It was precisely what adventure travel brochures promised but seldom delivered, Ray realized.
The speed, physical challenge, and danger seemed to be heightening his sense of expectancy. They were literally rushing to greet the nomads of the north. Ray had visited the migration route every year for as long as he could remember. Except for the half decade he had been away at college, he had never missed a procession of the caribou.
Growing up, hunting had been a seasonal routine, almost a religious rite. Grandfather had seen to that. There was something unique about each hunt, special stories giving life and voice to various creatures.
Awaiting the caribou was a ritual unto itself. A party atmosphere prevailed as families gathered in the migration path, setting up makeshift dwellings, preparing meals, talking late into the night. Grandfather and the elders beat drums, danced, and sang about the man who left his wife and mother-in-law to become a caribou.
The semiannual gathering was punctuated by the arrival of the grazing herds. When the lookout signaled their approach, a wave of excitement would ripple through the camp: the long-anticipated moment had finally come!
The hunt itself had just one hard-and-fast rule: take only what you need. In good years, when fishing and whaling and other hunting had been plentiful, the hunters downed fewer animals. In lean years they harvested more, sometimes shooing whole skeins into crude corrals to be
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