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the moose hunt

INUVIK, NT

Recently, several colleagues at the school invited me along on a moose hunt. While not necessarily eager to see the endeavour succeed, I was curious about the experience and went along.

Things got off to a leisurely start, constrained as we were by the sun's timid appearance in the late morning. Our mode of transport was snowmobile, each of us astride a noisome two–stroke. While the environmental impact of every mile travelled by tracked sled makes me shudder, I've quickly discovered that unless I resign myself to turning down every invitation to go 'out on the land,' I must occasionally make my peace with the machines.

The first surprise of the day came when I was handed a gun. I think the intention of presenting me with a firearm was more symbolic than anything else—the weapon was a shotgun and of very little use in felling large ruminants. However, I duly obliged and slung the gun over my shoulder.

We headed down a scar in the taiga left by an underground gas line that was constructed in the late 1990s. If you look at aerial photographs of the Mackenzie Delta, you'll see that it's comprised primarily of innumerable ponds and lakes, with the occasional channel. The gas line neatly skirted in and around these bodies of water, allowing us convenient access to them. (Note how land–based resource exploitation—logging, mining, drilling—involves the creation of roads, and once roads exist, anyone with a combustion engine can get in and out of lands previously protected by virtue of their inaccessibility.)

Before even getting to the first lake, we came across fresh moose tracks. Now, at this point, I had envisioned we would dismount and stealthily follow such a clear trail until it revealed its creator. This was decidedly not the case. Instead, the rest of the day was spent roaring around the circumference of myriad lakes in the hope of catching a moose in the middle of crossing, or simply unawares at the shoreline. There was no patient hiding, no tracking, and certainly no silence. I guess I can understand that this method might prove practically more effective, as it covers tremendous ground, but the experience for me was one of oily exhaust and engine whine above all else.

The most surprising part of the day came at the end. Returning home along the gas line, we encountered a spruce grouse at the side of the clearing. My companions all indicated that I should attempt to shoot the rather undaunted bird. (Spruce grouse are sometimes called "fool hens" because they refuse to flush, simply flying into trees and out of the grasp of any co-evolutionary predator. In contrast, we had seen several ptarmigan throughout the day, all of which took flight before we drew near.) As I'd made the decision to try and eat locally procured foods up here, and since the territory is so sparsely populated that the impact of human predation on non–migratory game bird populations is negligible, I hefted the gun tightly against my shoulder, wavered a bit, and fired. When I had lowered the barrel of the gun after recoil, the bird was dead.

Thanks to my small-town upbringing, I already knew how to clean a game bird. Rather simply, you place the bird on its back, spread its wings and step on them, placing your feet tightly on either side of the body. You then grab the bird's legs and pull. The legs take with them the lower body, spinal cord, head and most of the innards, leaving the wings and exposed breasts on the ground. Cut off the wings, clean out the ribcage and you have two breasts ready for the pan. I also saved the gizzard. To cook this particular viscus, you cut it in half, remove the partially digested food from within, peel off an inner lining similar in texture to a dried apricot, and fry.

The meat, which for karmic reasons I thought best to share with as many people as possible, was in fact one of the most delicious things I have had up here, though the gizzard, billed as the "best part of the bird," was disappointing.

Despite our early discovery of new spoor, we had finished the day without seeing a moose. In the end, what I found distasteful was not the act of hunting itself, but the manner in which it was done. I didn't feel comfortable spewing toxic fumes and racing through this land where tiny dwarf spruces are hundreds of years old and the animal inhabitants succeed in flourishing under such extreme conditions. I will continue to eat locally procured food, and can even see taking a shotgun along on a ski trip, but I think I may have to turn down a second invitation to play great white gas-powered hunter.

Photo above: The eastern edge of the delta, after which, flat, treeless tundra. Actual light conditions at midday on January 8, 2005.

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year of the rooster

WHITEHORSE, YT

Aside from the fact that official cock–time doesn't kick off until the Chinese New Year, this is the third time around the zodiac for us kids born in 1981. Attempts at scrutinizing the future have not been successful. My fortune from a cookie at a Chinese–Indian restaurant recently informed me that I value my beliefs over wealth and fame, which I protested wasn't a fortune at all in the fatidic sense of the word. My New Year's resolution to be more humble ended up being transmuted by the accordion–folded–paper game to "shoot for the stars," which goes against my efforts to eliminate gratuitous violence from my language. So as it stands, two thousand and five is still all tabbouleh rasta.

Christmas was spent in Port Hope, where my grandfather celebrated his 90th birthday on December 22. For this momentous occasion, family from all over descended on the sleepy town and we fested the holidays together. I made gifts of animal parts affixed to sharp metal objects. Then it was off to Vancouver, with New Year's celebrated on Pender Island at the gracious behest of friend and erstwhile climbing partner Amy, along with her hip friends. Yet another Artsci alum, Patrick, appeared on New Year's Day, bringing Boggle.

Just now, I sit in front of my computer in Whitehorse, alone for the first time since the frenetic jet–setting blur of my Christmas holidays began. It was wonderful to be able to spend time with so many folks, and I am grateful to all who went out of their way to do so. I wish that I could have had more time for those that I didn't get to see.

The year ahead will be fun. I think I have mostly figured out the challenges of developing a curriculum, designing lessons, and motivating the kids, so I am keen to turn my energies to new things, in particular developing an archival project centred around the school where I teach, which will be demolished next year after having played a central role in Western Arctic life for five decades. And I'm going to learn how telemark... or try to learn. Probably, I will hurt myself.

Wishing you all the best, and sending much love.

PHOTOS (from top to bottom)

1. Me and a kayak my father built in Whitehorse in 1973.

2. New Year's morning; view out to the ocean from Buck Lake, Pender Island.