“But then something happened the ring did not intend…”
J.R.R.Tolkien
She took it rather well, actually. The fact that I had “misplaced” my wedding ring of ten years in a gut pile could not have sounded good. I had ruled out all other possibilities in my mind.
“Did you look on the shelf behind the sink?” Of course I did. She knew that the only time I remove my ring is when I am kneading dough and I always put the ring on this one shelf.
“Yeah, I looked there”.
I had baked bread about a week ago. My kids wouldn’t have taken it off the shelf would they? They had shown fleeting interest in my ring in the past. After I declared it my “ring of power” one day, I had gone on to explain that when I have it on I am invisible to all other women. They were too young to get the Tolkien reference or the marital wisecrack but the idea was funny to them anyway.
“There is only one other possibility that I can think of” I reluctantly explained. “Maybe it slipped off in the gut pile.” We both cringed. Returning to the kill site of a caribou I’d recently harvested meant a long drive up past Cantwell, and a long probably fruitless search for the ring, essentially a day long quest and a tank of gas. Any hesitation on my part was stemming from the fact that I had absolutely no recollection of it slipping off or taking it off for that matter.
A trip up there would be a shot in the dark. Besides, as every hunter knows; from the moment an animal is down it is only a matter of time before the scene blows up with every manner of gut pile scavenger. The ravens gather and squawk adding visual and sound lures to the irresistable fowl reek of the viscera. Any number of feather or fur bearing animals may come to the dance taking turns in the pecking order, ripping and tearing at the mess until there is nothing left.
“It’s probably in a pile of bear poop” she offered.
“Great”, I said.
The hunt itself had been great. We left on a Friday after school. My nine year old son Corey was excited to be pulled from school a few minutes early to go hunting with his dad. The plan was simple; drive up to Cantwell, turn down the Denali Highway and start looking for Caribou. We would pack light and sleep in the truck.
“Are we almost there yet dad?” Corey asked.
“Right around the next corner” came my standard reply. Corey, clueing in on my sarcasm knew that we still had a ways to go. I pulled up on the blinker signaling a right hand turn.
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| Denali highway scenery |
Unlike China’s great wall, the guard towers of the Denali Highway are large white Winnebago’s and every other kind of R.V. imaginable. They dot its length from Cantwell to Paxson. On virtually every hilltop the lords of the motorhome can be found scouting for caribou and moose as opposed to invading Mongols.
My dad likes to recall the time he saw a camo hunter sitting on top of his Minnie Winnie in a lawn chair with a jumbo coffee, slippers and pair of binoculars. In truth it was hard to imagine a fellow like that venturing too far from the comforts of his R.V. to stalk an animal.
Needless to say this stunning landscape supports an abundance of wildlife. Animals of the rebounding Nelchina caribou herd can be found without too much trouble. Moose, bear, and ptarmigan are also popular game animals to be found along the Denali Highway.
We arrived at one of our favorite pull outs around nine. After enjoying a campfire and some dinner, we climbed into the canopy of my truck bed and quickly fell asleep. Later on that night the wind picked up to impressive speeds. Seventy mile per hour gusts of wind rocked the truck on its leaf springs through the night. The rain pelted one side of the truck while the other side was virtually dry. Corey, oblivious to the ruckus was out like a light. I wondered if the inclement weather would squash our hunting plans.
Luckily in the morning the wind had died down to almost nothing and with the Nelchina Gods smiling upon us, we had a nice cow caribou down on the turf by eleven o’clock. With Corey by my side whispering all kinds of questions we put the final “sneaks” on this lone caribou until we were within range. Once down on the tundra I grabbed my knife and got to work, a task I enjoy thoroughly.
After a half hour, Corey’s persistent pestering that we pop the gut sack was partially realized when my knife nicked the taught membranous ball. The pungent green mulch oozed out of the nick I’d made. “Darn!” I blurted.
Corey’s face lit up with laughter as he moved in closer to inspect. Although not much help, Corey was having a blast poking the eyes playing with the hooves. His time would come when he was older to do more of the work. Using my own history as a gauge, next year might be the year he is ready to shoot his first big game animal. I gave him fair waring that he was going to have to carry out my backpack, rifle, and the antlers when we were done. He agreed as he winged one of the forelegs into the bushes as he’d seen me do a few minutes before.
The pack out was about a half of a mile. I was able to fit all of the meat in my internal frame backpack. Lining the inside with a large garbage bag insured that my pack wouldn’t be soaked in blood. Conditions of the hunt state that all meat of the ribs must remain naturally attached to the bone until removed from the field. Since I forgot to bring my bone saw I was forced to carry out the entire rib cage attached to the backbone. Covered with a game bag, the rib cage sat rather nicely over the top of my pack like a big turtles shell.
“Why don’t you just make two trips?” Corey asked me as I strained and struggled to stand with what turned out to be a one hundred and seventy five pound pack.
“Because I always love a good challenge!” I declared, wondered if I would regret having said that. I did a quick visual survey of our site to make sure I wasn't leaving anything of value behind. The pack was so heavy that I decided my hasty “once-over” inspection was good enough. This had to have been one of the heaviest packs I’d ever carried, I told myself. I allowed the weight to settle into my bones before I started my death march up the hill. The legions of blueberries were scattered before us as we plodded our way back to the truck. I had to stop several times to rest in the bent over position with my hands propped on my knees. This wasn't the most restful position in the world but I was trying to avoid plopping down to the ground because it was such a wrestling match to stand again. We made it to the truck just as the rain and wind started to pick up again.
By noon the next day we had all 112 pounds of meat put up in the freezer or canned in jars. It had to have been the perfect hunt hadn't it?
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| picking the legions |
“Yeah Dan’s got a metal detector” Deb answered from behind the front desk at work.
“I think he’s got a couple of them”.
It was noon when I arrived at Dan’s house for a lesson on metal detectors. Over the summer Dan had worked at a gold mine operation out of McGrath. On his spare time he was allowed to do a little prospecting himself. A few weeks before Dan had shown me his summer poke in the form of gold nuggets ranging in size from almost dust particles to a couple the size of a grape. The almost fifteen hundred dollar an ounce bounty on gold made for a lucrative summer for him. I was all ears as Dan taught me metal detecting 101. The whirling beeps and wowies sounded off as he waved the detector over a quarter he’d thrown on the grass. “Have fun” was the last thing he told me as I loaded it up in the back of my truck.
“Thanks Dan, I will” although fun wasn't something I’d even considered.
The awful electric pulse of my alarm clock shocked me out of bed like a cattle prod at 4:30 AM on a Sunday. Was I really doing this? It had been over three weeks since the hunt. Then I remembered that my folks had cheerfully decided to join me on my quest for the ring, a fellowship per-se, and were already on their way to my house. I couldn't back out now.
We hit the road fully caffeinated by five. By 8:00 A.M we had arrived on site with metal detector in hand. It took a few minutes to find the kill site because almost everything was gone. I took in a visual of the scene. The four hooves and the lower jaw were all that remained of the animal, even the hide had disappeared entirely. My heart sunk as I tried to fend off the inevitable feeling of futility. Maybe the “ring in the bear poop” theory wasn't so far fetched. But thirty seconds into my rookie prospecting campaign I was rewarded with a high pitched whine. Did I have it on the right setting? I dug through the dirt under the exact spot and found what remained of the actually bullet that brought down the caribou, a nifty find on any other trip.
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| I think I can.. |
Twenty minutes later another high whirl rung through the headphones. The brass casing of my 30.06 shell was found under one of the hooves. And then, just as I was starting to realize that I could very well be waving this contraption around for hours on end like a blind man with his cane, there came another.
As I lifted the Frisbee sized sensor up I found what I had been seeking. There tucked partially under the carpeted tundra was my ring of power indeed. I let out a whoop that I’m sure was heard by at least several caribou. Mom and Dad shared in my excitement and incredulity.
The ring was found about fifteen feet from the kill site dulled by the three week old blood on it. Having read at least one Encyclopedia Brown detective book in the fifth grade, I was able to figure out what happened. Apparently flinging the hoofs away with a slimy left hand isn’t conducive to responsible ring care. I couldn’t let my own son out distance me on a hoof toss could I? The extra effort put into that final hoof throw was my undoing. I can just see that bloody ring flying through the air in slow motion arcing back down to its temporary tundra home.
So then without so much as a wipe down, I slid the ring onto my finger and once again became invisible to all other women again.
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| The ladies just see tundra here |
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