The Caribou Hunter

It was so dark when we got out of the car, we had to walk the atv trail by flashlight. I heard creaking noises nearby and felt a little afraid, a city girl deep in the woods. This was not one of those moments, either, when you could start singing, “When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad . . .” We had to be as quiet as possible.

When daylight came out on the barrens, the clouds were plum coloured and it started to rain. We settled in under some low scrub and waited. I felt the hypnotic tap of raindrops on the rubber of my jacket, the soft ground underneath, the slow leaching of body heat as I fought off the urge to sleep. The day before, while we were crouched elsewhere on the lookout, I had leaned over until I lay down on the moss. I fell asleep right away and slept like an orphan out in the open, under the watchful eyeball of the sky. I slept deeply, dreamed erotically, and woke refreshed.

But this morning, I had to stay alert. This was our best site so far. The wind was northerly, and we were downwind from where we thought the caribou would appear. And so we waited, for the longest period yet, like soldiers in the trenches, feeling the cold rain. It made me think about my life.

Michael and I had been going out for nearly three years. We’d joked about getting married and having kids. I had rejected the idea of marriage early on, because I’d just gotten divorced. But now I was hankering for something permanent. I wanted to have a baby, but he wasn’t sure. These are the sorts of things you think about sitting in silence for two and a half hours, when the rain’s plucking at the back of your hands, and your shoulders have lost all their surplus warmth and started to ache. Suddenly, I felt miserable.

“Shall we call it a day?”

“Fifteen more minutes,” he said, checking his watch. I bowed my head. Ten minutes went by, and then Michael whispered, “There he is.”

I was on my knees.

“Take the shot,” he whispered.

“Take the fuckin’ shot.”

The caribou wasn’t far away. Maybe fifty metres. A noble stag, in profile, brown and grey and white. Maybe two years old. A crown of antlers. Nose high. Proud. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking: Behind the shoulder. Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it.