Feisty Fern #9
The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. At the top of the ridge, John could see where the hunter knelt to fire. The path in the snow down the far side of the rim showed the hunter slid down the hill after making his kill shot. Looking out from the point in a slow arc, John found the splatter of blood like a teacher’s correction on a white page.
He turned and followed his own tracks back down the hill. He wasn’t interested in sliding down the ridge. He would walk around.
The carcass of the polar bear had been neatly skinned. John inspected closely to see if the gall bladder had been removed, which it had. Natural healers in parts of Asia paid big bucks for the gall bladders, which was why the hunters came to Wrangel Island.
There were thousands of people who could shoot a rifle who were willing to kill a bear for money, but only a few could brave the fierce cold of Chukotka. Killing the bears was strictly forbidden, but who in chaotic Russia could stop it? Those that did come to the artic this time of year were good.
He set up a small pup tent east of the bear’s body. Across the horizon he could see smoke from the fire of the hunter, perhaps just over the next major ridge to the east. It was too close now for him to risk having his own fire. The moonlight didn’t quite reach the deepest crevices on his weathered face. A week’s worth of salt and pepper growth covered his gaunt cheeks.
A gloved hand closed around a can of beans that had been defrosting in his white parka’s inner lining. A large knife in the other hand quickly opened them before the frigid air froze them again. He ate them straight from the can with no utensil. A new can, frozen solid, replaced the other in his coat’s pocket to defrost for tomorrow.
John woke after five hours sleep. It was still unbearably cold without the sun. The wind blown snow was like a thousand tacks driving into his face. But he had to make up ground on the hunter, who had been ahead of him for three days. He knew the hunter’s habits, and there would be no stirring in that camp for another hour. John figured he could gain some ground before the hunter was moving again. Snowmobiles scared the bears, and it was slow traveling by foot through the deep snow. If he didn’t stop for lunch, John could catch the hunter by late afternoon.
He passed the hunter’s camp from the previous night around mid-morning. It was just some tracks and a small pile of ashes. A few cigarette butts were scattered. There was a careless, single set of tracks leading to the east.
That afternoon John spotted the hunter. The hunter was stopped, again at the crest of a hill, assembling a rifle.
John crawled up a hill south of the hunter, using the white snow suit he wore to blend seamlessly with the terrain. He assembled his own rifle. Through the scope John could see the Asian man he had been following. There was a wisp of mustache on his upper lip but no other facial hair growth. The man sucked in a drag from a cigarette and put it out. He raised his rifle.
Following the angle of the hunter’s gun, John found the polar bear with his scope. It was well within range of the hunter, and at the limits of his. Acting quickly to beat the hunter, John took aim and fired.
A splash of blood from the hunter’s head hit the snow behind him. His rifle fell quietly into the snow bank, and he followed it, after wobbling like a reluctant tenth bowling pin. The bear had run at the sound of the gunshot.
John looked into the hunter’s open eyes, which were quickly forming ice crystals on the surface.
“If you fuck over your partner, cover your tracks, Randall.”
He shut the eyes and took all the food he could carry from the satchel on the ground. The frozen gall bladder and hide also went into his pack.
John dissembled his rifle and slid down the far side of the rise to chase the polar bear.
He turned and followed his own tracks back down the hill. He wasn’t interested in sliding down the ridge. He would walk around.
The carcass of the polar bear had been neatly skinned. John inspected closely to see if the gall bladder had been removed, which it had. Natural healers in parts of Asia paid big bucks for the gall bladders, which was why the hunters came to Wrangel Island.
There were thousands of people who could shoot a rifle who were willing to kill a bear for money, but only a few could brave the fierce cold of Chukotka. Killing the bears was strictly forbidden, but who in chaotic Russia could stop it? Those that did come to the artic this time of year were good.
He set up a small pup tent east of the bear’s body. Across the horizon he could see smoke from the fire of the hunter, perhaps just over the next major ridge to the east. It was too close now for him to risk having his own fire. The moonlight didn’t quite reach the deepest crevices on his weathered face. A week’s worth of salt and pepper growth covered his gaunt cheeks.
A gloved hand closed around a can of beans that had been defrosting in his white parka’s inner lining. A large knife in the other hand quickly opened them before the frigid air froze them again. He ate them straight from the can with no utensil. A new can, frozen solid, replaced the other in his coat’s pocket to defrost for tomorrow.
John woke after five hours sleep. It was still unbearably cold without the sun. The wind blown snow was like a thousand tacks driving into his face. But he had to make up ground on the hunter, who had been ahead of him for three days. He knew the hunter’s habits, and there would be no stirring in that camp for another hour. John figured he could gain some ground before the hunter was moving again. Snowmobiles scared the bears, and it was slow traveling by foot through the deep snow. If he didn’t stop for lunch, John could catch the hunter by late afternoon.
He passed the hunter’s camp from the previous night around mid-morning. It was just some tracks and a small pile of ashes. A few cigarette butts were scattered. There was a careless, single set of tracks leading to the east.
That afternoon John spotted the hunter. The hunter was stopped, again at the crest of a hill, assembling a rifle.
John crawled up a hill south of the hunter, using the white snow suit he wore to blend seamlessly with the terrain. He assembled his own rifle. Through the scope John could see the Asian man he had been following. There was a wisp of mustache on his upper lip but no other facial hair growth. The man sucked in a drag from a cigarette and put it out. He raised his rifle.
Following the angle of the hunter’s gun, John found the polar bear with his scope. It was well within range of the hunter, and at the limits of his. Acting quickly to beat the hunter, John took aim and fired.
A splash of blood from the hunter’s head hit the snow behind him. His rifle fell quietly into the snow bank, and he followed it, after wobbling like a reluctant tenth bowling pin. The bear had run at the sound of the gunshot.
John looked into the hunter’s open eyes, which were quickly forming ice crystals on the surface.
“If you fuck over your partner, cover your tracks, Randall.”
He shut the eyes and took all the food he could carry from the satchel on the ground. The frozen gall bladder and hide also went into his pack.
John dissembled his rifle and slid down the far side of the rise to chase the polar bear.
posted by Feisty Fern at 7:15 PM
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