When I was just a boy, my father, my uncle and I would practice subsistence moose hunting. It is the act of hunting to eat, rather than to collect a trophy; which is an unforgivable act. We’d take ATVs far into the mountains, dozens of miles away from any roads, which were hundreds of miles from any civilization. Those were the days before affordable satellite phones. If a medical emergency befell you, you were pretty much out of luck.
We’d usually place our camps in groves of trees, protected from the wind. If our camp was far enough from our hunting sites, we’d build a fire . We’d use the dead trees and their branches to heat our cold bones.
Sometimes the Moose would be plentiful, sometimes not. If we didn’t get a kill, we’d call it “getting skunked.” I’m not sure why. Needless to say I wasn’t a great fan of these mountainous adventures. As a confirmed “street sign, neon boy” i tell people these days the only tents I stay in have “Hilton” written on the side.
However, the lessons I learned on those hunts stayed with me through my life. For nearly a decade I made my living camping on the wilds of Alaska, far from any convenience. They taught me the merits of minimalism, environmentalism, and stoicism.
Most hunters and outdoorsmen who I have spent time with are more environmentalist-minded when in the wilds than the Patagonia wearing yuppies who weekend pack up mountains and leave behind plastic-baggie-covered dog poop, energy bar wrappers and… you get the idea.
I traveled back to the valley where my father and mother live for a proper American Thanksgiving. I spent time with Anna’s parents, my family, and most especially, my grandmother.
She’s full blooded native American, which gets the cheechakos in a weird mystical-minded state. But in truth there’s nothing supernatural about her. She’s an old woman, with humanity, and dreams and blood like everyone else’s.
I do love her dearly. When I hugged her goodbye this time she had tears welling up in her eyes. Her time is short. And we’ve never enough. We never say enough of the things we should and my heart often breaks for the day that will come too soon.
Everyone used to be older than me at these family dinners. Now they’re always younger. The ones who were adults in the room when I was a boy all have limps, grey hair and grandchildren.
My own mother spent most of Thanksgiving day in the kitchen, sweating over her part in the meal. Three generations ago our people were starving sometimes. Now a gluttonous feast is only a store away. As she cooked she would make time to visit with us, crack a joke and laugh good naturedly. She’s a grandmother to now.
All these people in my family came together one more time this year, despite differences, simmering arguments, and petty things. I was finally able to make it. I so often miss out on them these days.
My mind goes back frequently to those hunts with my uncle and father. I remember now specifically a time when we were deep in the mountains. A range of them, tens of thousands of feet tall surrounded us as we stood there above the tree line. It felt like we were in the middle of God’s amphitheater.
I turned to my elders and asked if they had names. Such are the mountains in Alaska many of them are only designated by numbers.
“Not that I know.” My uncle replied as he reconed for moose.
“We should name them the Colosseum,” I said. “Do you think they’d let me?”
“If no one has named them yet, then yes.” My father replied, patiently. “But even if we don’t they can be your name for them.”
“Are we the first to see them?” I asked.
“I doubt it.” My uncle said through his binoculars. Then he put them down. “Take a picture of it with your mind, though just in case. That way you can have them forever.”
Storied By Josh 