4
The Great Hunt
Gigantic-a, that is what I should call you: the Great Tibetan Grizzly, or should it be the Great One? all thirteen feet of yor-height, standing erect. Will people call me ‘Tipi, the Great?’ I sense you are all of 1700-lbs?
I had killed one of my dogs, placed him in an area where there was a cliff overlooking where yout-the big bear would come to me, but first I had built a fire. I cut the dog open, and let the fire warm his blood; the bearyouwould come, and you did, and seen the food was easy pickings. You could not resist the meat, I knew this. You stayed thinking I went to get my dogs, and would come back later: but I did not want to kill you in front of the dogs, then the great bear youwould eat him, as you tired. When you positioned yourself perfectly I said to memyself… ‘I, I will jump on him with my harpoon, onto his back, and kill him.’ I have done this many times before, and sometimes have fallen off, only to run and get out of the bears sight. Once I rolled off a bears back when I startled him, he and I both got scared, I could not get my harpoon in him quick enough. But over twenty bears have fallen to my deadly act of jumping on their backs, like you bear.
Your head is as big as my mid section. Your fur, as thicker than my hair. Your eye sockets as big as my fists: –I seen you bear, and you seen the warm meat: your face brightened, desire shining frankly-forth. I knew you were very hungry. I was clinging to my harpoon, layered within myselfI said:
“Just you move a little to the right, and you’ll see me, big bear, lest I get scared at the start, but I will not, I told myself, standing up, my feet weak, I told myself, –be fierce. It was cold, my hands shaking: ok, you scared me bit I only told God this, now I can admit it to you. Then like the calm before the storm, I stood there on top of the cliff, my plans were as I had predicted, the first few seconds I stood up from laying secretly in the snow watching you, I had to get my balance.
The snow was frozen, the cliff, fifteen feet up, I had rested, waited for hours for this moment; thinking about my fight. I had my harpoon by my side all day, tight. I had left the dogs back by the igloo, hungry, so they would make noise for the big bear, and this would fool him. Thus, assuring the bear he need not be guarded. It was the dark season, and everything was like gray dust, but my eyes adjusted, they always do.
As I stand here, it makes me think when he first came here, how excited I was, I said in a whisper:
“He comes, he comes,” and now I see him. He does not see me above him. The wind has stopped; he cannot smell me yet, not with the fire. His eyes are old. Fearless animal, my head told me nothing could harm you, and here I am, and my spirit tells me, I can, I “Tipi,” the great. I will put my harpoon in you …wait he is
…wait sheeeeeeeeee…
Quiet…it…
I have to take a bi ggggggg…leapNOOW: — I’m on his back, he’s in disbelief, I’m…………..
pushing the harpoon into his thick fat, muscle-bound neck, blood spiriting in big blots, the bear is shocked, disorientated; I’m trying to find his inner part of the neck, the harpoon went right through the upper part of his shoulders, by the spine, close to the neck, but I have the round knife, it is hard to get it through the fur, but I cut, cut: I can feel it enter his body. He is making one last attempt to get up, his blue tongue came out of his mouth, and I almost rolled off his back, if I had, had rolled off his back I would be crushed indeed: yes, yes, indeed I would: then he collapsed. He is shaking; I have never seen this before.
“Die, die, die-di-di…!!” I cried and cried with elation as the blood drops fell on the fire, pumped out of him like a whales spout; — his big snout, silently, and sadly trying to see me.
٭
As I looked at the old tired bear, I could see his spirit leaving him; I finally got off his back, I was like a fly on him, not moving more than three inches any which way. Like a white mist of warm-breath, there, there it goes: his spirit. Stripped, I put of him on my sleigh. I buried the gall in the ice, padded my sleigh with meat, and headed back. I will keep his claws for my friend’s wife in Barrow, and his teeth, they: his teeth will make for a good gift. There is no hospitality out here only the hunt.
As I headed back to my camp, I thought about you, Mr. Grizzly, if you would come to dinner. I have searched for you for twenty-years now. I have killed many of cleaver bears, it is up to me to survive, nonetheless, for some unknown desire, I sought you out, even before you killed my father. When I jumped on your back I must have not trembled anymore, but you did, you knew who I was, and you let go, you did not fight as I thought you would. You gave up the good fight. You had your reasons. Maybe you have a secret waiting for me. The more I think of it, you are old and will have died in a few more winters anyway, maybe…or maybe it was your way of getting me to come to you. You are cleaver. I do find myself in an odd situation now.
ll-lighted, I can still see my igloo; it is close now, the midnight sun. I came short of your neck, but iton the other hand, worked out fine. The kill spot in front of my harpoon, with a stretched out arm in the air I heaved it through you, like a thick fog, I seen it come out the other end, I knew then I had you.
Let me rest, I like looking at your head, it is huge. Morning will be dark, but it is getting warmer, it is only 35-below [zero] out now, or so it seems. But you and I have adaptability, the essence of survival out here. Your sons, where are they? They will want their share of what you leave them, so I will leave the other meat of your-body back there, they will come I’m sure, and eat what they can. They are spoiled, I seen you spoil them: it is like our schools, they turnout young morons, they teach them to cut open their fathers torsos, why not to hunt? They serve some end, but have no beginning: captive tyrants of their age: that is what the teachers have produced; sprinkle them with pepper, watch them breed uneatable fish.
No offence, they have learned nothing, like your kids, poets have taught them nothing but loftiness. So what are we going to do… late. The question is will they honor you? and if so, how?
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