There's not much to say about today.
From today, the sheep and caribou camp is going to be empty for a while. The next two hunters will arrive on the 20th, but, up until then, there'll just be a few ghosts. In the morning they begin dismantling the tents and sending the equipment back to Kavik. They decide that my plane will leave at 1.00. I get my rucksack packed and wait by the airstrip for the planes to return. 1.00
arrives, and the afternoon continues. There's no news of the planes. Around 4.00 the unbearable boredom is briefly broken by a little excitement. Randy spots a chipmunk in the withered grass around the landing strip. He doesn't need any encouraging, and quckly takes out his .44
Magnum, puts on his earmuffs, and starts to chase it. The chipmunk is not stupid, and in two or three quck jumps reaches his burrow, and disappears underground. Randy, Bruce and I - we are the only ones left here - lie on the ground, waiting for the small rodent to reappear. Within 5 mins.
his head pops up and, seeing no movement, he decides to stay out. He timidly takes a few steps and the big revolver fires - too high! Randy tries again - success! We look around for more chipmunks, but we can't see any.
Then I have a go with the gun. It's a Smith and Wesson, and as light as it can be. It hardly increases the weight of your luggage, and Randy carries it tied to the waist-strap on his pack. I grasp it firmly and aim at a stone... Wow! It has a kick like a horse! It almost broke my wrist! My shot goes high; I fire once more, and this time I manage to hit the stone. That's enough; it's too much gun for me.
An hour and a half later, in a subdued voice, Bruce alerts me that a frightened herd of caribou are crossing the runway. He thinks that the cause of their nervous behaviour is a wolf. I deliberately did not get a permit to shoot wolves; I could never kill one; so we do not set off to find the carniverous beast.
By 6.00 that evening I run out of patience. I ask Randy to use his satellite phone to find out what's happening. I don't want to be stuck here without a tent. We find out that a cross-wind has sprung
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up between here and Kavik, and all the planes have been grounded for hours. They will come as soon as they can, and we just have to hold on.
There's always something going on up here.
We have freeze-dried food again. If the wind wasn't quite so strong, I'd be quite happy just lying around. Finally, at 9.00, the planes turn up. There are three, flying in formation, one for each of us. I came here with nothing but a rucksack and gun, and the others need equally little time to load up their possessions, and soon I have left the sheep and caribou camp for good. Sadly, I watch the landscape recede, the scene of my first hunt in Alaska; and the mountains: the silent, patient witnesses.
On the way to Kavik Greg makes a detour; flying in large circles he points out all the game beneath us. This information will contribute to the success of the next two hunters, who will be arriving soon, and I enjoy the unexpected treat: watching game from the air is good fun.
I still can't get used to landings. The low-pressure tyres, specially designed for uneven ground, always make us bounce up from the runway. I'm afraid that we'll twist in the air, between bounces, and turn over as we land.
I'm welcomed back to Kavik by Susan's home-cooking, her hospitality, and an unlimited supply of cold cans of coke. A long conversation with the guides stretches into the night.
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Room B104
Prudhoe Bay Hotel
Deadhorse