Author: Gábor Katona
Chapter III.: Victoria Island
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Room 2162
Expedition Headquarters
Anchorage Hilton
19th - 20th August
I did nothing yesterday, so there was no point in writing up my diary. I spent most of the time in the hotel sorting out my clothes and equipment, and doing some shopping. But in the morning my quiet diary-writing was disturbed by an unexpected event: the earth started shaking!
Finally!
Every book I've read on Alaska mentions the frequent tremors, but I've been here for three weeks without experiencing anything. Above me the ceiling suddenly started creaking, just like in those wooden houses where I sometimes had to stay. It took me a few seconds to realise that I was in a solidly-constructed modern building and that I wouldn't be able to hear people walking around above me. I noticed that the lamp-shade on my desk was nodding. Hooray! Earthquake!
Grinning, I stared at the lamp.
I ran to the window; the entire wall was shaking. The fun lasted for 8 - 10 seconds! Only later did I consider the fact that I was enjoying this natural phenomenon on the 21st floor: you can have quite a fall from that height.
That evening I had an unexpected visitor. Mark and his son had just reached Anchorage, and were also staying at the hotel. He wanted to buy a nice surprise for his wife, but didn't know where in town to look. He found me to be a real expert, and I was welcomed in all the local shops as an old acquaintance. Acting as a guide, I showed Mark the best items in various shops, and at the end of it all, he had parted with quite a pretty sum. Perhaps I should have asked the shopkeepers for a commission. We spent the rest of the evening drinking beer and talking.
This morning I am standing at the window looking through my binoculars; nothing escapes my attention! I check the air, rail and water traffic, as well as how well the fishermen are doing. The moment the tide goes out, they turn up in their waders waving their fishing-rods. The military planes are circling again. I don't see the point of making the same circle for the 50th time, but, even so, it's an interesting sight.
All this free time enables me to think about all my new experiences, memories and everything I've learnt on my first hunt in Alaska. The most important lesson is that hunting in Alaska is completly
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different to hunting in Hungary. It's not better, or worse, just different. The general hunting and shooting skills that work well in Hungary are not suitable here. In Alaska you have to expect completely new challenges. I feel that my shooting practice and physical training has been time well spent. I am convinced that without all that work I would not have been successful. During a session on the rifle-range many situations can be simulated; but not one of them was similar to that unforgettable shot when I bagged my caribou. Even so, these sessions give the marksman time to become completely familiar with his gun, so that, when out in the field, an unknown situation crops up, he is able to adapt himself instantly. Anyone who's ever been to to a rifle-range, even just a couple of times, will recognise the feeling of self-confidence that comes after pulling the trigger and making a good shot. It's when you don't even have to look at the target because you just know you've hit it. That is how I felt when I shot the caribou: I knew it wasn't luck. I've been thinking a lot about my shot at the Dall sheep. Afterwards, I was concerned that the bullet had entered from the back, at the very end of the diaphragm. But now I have re-assessed it all. Most importantly - and this is what it's all about - I managed to bag it. I don't really think that anything else matters. If I was to go into minute detail, I would have to explain how it all depended on that moment when I moved my gun 8 ins to the right. I'd never before shot over such a distance, at least, not at a live animal. Just three days before I left Hungary, I had managed, down in Csákvár, to kil the Unicorn - to call it one-horned would be awkward - a ram famous among Hungarian hunters. That shot was around 700 ft, and, boosted my confidence for this long expedition. At the rifle-range I had often shot at much smaller targets, with good results.
This is what might have happened with my Dall sheep: there is an element of the situation which you will never recreate at the rifle-range - the excitement. An accurate long-distance shot is mainly a test of nerve. I'd never before experienced such excitement and confusion as when I shot at the Dall sheep. Aiming downwards, with a gun balancing on one point; lying inconveniently on the ground; without a precision sight; from a distance of 1000 ft; and in an agitated frame of mind, because I was on the first mountain hunt of my life... thinking back, I'm surprised I managed to hit it at all. I think my success was due to all my practice. Because, no matter how nervous I was, I knew what I had to do. I knew, more or less, where to aim, and how much the bullet would drop: I knew how to do my job. It was only the difficult conditions that stopped me from doing it perfectly. Without all the practice I wouldn't even have been able to hit the mountain; without all those training sessions I have no doubt that the sheep would still be sitting on the hill.
When shooting in Alaska, you have to be more accommodating. In Hungary it is not done to shoot a young stag, on the move, surrounded by his cows. Similarly, if you were sitting around
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the table in a Hungarian hunting lodge, and someone told a story about shooting a ram from 1000
ft, there would certainly be at least one person present who would give him a lecture on how shameful such a shot was to a true hunter. But, over here, however, such methods are necessary, and have gone on to influence all the culture of, and ethics in, Alaskan hunting. We shouldn't expect Hungarian hunting ethics to apply the world over, or that, where they do not, those regulations belong to a more rudimentary, and less ethical, hunting codex. I certainly don't consider Alaskan hunters inferior to European ones. They are great hunters! It's just that their hunting norms are based, not on tradition, but on real life.
Practicality and efficiency: these are the two criteria that characterize hunters who require food, rather than trophies. We mustn't condemn the Fairbanks taxi driver just because he doesn't appreciate the trophy, and often leaves it behind in the forest. For him, and many other Alaskans, hunting is a way of getting meat, just as it was for my ancestors years ago in the Carpathian Basin. Looking at it like that, I have to admit that their behavior is closer to the true nature and essence of hunting than our trophy-centered attitude, which tends to ignore the value of the meat.
Then there are the rituals. Placing a handful of grass in the dead animal’s jaws, dipping a leaf in its blood to be worn on the hunter’s hat and the final blast of the hunting horn: these are all gestures of respect to the game we have bagged.
Respect can also be shown in a different way: by legally obliging every hunter to remove all the usable meat from the site of the kill. If he is unable to carry both the trophy and the meat, he must give preference to the latter, and make a second journey to retrieve the trophy. What would a Hungarian say if he had to carry a stag, complete with antlers, on his shoulders for 10 miles back to the hunting-lodge? How many of us would want to go stag-hunting under those regulations, and how many would try to evade them? And we haven't even mentioned the fact that 10 miles on Brooks Range is the equivalent of 50 on one of our pleasant Hungarian forest paths. We must not think that we are particularly better than anybody else, because it's not true. There are good hunters here too, but you have to find them.
Another way in Alaska of showing respect towards the game is the fact that they can all shoot well. They rarely just wound an animal, causing wanton suffering, and they take a dim view of any non-Alaskan who shoots an animal clumsily. My guides were very polite, but I saw the looks on their faces when it turned out that Mark hadn't killed the grizzly, even after five shots.
I don't see why I should follow a custom - which goes against all my convictions - just because it is a tradition. The wooden rifle-stock is traditional, but the plastic one is practical. Everyone
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should follow the way of hunting that is right for them. The more hunting cultures we experience, the easier it becomes to see ourselves through other people's eyes, and to re-shape our attitudes to the issues of hunting.
After all this philosophising, let's get back to reality: today I had breakfast with Mark, and ate so much that I felt ill. For the last two hours I've been lying down in my room, cursing my greediness.
Around 12.00 I stagger to my feet and take a taxi to the Mountain View Sport Store. It was a wasted journey; it's a general sports store, and the hunting section only takes up one corner. I don't advise anyone to go there. To console myself, I go on to the Sportsman's Warehouse and buy a few indispensable things - at least, they are to me. I'm beginning to realize that I shall have to send another box home. I'll wait until this evening to do it, because, as time passes, interestingly, the number of items seems to increase (could it possibly have anything to do with shopping?).
19th - 20th August
Afternoon
At about 2.00 my phone rings; they have delivered my new NightForce riflescope. I go and collect it and bring it up to my room. It is a really nice piece of optical equipment, nearly twice as long as the average hunting binoculars; so, in an emergency, you could always use it to club an attacking bear to death. I try out the x40 magnification, but, strangely, I can't find the focus mechanism. I don't have the patience to keep trying to work it out, so I put it back into the box. I'll examine it in more relaxed conditions when I get home. I shouldn't need it on my trip, so I'll leave it here in the hotel. I walk over to the post-office and mail yet another giant box: I feel better immediately.
I've decided to continue my journey with just one bag, apart from my gun-case and some hand-luggage. My next destination is Canada, and from there I will return to the US, to Montana. I try to work out what I will need for my Canadian hunts and my Montana one. I finally fill a large bag with clothes and objects designated as superfluous, and leave it with the Hilton staff. Then I clean my gun; I should have done it days ago, but I didn't have the energy.
After that: an endlessly-relaxing time in the jacuzzi, followed by a lengthy beer-drinking session in the hotel bar. I'm beginning to learn what northern towns are like; in many places it can be hard to find a beer, so now I'm filling up the tank.
Tomorrow I shall be flying all day.
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Waiting in front of the C2D departure gate of the international airport, Seattle, Washington,
USA.