Hunting is strange! Is it a hobby, a sport or an obsession?
Nothing else in the world can create such strong bonds between two people from such utterly different backgrounds. I have only known these two brave Inuits for less than 48 hrs. but, already, I know that I will never forget them. Their cheerful smiles, constant joking, shouts of joy at my successful shot and that night in the tent, will be things that I will remember forever. My whole trip would have been worth it just for the last 1 1/2 days. It was a pleasure to get to know these two happy, well-balanced and friendly men, who understand this land so well and to whom it truly belongs.
In his morning email Boyd asked me to leave Holman as soon as possible and return to Yellowknife. They'd like to take me on a caribou hunt tomorrow, which means I must say goodbye to my two dear guides. This makes me feel very sad, and even the fact that they don't seem very happy about it either, doesn't really console me. Unlike during the last 1 1/2 days, our usual jokes now seem rather strained. Even though they each have their own house in Holman, they have come to the hotel to have a farewell breakfast with me. We chat about the last two hunts over and over again, with inexhaustible high spirits. We laugh loudly at the same joke many times over, and then Jack introduces me to some other members of his family that I have not yet met. After this, I go to pack my bags and Jack goes goes off to organise my seat on the plane leaving at 1.30. I have not been alone for 10 mins, when Isaac knocks at the door. We sit and talk, while watching a TV quiz. He has shot 14 - 15 (he can't remember the exact number) polar bears, using a .222 caliber gun. He's perfectly satisfied with it and doesn't want a larger one as most of his shots are within 120 ft. When I ask him if he's not scared to be so close to his quarry, with only his small gun, he shakes his head resolutely. Fear - he says - is all in the mind. You just have to switch off and ignore it. You must concentrate only on the shot, and then any fear disappears. Such is the wisdom of an Inuit hunter. It is a wisdom based on the accumulated hunting experiences of thousands of years.
The children here learn to hunt from a very early age.
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They don't know about the laws of ballistics, but nevertheless, without exception, they are all excellent shots. They learn to shoot before they learn to read and write at school, and their knowledge comes, not from books, but from their fathers and grandfathers. The yearly diet is mainly comprised of meat from hunting; no-one buys any from a shop, except perhaps, for the occasional piece of bacon. It would not be worth opening a butcher's shop in Holman.
Although he's over 47, Isaac has never been abroad. He has no particular desire to travel. A distant relative once went to a country - he can't remember which - far, far away in the south, but he soon came back. He said that all the white people went into the ocean, so he did the same, but it was so unbearably hot that he felt he was standing in boiling water. As well as that, the air was intolerably hot too. Isaac has never experienced 95 F and he doesn't want to. He loves this land and this weather, and is happiest among his own people.
This is his country and where he belongs.
Although he's not obliged to, Jack takes me to the airport on his honda. A new group is arriving and he has to meet them there. The three of us wait for the plane delivering the new batch of greenhorn, musk ox hunters. Two days ago I was one myself, but that now seems ages ago.
Many people say that time passes quickly when you're busy and having intense experiences, and goes more slowly when you are bored and have nothing to do. Well, for me, it has been exactly the opposite. When I'm back at the office in Hungary, work begins on Monday, and, by the time I've read all my emails and done something constructive, it's already Tuesday. I don't even notice Wednesday, and spend Thursday making sure that everything is up-to-date for Friday. By the time I get a moment to think, the weekend has arrived. This is how week follows week, year in, year out.
But now, in contrast, when I look at my reliable Fortis Astronaut Chronograph I see that it is only 7th August.
The 27th August!
Can it really be true that I left home barely a month ago? It feels as if it's been years. I can't even remember what my company does; it's as if I'm on another planet. It is astounding, the number of things that have happened to me during this last month. Enough adventures to last a lifetime. And I'm not yet even half-way through my trip.
Most of my hunting time still lies ahead of me.
The new batch of hunters get off the plane and I prepare to get on. Jack, of course, knows First Air's local representative - he's another distant relation - which means I do not have to pay the
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extra charge incurred for changing my ticket to an earlier date. It is hard saying goodbye. We shake hands three times. So far, I've been promising to write to absolutely everyone when I get home, but I am, without doubt, 100% certain that I shall be writing to Jack and Isaac when I get back. The plane takes off, leaving the Inuits behind in the small waiting-room.
On the way to Yellowknife we land at a small place called Coppermint, well-known for its air of tranquillity. There's not much going on: right now, I'm playing with a beautiful black labrador. It belongs to the woman in the control tower, so it roams around freely. It is a dignified Inuit dog that only responds to the local dialect, and ignores English completely. At Yellowknife, having learnt from previous experience, I walk past the army of waiting taxis, straight to the free hotel minibus.
The moment I get into my room, the phone rings.
It's Frank Cole from Cabela's. He's written a letter to Boyd telling him to ignore the original plan that I would only shoot one caribou: I now have permits to shoot two. Tomorrow, once more,
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Carlos will be picking me up from the hotel. Frank advises me to ask him to get me one more permit. Frank and Jan have been investigating the worrying affair of the plane ticket. Yes, it was their fault. While booking my many tickets, they somehow overlooked this one. They've been through all the accounts and payments and whatever - it can't have been a quick read - but have found no record of me paying for it. They are terribly sorry about all the inconvenience, and so, to alleviate the general air of dejection, I offer to pay for the ticket.
The hotel is the same as ever: still nothing works. Because of some unknown problem the jacuzzi only has cold water, and I do not feel up to that. But I am successful in getting the staff heat up the sauna. It's not actually a sauna, more of a steam-bath! I seriously consider spending the night there, but the lady at reception manages to talk me out of it.
Another caribou hunt tomorrow!
