After months of planning, I found myself sitting on a gravel bank along the river waiting for Uncle G. He rolled up standing in an open skiff that’s been rocking since the ‘80s. We loaded my gear, then went to his vehicle to get some final things. He drove around a beater with a heater: a rough little war pony spray painted with rust. The interior was piled high with random essentials: tools, canned foods, gas containers and clothes.
It was a beautiful two hour drive upriver, with the 50-horsepower Suzuki Spirit motor running on frequent maintenance and prayers. Halfway through the trip, we stopped for Uncle to work on it. He jumped in the water with his not-waterproof winter boots. He did not flinch, though he was wearing only a sweater and jeans. No gloves or nothing. I was bundled in layers, gloves and a hat, and I was still cold.
When we made it to camp, I asked to use the bathroom and pointed at the outhouse. Uncle laughed. “Better not, you might fall in,” he said.
That was genuinely true. The family had not been home in 15 years, and the outhouse needed some…repairs. Uncle later laid a plank across the dilapidated floors and jumped on it to ensure we could use the outhouse safely. The plank also made things more entertaining. You had to balance every time.
The house was like a fever dream — and, quite literally, an ‘80s time capsule that a bear had broken into. The windows were covered with temporary plastic. The floors were uneven. The bottom shelves had remnants of a mouse nest. Squirrels that had been evicted from the roof constantly chattered at us. Shelves leaned over like some sort of Dr. Seuss illustration.
The kitchen was a mess, albeit a coordinated one, where Uncle thrived. He cooked us delicious, spirit-lifting meals — fresh caught grayling that he fried up with potatoes, and the gold standard spam breakfast.
And then there was Grandma’s room, full of trinkets, fabrics, shelving, art and romance novels (that we would use for firewood — hopefully grandma could enjoy one more read!).
We got into our routine quickly; in the morning, we sipped coffee before going out to look for moose for a few hours. We’d come home and eat breakfast. Then we’d deep clean, nap, eat again, head back out for a few more hours. In the evening, we listened to trapline chatter on the radio. No one ever left us a message, but Leon — whoever he is — got one almost every night, and five on his birthday.
An auntie obviously had to let him know, “I dyed my hair and it looks so good. Hope you’re having fun at camp, and it’s not raining too much.”
While Uncle G tended to be introverted, he acted just like a kid around his daughter. They would spend all day bickering, teasing and trying to outwit one another — Uncle in a goofy manner, and Star with her cool attitude.
The time on the land was rejuvenating, but by Day 11 we were all starting to lose morale. We hadn’t seen any bulls. White hunters threatened to trespass on Uncle’s Native allotment. We had run out of fresh food. And we had cleaned nearly the entire house, all 15 years of dust included. There were only a few days left in the season, and no luck yet. The sole moose we’d come across was a carcass that had been left to rot beside the river with only the antlers harvested.
Three days before the season ended, Uncle woke up at the usual 6 a.m. and said, “Whoever doesn’t get the f*** up is getting left behind” — as if we hadn’t been waking up on time! We drank coffee until the light allowed us to see across the river. We took the usual route, going into all the sloughs near camp. But it had been raining all week, and the river had risen. So we jumped a shallow beaver dam and ventured farther back into a slough than we had gone before.
As I was looking to my left along the bank, Uncle shouted: “SHOOT THAT M*****F*****!” I turned my head, as if in slow motion. In two seconds, Star wiped her glasses from the rain and took aim. BOOM! The huge bull knocked over, but was still fighting to run. Uncle said, “You need to shoot again. Hurry up. You need to shoot again.” Star struggled: “The chamber is jammed!”
Then: BOOM.
The deneege went down into the water. “F***IN A, MY DAUGHTER GOT HER FIRST MOOSE!!!” Uncle yelled.
“It’s going to suck getting this thing out of the water,” he continued. “BUT I DON’T CARE MY DAUGHTER GOT HER FIRST MOOSE!”
The Anchorage Press is a reader-driven publication. If you’re already a subscriber, we’re grateful for your support; if you’re not, $130 will buy you our undying gratitude AND a hard copy of the Press in the mail each month!