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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 2 1 Rain had held us in base camp four days while we were biting at the bit to go. As soon as the weather cleared, we loaded the Cub and hopped over some mountains to where a guide waited, then climbed for two full days until bumping into the ram he'd been watching. There was nothing to the shot, but getting off the mountain packing half a sheep each was another story. We slid and scooted and fell most of the way down in the dark, broke our walking sticks, my trekking poles, and the guide's heirloom rifle, then ended up sleeping in the rocks at the bottom for our trouble. It took another day to get all the way out, and that day was the hardest of all. When the outfitter landed, he glanced at the horns lashed on top of my pack and said with a straight face, "You guys made that look easy." The guide wanted to fight him right there, really he did, but all I could do was laugh off the remark through the misery. I was beginning to understand. L it from above, the broad, pointed palms of a moose rack cast a terrifying shadow down a wall and partway across the floor. Alaska had thrown just about everything she had at us during that hunt. Bears sniffed at our tents, wolves ruined stalks, and the rain made things so slick it was hard to stand up on level ground without hanging onto something. The rut was going strong, moose were everywhere, and the food was great, so we kept at it. My partner scored a week in and I did too a bit later, first bedding the bull down in the middle of a big flat, marking him by a twisted snag, and then creeping within bayonet range. The guide seemed convinced that we were going to have to shoot that moose in self defense, and I'll admit that things got pretty exciting after triggering the first shot. I knew what Mr. Fairchild might have said after hearing that story, that I should have used a bigger gun. As always, he would have been right. The dog nuzzled my hand, his way of telling me that if we weren't going to bed that I should at least give him a good scratching behind his ears. Propped in a corner is the skull of a fantastic caribou, placed there so it cannot easily torment me with thoughts of what could have been. The outfitter had leapfrogged my group of hunters and guides ahead of the migration. We'd packed our camp down from where he landed us on a flat-top ridge. With Alaska's same-day airborne law, we couldn't shoot until morning. I had just settled into a camp chair to enjoy a bowl of chili when a spectacular Toklat grizzly walked out of a clump of brush maybe 80 yards distant. The bear glared at me, stretched, and then ambled away in a most unconcerned fashion across a broad valley and out of my life forever. Then came the caribou, first in little bunches, soon in groups, and thereafter in herds that numbered well into the hundreds. They split and flowed past on both sides of our tents like a living river, hooves clattering on rocks and the first tatters of loose velvet occasionally rippling in the breeze. One particular bull that might have cracked the top ten paused at stone-throwing distance to destroy a little tree with his antlers. Following one of the bigger herds came a nearly snow-white wolf. Noticing us, he sat down within rifle range and watched the goings-on for a bit, then eventually wondered off to do whatever it is that wolves do in times of plenty. Late the next morning I filled my tag after counting more than 300 bulls while keeping my eyes peeled for the grizzly and wolf. Mr. Fairchild? Following a good laugh over the unfortunate timing would be congratulations on what is the caribou of a lifetime. From the guest room came faint sounds of a little one fussing against sleep. Her given name is Annabel, after Russell. The pull of Alaska runs strong through my son as well. Mr. Fairchild would have been the first to approve. F inally, there's the full-body mount of a grizzly. My grizzly. The thing I wanted most and forever. It took five trips to the Arctic to find him and then a miracle to get close enough to do anything about it. Along the way there were avalanches, snow machine wrecks, a plane dropping through the sea ice, bad food, hysterical jokes, the agony of a miss, and interactions with the townspeople of Kotzebue who literally defy description. It would have taken an entire afternoon to tell Mr. Fairchild about all that, but it would have been time well spent. "What are you doing up this late, Grandpa?" Kellie asked. "It's nearly three o'clock. Everything alright?" "I'll be along soon. Just letting something sort itself all the way out." When the last of the pieces fell into place, the simplicity was surprising. Always caught up in being on a hunt or planning the next one, it had been years since I had taken the time to reflect on the wonderful things I'd already been so fortunate to experience. Maybe I didn't want to slow down because the footsteps of mortality were getting louder, the mountains were getting steeper, and the hours before daylight seemed to have more of a biting chill. No matter. I'd been missing out and knew better. Like Mr. Fairchild said all those years ago, remembering is almost as good as being there. He had made a point for the ages without using a single big word. I promised myself that I wouldn't forget to remember again, called softly to the dog, and headed off to bed. Note: Trade and Deluxe signed editions of the author's first book, Born a Hunter, are available at www. sportingclassics.com.