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over broken crests of ice. Kovovow turned and screamed viciously for me to get off the sled, and we all slid off and began pushing. They caught the seemingly indifferent bear in a matter of a 100 yards as I trudged behind. This time when the bear turned to fight, Alfredo anticipated the charge and was off and at full draw before the bear could turn broadside in preparation for departure. Soon a crimson stain appeared just behind the great white shoulder. Alfredo ran forward once more and sent another arrow home. The bear rushed into the dogs, scattering them in confusion, but his legs were failing him. In a matter of minutes it was over, the bear weaving side to side and then tumbling over. I started toward the bear, the camera running, waiting for Alfredo to enter the picture, but he remained behind me, sitting with his bare hands between his legs, writhing in pain. In the knife-edged wind, clutching the frozen aluminum riser of his compound bow, his hands were painfully frozen—frostbite that would leave his hands peeling for months to come. In time the pain subsided enough that Alfredo developed interest in his bear, and we all walked up to take stock. And some bear it was, all ten and a half feet of him. Inside that head was buried a monstrous Boone & Crockett skull, but that was something for later. This was a bear of a lifetime. Laughing and only semi-joking after the adrenaline and awe had subsided, Alfredo said, "I'm so glad to get him . . . now I don't ever have to come back here again." The far northern reaches of the frozen Arctic are no place for men like us. We were both ready to go home, but that was in the seemingly distant future—a 48-hour, full-throttle sled ride into Grise; a hopscotch flight in the clattery Otter, then two days of commercial airline hell. At that moment, though, everyone was as jovial and animated as we could possibly be. Even Kovovow cracked a smile. Just a small one. n already I could hear the excited yelps of the huskies. They had scented the bear and were anxious to begin the chase. Nanuk stood, surveying the horizon with blinking, squinting eyes, his head bobbing side to side. He turned and started away in a lumbering, hip- sprung gait, not exactly hurried but not liking what he was seeing or hearing either. The huskies had quickened their standard ground-gobbling pace to bring the sled on astoundingly fast, working in powerful lunges, leaning into their harnesses, and digging frantically at the wind-packed snow. Alfredo and I exchanged thumbs-ups as they whisked past. I expected the bear to break into a greyhounding sprint, but he continued in his blasé saunter, stealing glances over his shoulder while the dogs closed the gap in a cacophonous clamor of yelps and choppy barks. In a couple minutes they'd overtaken the bear. Tommy and Charlie cranked up their machines and followed at an idling pace, coming abreast of the dog sled and its exposed hunters. The behemoth boar simply walked ahead of the dogs, each straining at their tethers and setting up a racket. I jogged intermittently behind the action to remove myself from the sputtering machines and to get better audio. The bear turned and rushed into the dogs ten yards in front of the hunters, scattering them backwards. Alfredo shucked his mittens and vaulted from the sled, drawing his bow as the bear turned to walk again, offering only his rear. Alfredo clamored back onto the sled and they continued, moving onto rougher shelf ice. The bear was growing bored with this game and had begun to turn and fight with more conviction, each time Alfredo jumping off the sled to bring his bow to bear, but each time just a tad too late to get off a clean shot. I finally caught up to the sled and jumped on with Alfredo. He asked if I had seen his mittens, which had been lost in the first rush to get off a shot. Progress had begun to slow, the dogs struggling to keep the sled moving 138 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S