Nunani: The last great polar bear hunt (Part two)

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

As an adult, I was glued to that old Inummarik’s bear story. But hearing his tale, seeing those scars, re-asserted all my childhood fears.

And something else.

As a pre-adolescent girl, I clutched at the qamutik, muscles taught. Why, I cursed under my breath, did my father favour hunting these animals? They tasted terrible (at least to me). Their skin was not worth the danger to life and limb — especially my life, my limbs. Didn’t my father realize it might maim him, leaving me to try shooting it with a .303 that, frankly, I didn’t feel confident with? How would I get back to camp with his body and whatever dogs had been injured? Would the dogs even obey me? Kusik would, maybe. She was the mother of them all — the best of them, at that. I started counting dogs I thought might obey me, ultimately depressed with the results. Fine, I would take Kusik, leaving the rest on the sea ice. I felt bad at the thought of them starving, but worse at the thought of doing the same myself.

And every time I looked down at those dread prints, those dinner-plates with toes, panic gripped me.

What if my dad missed and hit one of the dogs instead? What if the bear got away? What was to keep it from turning and hunting us? What if bears actually liked to eat people?

Would it kill us like a seal — ripping our faces off?

My mind was jolted back to reality as the sled hit jagged ice. I had never heard of a bear chasing a dog-team, but I still noted where to find the extra shells for the .222 rifle, which I was confident with. If there was trouble, I could at least help out.

An electric current passed through the entire dog-team, even though my father had not signalled to begin any chase. They quivered with some primal instinct, focussed, sniffing the air.

Bear.

No! Now what? It was bad for the dogs to bolt too soon. They needed to save their energy for surrounding the bear, containing it for the hunter’s shot.

One or two of the experienced dogs were accelerating, a sure sign that their instincts were kicking in. Kusik, as usual, kept a steady, mature gait, attentive but not foolishly overeager. She knew the score. My father was the hunt leader, and it wasn’t a hunt until he signalled.

He glanced over at me, ordered me to take the .303 out of its case. I passed it to him butt-first, keeping the muzzle well away from both of us, as per firearms protocol. I was prepared to jump at his signal. My job was to carry the extra shells, keeping well behind him and the dogs.

I could already see a distant, yellowed form, contrasted against grey clouds and glare. He was walking in his pigeon-toed, bear way, seemingly oblivious to our presence — or perhaps only to our importance.

“Qu-qu-qu-quq!”

My father’s shrill call had only one meaning. The dogs shot forward as one, domestication set aside, exulting in their wolfish ancestry. Aside from pulling, this was their purpose: to aid their ally, man, against another predator. The hair along their backs stood straight like spines, teeth flashing ivory in the crisp air. But their attack was disciplined, sustained, heedless of individual concern.

A burst of fire, and it was over almost before it had registered with me. Fears dispelled, I simply stared at the body of that majestic creature. It was a moment before I realized that I had been admiring it the entire time — its irreplaceable beauty, its power and grace.

This time, we had been the predators, stacking the deck in our favour. Next time, who knew? It was impossible to keep the deck stacked, and this playing field tended to level itself.

My father thanked the bear’s spirit for allowing us to capture it that day, saying that we hoped we would be as brave if, one day, we stood in its stead. Speak for yourself, I thought, looking upon that great frame, speaking toward it in my mind.

It will take a lifetime of summoning up my courage to face you. And perhaps I will never be as brave as you have been today, defending your life. I can only hope to try.

Pijariiqpunga.