We set out early. The morning light was thin, and the clouds overhead moved quickly across the pale sky. The sun, low to the horizon like it always was this time of year, cast an odd shadow across my father’s face. He commanded the boat like he always did, taking rough, sharp turns through the water, familiar and confident, but he’d lost weight in the past weeks, and even to me, twelve, naive to his real troubles, there was something bloodshot and wild in his eyes that I didn’t like. I didn’t have a name for it back then, like I do now. He grinned at me as the freezing spray dampened our cheeks.
We followed the edge of the ice out toward the river delta, then cut the engine and came in slow. The caribou were farther than we thought, and the winds whipped across the tundra as we trekked through the freezing mud. We walked for hours; my father read the terrain around us, the tracks, and I watched his every move. His movements were sharp and erratic, his pace fast, and I struggled to keep up.
Eventually we came across the tracks; my father had a second sense for their migration patterns. He gestured towards the marks in the mud, crouching low over the ground, hood falling over his face. I tried to read his lips as he mouthed a simple phrase: lots of them. These short phrases on hunting trips were often the only real communication between the two of us. He straightened up, brushing off his knees, and we continued.
It was only minutes before we saw the herd along the horizon. There were at least fifty, travelling in a long, slow line, small as ants against the weak midday sun. We approached carefully - the wind was to our faces. The herd moved slowly at first, spread across the flat in loose clusters that shifted and re-formed as they went. My father stopped with me just behind him, wordlessly watching.
For one brief moment the air was still. Abruptly, the wind changed direction, blowing hard, strong gusts against my back. The moment was gone; the animals lifted their heads, aware, alert, stiff. They’d caught our scent. They began to break off, slow at first, then running. My father shook with anger. He dropped his bags in the mud and began to run.
As I watched his face, it was clear he was shouting, though what, I will never know. He gripped the rifle tightly with both hands. The herd was already pulling away across the flat ground, spreading wider now, their bodies moving into the distance.
I stayed where I was at first, the wind hitting my face, unsure if I was meant to follow or stay behind. The space between us grew quickly, the caribou now far ahead. My father kept running anyway, smaller now against the open land. He began to fire his gun erratically, frantically, his mukluks slipping in the frosty mud. He wasn’t shooting like a hunter; his shots were wild, with no real target. I saw, suddenly, with horror, that he’d done it: he’d hit one. The animal lurched as the bullet struck it in the side. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do - an animal will run until its lungs give out and its heart stops beating. My father sprinted after it, limbs flailing, open-mouthed in the cold wind. The caribou disappeared behind the next ridge. He’d lost it.
I caught up to him soon after. He kneeled on the spot where the caribou had been hit, staring at the blood trail it left. I looked down at it, the color of it, bright red. A killing shot. I glanced up at my father’s face. He was smiling, a crooked-toothed, ear to ear grin. I tried to talk, then, to sound out the familiar words.
“Aren’t we going to follow it, Aapa?” He didn’t say anything, and I repeated the question. He shook his head, and got to his feet, clapping me in the back. He shouted something into the distance and waved his gun in the air, laughing. Beyond the ridge, the blood trail disappeared from sight.
We walked the hours back to the boat in silence.