Читать книгу Never Cry Halibut. and Other Alaska Hunting and Fishing Tales онлайн

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When I was thirteen, my dad cut me loose with a bow, and I set off to become a hunter. With my pal Thad, I thrashed through alders and devil’s club—a very thorny and prolific member of the ginseng family—and hung off mountainsides trying to pinpoint the source of hooting. It seemed impossible to find a grouse high up in the thick tangle of branches, so we convinced ourselves it was just as likely they lived in dens on the ground. We investigated quite a few holes, one of which had been recently vacated by a bear. We never did spot a grouse; nonetheless, Thad tried to convince me we had accomplished something great.

“We’re men now,” he said toward the end of grouse season as we sat on the side of Eaglecrest Road waiting for my dad to pick us up.

“I wonder what a hooter looks like?” I said.

That summer, fall, and winter, I was haunted by hooters. I set about training one of our family’s dogs, Buff, a young male Labrador retriever, to retrieve birds. Buff and I, armed with my bow, stalked several chickens I was raising—something my brothers still love to tease me about. While they frequently dispute who has shot bigger deer, they’re always quick to give me credit for killing the biggest chicken.