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Part I: February 2000Hunting for Supper
We nestled into the snow about a 100 yards from our chosen targets and raised our rifles. Through the scope of the rifle the beauty and softness of these creatures was profound. Every hair on their hides reflected the sun, every purposeful movement echoed centuries of movement before them. As I studied the young male, knowing I was going to kill it at any moment, I started to have second thoughts. I wasn't starving so why should I take him? But then if I were starving I wouldn't be able to make it into these mountains and get food. Meat in the supermarket packaged in styrofoam trays and wrapped in cling film looks like meat, and definitely not like a vital part of a fluffy, white lamb springing around green fields dotted with yellow daffodils bobbing in the breeze. Try as I might, staring at this most glorious, perfect, gentle animal in its natural environment of endless snow I couldn't look at it as a pound of sausages.
A cacophonic crack echoed around the mountains and one of the females slumped forward with her head in the snow. As the remnants of life drained from her body, her back legs wobbled then collapsed, felling her carcass into the snow. Brent had shot first and put the bullet exactly where he wanted it for a quick kill.
The other caribou looked up from their foraging, saw the lifeless body of the female twitching in the snow beside them, then returned to their feeding. Which put things back into perspective. This species was armed with a multitude of instincts that protected them from shock or trauma. As long as they couldn't detect us, they wouldn't associate dead Doris bleeding all over the snow next to them as a hint of possible trouble. Unless they actually see the cause of death, they don't flee for safety but continue with what they're doing.
Another loud shot rang out and the other female slumped into the snow, but stood back up and struggled forward a few paces. Brent shot again and her neck exploded as the bullet ripped through her flesh. She stood for a few seconds with her head in the snow, then she became unsteady and collapsed. 'Go on, shoot', whispered Brent as I lay in the snow with the cross hairs of the scope on the chest of the young bull. I didn't want to tell him that I had trouble putting a worm on a fishing hook, never mind killing such a perfect creature.
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