Getting Ready

It’s been two years since Gregg’s been on a caribou hunt. They’ve been too far north to make the trip feasible. I squirt a nickel-size puddle of cocoa butter oil into my palm to rub on my hands before slipping on the yellow rubber gloves I use to wash dishes. The oil absorbs into my hands as I submerse the gloves into the wash water; it’s like having a spa treatment for my hands while I wash dishes.) The water has been heating on the oil stove for an hour and is almost boiling, perfect temp for washing dishes that practically dry themselves, but impossible for my bare hands to withstand.

This year, the caribou are closer. Word from a local pilot has it that there is one large herd of a hundred and several smaller groups just 50 miles north, near Shaktoolik. I always start with the silverware, letting it soak for a few minutes in the steaming tub of soapy water. The plastic is blistered around the inside of the yellowed tub a couple of inches from the top from the scalding dish water that’s been poured into it over the past 20 years or so. Each fork, spoon, knife, and serving utensil gets a thorough scrub before being dropped into a twin tub in the next sink hole, steam raising the humidity in the small cabin to mold level. That reminds me; I need to check the floorboard behind the trash can again to see if it needs a bleach wipe down.

“What are your plans for next week?” Gregg asked as he walked in the door last night, smiling broadly. Since his small engine repair shop in town is open Tuesday through Saturday, Saturday is his Friday, which meant he had two days of trapping in front of him and he was in an exceptional mood, despite having hurt his back a few days ago lifting a snowmachine into the shop by himself. At 62, you would think he would know better and call for help, but he’s pretty damned independent, which happens after spending 30 years in bush Alaska.

“Caribou hunting!”

We had been discussing the prospect for the past several weeks, hoping for a bit more snow and word of exactly where and how many caribou were up north. The plans were now firmed up. 

We would pack up and head out Tuesday morning, intent on camping at least one night on the winter tundra, maybe two. There is a lot to do over the next two days to prepare, so while Gregg went out to check the trapline this morning, I decided to start by cleaning up the kitchen. I always hate to come home, after being away, to a pile of dirty dishes. We only wash once a week; sometimes I can eek out a day or two more, if we use soup bowls instead of plates for a meal or two. Because we have to haul our water and heat it up on the stove rather than just turn on a tap, we are mindful of dirtying dishes. Fourteen mismatched plates are stacked in the cabinet amid an assortment of bowls and glasses. In the silverware drawer sit 26 forks (yes, I counted them), and a few less spoons and knives. Since we use mostly cast iron that can be wiped clean with a paper towel or heated on the stove with less than a cup of water for tougher mess clean-up, there really isn’t a need to do dishes more than once a week for two people. Gregg uses the same coffee cup for a week. However, I change out about every third day. The dogs provide a useful plate-cleaning service after every meal so there is never dried food stuck to the dishes when wash day rolls around. We live in a very symbiotic environment.

Since Gregg came back with a fox from the trapline, he went into town to take it to the shop to thaw so that he can skin it tomorrow. He said the fox was caught in the snare with a marten that was only a skeleton. Apparently the fox had caught the marten and was carrying it in his mouth when he walked into the snare. You just never know what you’re going to find out there.

I’m beyond excited to go Caribou hunting for my first time, even though I’ve been wearing a brace on my right arm, just below the elbow to help with pain from “tennis elbow,” basically a strained muscle that the doc doesn’t know what else to call it. Try resting your right arm, not moving it or using it, while living my life. Pretty impossible, but last week, I did wear a sling for a few days and talked Gregg into doing the dishes and some other extra chores that I usually handle. I think it did hurt less, but as soon as I started using it again, it flared back up. A couple of days ago, when Gregg mentioned that I might not be able to go on the hunt because of my arm, I smiled, sat up comically straight, and declared that I had had a miracle healing! No way was I going to miss this Caribou hunt! I can heal later! (My sister will not be so happy when she reads this. I love you, Holly!)

I was thinking that I might be able to do laundry this week at a friend's house in town. They generously let us use their washer and dryer during the winter, which usually amounts to two or three loads one day during the first week of the month, more when I wash linens every couple of months. During the summer, July-August, I use the fishing guides’ laundry space at the Unalakleet River Lodge, toting the laundry in a canvas duffle bag on my back across the quarter-mile footpath. In the shoulder seasons of spring and fall, I make use of our own small washtub, which holds five pounds of clothing at a time, and clotheslines on the porch. Since I won’t be doing laundry this week, I’ll go ahead and wash underwear and socks on the washboard in the kitchen sink tub after I dump the dirty dishwater and warm up some fresh wash water. It’s really not a big deal, just another chance for a hand spa treatment. Then, I’ll hang them on a bungee cord stretched between the kitchen cabinets and the pantry, over the oil stove, to dry since it’s not cold enough outside to freeze dry them.

Tomorrow will call for a trip to town to go through all of the camping gear stored at Gregg’s shop, and pack the sled.