One of the activities I neglected to mention in the HRH, Part 1 is our visit to the Arctic Ocean! Because of 9/11 and the increased security measures that brought to our nation, the only way to see and touch the Arctic Ocean is by spending $45 a person for the official "Tour".
The police officer giving the tour gives the same tour twice a day. We think they picked him as tour guide because he is an Alaskan Native. It certainly is not because of his charisma. He swore to me that he did not get bored showing the same oil wells, big trucks, heavy equipment, over and over again, but it would take a total knuckle head to not be bored lifeless taking people like us on that tour again and again.Finally, we reached the Arctic Ocean. We were told very firmly that no one is allowed to SWIM in the ocean. There is a high risk of attracting polar bears apparently. Whatever. After the guard searched the ocean for several minutes we were given clearance to touch the water!
Another bucket list item checked off! I have stepped foot in the Arctic Ocean!
What did the Arctic Ocean feel like? There are rocks and sand and also mud. There is a lot of driftwood that comes from Canada. The water is cold...really cold...but not unbearable. If it had been OK, I would have swam, if only for a minute or two. OK, lets say I would have dipped. OK, ran in and ran out. At full speed.
And so it was that it was time to bid farewell to the masculine comfort of Deadhorse. After a leisurely morning we headed out for our return trip south.
We were drinking coffee, visiting with Stefan and his friends about this and that... No, Vince would not be hunting this trip. He brought his bow just because you always hear these stories of guys having a thousand animals cross the road and nothing to harvest one with. The guys told stories of workers leaving their camps each night to drive the 16 miles out of Prudhoe to try to get a caribou. Never having any success. Yes, Vince hunting was highly unlikely.
Well, guess what? 20 miles outside of Prudhoe the above male caribou was laying by a river, resting in the sun. Guess what else? Vince said, "You know, I have to try."
I will not go into the details of the hunt here in this narrative. I will tell you about the rest of the family sitting in the car. Marina: "I know my dad can do it! He can do anything!" and Falcom: "Off with his head!" in full Red Queen, Alice in Wonderland voice. "Marina! Stop praying so loud! You will scare it off!"
And there we were. Out in the tundra and about 50 yards from our car. As we sat in that 70 degree sun, with the brisk wind sweeping the bugs away, I felt that we could have been on a picnic of sorts, a kind of 17th century European family outing. If only I had my basket of cheese, bread and fruit there with my bottle of wine spread out next to the freshly killed animal. Trucks were honking in congratulations as they drove by. Fellow hunters were shaking hands and congratulating Vince. Marina was blissed out. Here was more science and biology than she would get the entire next school year. "It's OK that he was shot because he has already mated, right?" "Look at the intestines." "I must collect my blood and lung tissue samples!" She stood by Vince's side as he removed the quarters doing everything he asked.
Falcom, on the other hand, quickly grew tired of this event. Once the initial drama and thrill had subsided and the gore of the event was being undertaken, he checked out and became my doll maker of the tundra; turning Arctic Cotton flowers into dolls which underwent many difficult tasks. My gender variant son pranced around with his dolls in the sun and attempted to help by doing things like, get more water, but was easily distracted by flowers and breezes and birds...
Many of you know, hunting is not my thing. I was a vegetarian when I moved here because I had a slogan, "If you can't kill something, then you shouldn't eat it!" and since I am stubborn, and because I can not kill anything, I didn't eat any meat. This changed with the introduction of Vince into my life. He is quite a provider. And so here I found myself, pulling the hide from the carcass, opening game bags, putting meat into the meat bag.
At one point Falcom looked off across the tundra and said, "There are large brown animals out there!" and then went back to his dream world. "Fal! What are they?" said Vince. "I don't know...bears maybe...musk ox..." and he turned back to his flower dolls. With hands bloody from skinning his third quarter, Vince yelled, "Go to the truck and get the binoculars!" "Oh! Sure!" And off Falcom went to get the binoculars.
Musk Ox. They were musk ox. Another caribou came up about 30 yards from us trying to see what was going on. The sun was bright and the breeze was strong and when I closed my eyes I could go back to that 17th century pastoral setting of my strange picnic.
After we finished we texted Stefan. We were still in cell range of Deadhorse. Stefan invited us to come back for another night and so we did. The following morning, having coffee with Stefan and his friends I relived the scene for the guys. Someone mentioned Sarah Palin and her caribou hunt. I said, "There are so many other interesting women in this state...if we could just give one of them a haircut!" Stefan said, "Baby, after hearing that story, that other woman should be you!" Ha ha ha! Thank you Stefan!
We left Deadhorse for our second time and drove like the dickens to Fairbanks. At each stop we were greeted by congratulations, by other hunters looking for tips, by jealous and amazed guys who could only see a family undergoing one of the most ancient rituals that they were not able to get their women to participate... Vince was a hero! The luckiest man! He tried to explain that it was all by chance, but that didn't make it to any of these men's ears.
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