American Hunting: Starting with Solitary Life in the Wilderness

Chapter 128 Three Tents on the Tundra
As evening falls, the sun begins to slant toward the northwest horizon, stretching the shadows of the valley longer and longer.

They finally arrived at their designated campsite, a relatively flat, sheltered area below "Wind Shear Pass".

"This is it." Old George put down his heavy backpack, supported himself with his trekking poles, and gasped for breath.

That's enough for today. We'll be close to our destination soon.

Lin Yu'an looked in the direction he pointed and saw that the hillside in front of him was becoming increasingly steep.

The massive rocks and twisted glacial traces made it unsuitable to continue in low light conditions.

"I'll set up the tent, you two take a rest first."

Lin Yu'an took the initiative to do the work. He was breathing a little rapidly, which was in stark contrast to the two elderly people who were too tired to move.

"Good lad, you've got great stamina." Stan plopped down on the ground, pulled a water bottle from the side pocket of his backpack, and gulped down a few mouthfuls.

Just as he finished setting up the tent for Stan and George and was preparing to boil water and cook, Lin Yu'an's sixth sense became very keen—it was a sense of small prey!

He then slung his Mossberg 590A1 over his shoulder and said to them, “I’m going to wander around and see if I can add something to our dinner.”

Old George looked up at the sky upon hearing this and reminded him, "Don't go too far, it gets dark quickly. Also, don't make too much noise, we're already very close to the sheep's potential habitat."

"Don't worry, I promise I'll be quieter than a kitten."

Lin Yu'an gave an OK sign, then turned and walked towards the huge pile of rocks on the east side of the camp.

He didn't go very far, but relied on his sixth sense to move slowly under the cover of the boulder.

Remembering old George's instructions not to make too much noise, I realized I couldn't use shotgun shells because they're too loud.

He pulled a strange device made of metal that looked like a metal shotgun shell from a small, waterproof pocket close to his body.

This is a 12-gauge to .22 rifling conversion tube. He skillfully pressed a small .22 rifle cartridge into the tail of the conversion tube.

Then, with a click, the special bullet was inserted into the chamber of the Mossberg 590A1.

He pulled back the handguard, closing the bolt. At that moment, this powerful tactical shotgun had quietly transformed into a gun that could only fire single shots, but was extremely quiet and capable of firing .22 bullets.

He lay prone behind a boulder, his body pressed tightly against the cold rock.

He patiently surveyed the complex terrain ahead, composed of tundra, gravel, and low shrubs.

Soon, he discovered some tiny traces—a few fragments of willow leaves scattered on the ground, and some tiny bird droppings resembling commas, which were signals left by the ptarmigan after feeding!
He did not rush forward, but remained absolutely still, letting his figure completely blend into the shadows of the evening.

After about ten minutes, his patience paid off!
Not far away, a rock that was almost exactly the same color as its surroundings moved slightly and then poked out a small head with a red fleshy crest.

It was a rock ptarmigan, its feathers in August a mottled greyish-brown that blended perfectly with the colors of the lichen and rocks, making it a master of camouflage.

If it weren't for that tiny bit of bright red and the occasional movement, it would be extremely difficult to spot with the naked eye.

Then, a second, a third... a small flock of ptarmigans emerged from their hiding place, clucking and pecking at the tender shoots of plants on the ground.

Lin Yu'an slowly raised the gun and, through the red dot sight on the gun, steadily aimed the tiny red dot at the largest Thunderbird.

He didn't choose the one that was closest, but instead chose the one that was a little further away, but in a more advantageous position.

Because the wind was very strong, he had to assess the wind direction, since .22 bullets are easily affected by the wind.

Lin Yu'an gently placed his index finger on the trigger, adjusting his breathing.

As a long exhale comes to an end, and the heartbeat reaches its most stable moment—"plop."

A very faint sound, like a dry branch breaking, broke the tranquility of the valley.

The Thunderbird that was targeted had a small tuft of feathers burst open from its head, and before it could even struggle, it collapsed limply to the ground!

The other thunderbirds were startled by this sudden turn of events. They flapped their wings, cried out in alarm, and scattered into the crevices of the rocks, disappearing in an instant.

Lin Yu-an did not fire a second shot.

He calmly removed the converter tube, which still smelled of gunpowder, put it back in his pocket, and then got up and walked over to pick up his spoils of the night.

The rock ptarmigan felt heavy in their hands, with thick feathers, clearly indicating that it had stored up enough fat during the summer to provide the three of them with a delicious meal.

When Lin Yu'an returned to the camp, night had already fallen. Under the "Wind Shear Pass," three small orange alpine tents stood stubbornly in the wind.

The biting mountain wind, like an invisible knife, howled down the ridge, scraping against the nylon surface of the tent and making a "whooshing" sound.

The temperature had dropped to near freezing, and every breath of air was chilly.

Stan built a semi-circular windbreak wall using several relatively flat large stones in the sheltered triangle formed by their three tents.

Although the temporary stone wall is not high, it is enough to block most of the strong winds blowing from the main direction.

The small, portable gas stove sat in the center of this "haven," its blue flame stubbornly stabilizing under the protection of the stone walls and the tent. Within this tiny haven formed by the tents, a bright flame danced on the portable gas stove, bringing the only light and warmth to this cold world.

Stan's eyes lit up immediately when he saw the prey in Lin Yu'an's hand.

"Well done, kid!"

He rubbed his hands, which were red from the cold, and came up to me: "I thought I was going to have to eat that damn beef jerky again tonight. Come on, let me see."

Lin Yu'an smiled and handed over the spoils. It was a perfect prey, with only a small bullet hole in its head. The rest of its body was intact, and its feathers even retained their luster.

Old George, who was huddled in the tent tidying up his sleeping bag, also poked his head out. He looked at the wound on Thunderbird's head, then at the shotgun on Lin Yu'an's back, his eyes filled with doubt.

"How did you do that? Using this big No. 12 weapon, you managed to keep the meat intact like this?"

Lin Yu'an didn't explain much, but simply took out the still warm brass converter tube from his pocket and handed it to old George.

Old George took it and instantly understood the secret. A hint of surprise flashed in his eyes, which then turned into sincere praise.

"Ha! Using a bear-hunting cannon to swat mosquitoes, and you only manage to hurt their wings. Kid, you always manage to surprise me."

"Alright, stop praising it, let's think about how to eat it," Stan said impatiently.

"Make a stew. In this kind of weather, nothing is more suitable than a hot pot of soup and meat."

The two elderly people had no objection; they also felt that what the young man said made sense.

Lin Yu'an began his work, skillfully skinning the Thunderbird and then cleaning out its internal organs.

Instead of spending time deboning, he used his sturdy hunting knife to chop the bird into fist-sized pieces, bone and all, and set them aside for later use.

Place a small pot of moderate depth on the stove, throw in a piece of bacon and fry it to render the fat—this is a common practice among Alaskan hunters.

"Fuck-"

Once the oil had rendered out sufficiently, Lin Yu-an removed the bacon and immediately threw the Thunderbird meat chunks into the pan, quickly stir-frying them.

As the meat pieces touched the hot bottom of the pan, their surface instantly contracted, turning from pink to caramelized white, and a pure aroma of meat began to waft through the cold air.

"Oh my god, just smelling this makes me feel so much warmer!" Stan leaned in, took a deep breath, and looked completely blissful.

Once the meat pieces were fried until they were slightly golden brown, Lin Yu'an poured water into the pot, which quickly submerged all the meat pieces.

"Come on, it's your turn, chef," Lin Yu'an said to Stan with a smile.

Stan chuckled and pulled out a packet of high-altitude instant mashed potato powder and a small pinch of dehydrated chopped onions from his food bag.

He skillfully sprinkled the two ingredients into the pot, and the soup quickly boiled again and began to thicken due to the addition of the potato powder.

Lin Yu'an turned the heat down, keeping it at a gentle simmer.

The umami of the Thunderbird, the richness of the mashed potatoes, and the subtle sweetness of the onions slowly blend together in the small pot, creating a warm and inviting aroma.

Old George had been watching silently, then he took a small, flat metal flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and poured a capful of whiskey into the pot.

“George! You old drunkard! Aren’t you going to keep yourself alive?” Stan said in surprise.

Old George smiled, a rare sight: "A little bit of spirits can remove the gamey smell and also make the soup more flavorful."

"This reminds me of when I was young, when my coworkers and I used to make Thunderbirds. There aren't many of the old guys left."

Lin Yu'an felt a surge of warmth as he watched the two elderly people contributing their precious food to the pot of soup, one after the other.

This was more than just a dinner; it was a heartwarming ceremony for the three of them.

After a long while, a pot of thick "Whiskey Thunderbird Potato Soup" was finally completed.

After Lin Yu'an added salt to season it, he served it in titanium bowls for the three people. The meat was tender and almost fell off the bone, and it also had a faint potato aroma.

Stan was the first to blow on it and eagerly took a big gulp.

The scalding hot soup slid down my throat: "Oh my God! It's so hot! But it tastes really good."

Old George, on the other hand, was more refined. He scooped up a piece of stewed leg meat with a spoon, easily peeled it off the bone, and put it in his mouth.

The meat wasn't too tough, and the broth was rich. He closed his eyes contentedly and let out a long sigh, as if even his soul had been comforted, or perhaps he was thinking about his past when he was young.

The three of them sat around the small flame, sipping soup and eating meat in silence.

Beneath this frigid pass ruled by fierce winds, language is superfluous.

Only the steaming hot soup in the bowl, the companions beside me, and the shared anticipation for tomorrow in my heart are the most real things that exist at this moment!
Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

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(End of this chapter)