The unlikely lasses

Joseph Sigurdson recounts the remarkable story of how he rescued four freezing dogs and took them bird hunting for the pot in Alaska

2022-09-28 -

My first village dog was shot and killed. I barely got to know him before I was lifting his body from the pile of dead dogs at the dump. I needed to give him a proper burial; I couldn’t just leave him there.

Now when I say village, I mean a native Alaskan village deep in the bush — disconnected from any road, only accessible by a wobbly bush plane, millions of acres of wilderness between you and Anchorage. I moved out there to teach at the school. Generally, the only outsiders in those villages are the teachers and they often don’t last.

Life for dogs out there is hard. They are left in the roads to starve or freeze. They are tied up permanently. They are shot by the town when too many accumulate. I did not know that and unfortunately lost my only friend. After he died, I didn’t want another dog. But now I believe that I was meant to live with dogs and dogs were meant to live with me.

So, about a week later, temperatures dropped to below 30°F (-1°C). I went outside and lit my pipe in the Arctic air. It was so cold I had to huff the tobacco smoke out of my nose to keep it from getting frostbitten. There came a whimper from beneath my front steps. Two shivering dogs were hiding there. One was only a puppy. Their eyes were languid, yet panicked. Freezing eyes. Desperate, clouded eyes. Eyes upon me. My eyes upon them. I told myself, no more dogs. They were shivering.

No more dogs. I took them in. How could I not?

Within a week there was another freezing dog at my doorstep, then another. Four village dogs, all coincidentally female, bundled up with me on my tiny bed. Tiny, but warm. Outside it was cold beyond cold. But inside we were warm. That initial warmth is what brought us together. From strangers to a pack,

“If a spruce grouse popped up from its hiding place, I shot it and we ate it”

through shared warmth. We survived together. I named them Barbara, Charlotte, Ruth and Mary.

There wasn’t much to do up there other than hunt. No one in my family hunted, so it was something new to me. The four girls and I would wander into the snowy woods with my double-barrelled 20-bore that I bought in Anchorage. I had no

strategy. I followed the trail and if a black chicken (spruce grouse) popped up from its hiding place, then I shot it and we ate it together.

I was probably averaging a bird a week and we were out there every day. I was content with that. I didn’t see it as a contest and still don’t. It was about my connection with nature. I didn’t like the act of killing animals, but going after the ones that tasted good started to feel right, like I was supposed to do it. And soon enough, the dogs started feeling the same way.

In the wilderness

One day, Charlotte ran off into the woods. No matter how many times I hollered, she would not return. I blasted two shells into the air to inform her of where we were, but still, she did not come. I had worried this would happen. They weren’t trained and I simply let them run loose in the wilderness. It was only a matter of time before one ran off and never came back. The snow hadn’t accumulated enough to track her, so I figured that our best bet was to sit and wait, and see if she found us.

After an hour, Barbara, Ruth and I were getting cold. Not Mary. She had some husky in her and these temperatures didn’t faze her. But the other girls were shivering and the early dark of deep Alaskan winter was coming. We walked the trail home, one fewer. I felt utterly guilty.

About a mile down, an explosion of snow poofed in front of me and a chicken flew up into a spruce tree. And then another little critter appeared from its hiding spot — Charlotte. She was hiding in the brush a few yards ahead. She must have been stalking the grouse. Like me, she didn’t totally know what she was doing, but she was learning. Those few grouse I killed were enough to put their scent in her nose. She knew I wanted those birds. And she wanted them too.

And that was how I discovered the ancient communion between hunter and dog. It was a feeling like I’d never felt before. A deep, visceral love for my dog and her ability to find my prey. I was so proud of her — furious that she had me so worried, but also so proud. I shot that bird out of the tree and cooked Charlotte the biggest piece back at the cabin.

Her sisters began to learn. I knew nothing of training bird dogs. I’d never heard the term ‘flushing’. These girls trained themselves. We were in those woods every day, two to three times a day sometimes. No recall practice. No pedigree. Four village mutts that were destined to die, now up-and-coming bird dogs.

I had no friends in that village other than them. I had no hobbies other than hunting. That continuous exposure to the bird hunt was enough to allow them to get the hang of it. They’d prance through the snowy grasses like deer; they’d investigate the ground with their energetic noses. Alaskan grouse hunting in the winter is usually a fool’s errand, but if you have four determined dogs and a lot of time, you can make something out of it.

Now, of course, they weren’t experts just yet. One time, they caught wind of something and bolted into the trees. Charlotte started screaming and crying as she ran. She has some hound in her. Her cries were that of a warrior — thirsty and ecstatic for the kill.

Barrier of snow

In no time, that cry became faint in the distance. I knew it wasn’t a grouse they were on. I was hoping it was a lynx because I was told their meat tastes surprisingly good and their pelts are soft, toasty and gorgeous. I sprinted as best I could, despite my heavy winter clothes and the barrier of snow.

I came upon a frozen creek and followed the screams of Charlotte, which were closer now. Closer, closer. I kept running, my lungs burning from freezing air. I sucked in

deluges, but the hunt was in me. Primal. I was on my prey. I still could not see any of my dogs, but I was right upon them.

From the treeline came the sound of heavy movement — something huge, barrelling toward me. A moose appeared and my prancing, blood-thirsty dogs were chasing it from behind. The elephantine beast was coming right at me and there was nowhere to take cover on that frozen creek. I screamed and

“We belong in the wilderness. We are supposed to hunt this land together”

lifted the shotgun, ready to try to at least blind it. A 20-bore loaded with birdshot surely couldn’t do much more than that. Thankfully, the moose pivoted to the left. I am amazed by how agile these huge creatures can be. You wouldn’t think it, but they are athletic.

The girls went to pursue, but I screamed at them. They looked back at me, confused. Why does the human suddenly not want us to hunt the creature? The moose made it to the other end of the treeline and disappeared into the spruce, birch and alder. “Little critters, girls — not moose, not bears.”

Their tails were between their legs as we headed back to the trail, but then they were up again and chasing bird scent. They were happy. For the first time in their lives, everything felt purposeful and I was the one who took them there. But while I saved them, they also saved me.

Winter was long and cold and dark. I foolishly didn’t gather any wood in the fall, so each day I was out in the woods with a sled and bow saw. I brought the shotgun, too. While the girls flushed, I sawed. If they found a bird, I paused my sawing and took it.

At night, we’d cuddle in bed with no TV or internet. We sat in the darkness and listened to the crackle of the wood stove until we were asleep. In our sleep, we dreamed of hunting. It was our everything. We were each other’s everything.

Challenging life

When the school year was over, we hopped on a plane and flew to the road system. We are still in a remote part of Alaska, but a bit less remote. Life is challenging with four dogs — hard to find a place to rent, vet bills are high and dog food is expensive. But I believe these dogs came to me for a reason. I couldn’t have it any other way and I’m sure they feel the same. We don’t belong in a suburb. We belong in the wilderness. We are supposed to hunt this land together. And that’s exactly what we’ll do.

One of the greatest joys of editing Shooting Times is when somebody gets in touch from a far-flung place with a story about ‘hunting’. Every so often, they are brilliant and I find myself transported to some part of the world about which I know very little. Joseph Sigurdson’s piece landed one morning during the summer heatwave. PG