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Scavenging in the new millenium, or how I stalked my winter's supply of caribou.

August 22nd, 2007 · No Comments

“I had such a good time dancing for you… I hope you’ll come back soon so we can play some more?” I said, twirling my hair, heaving my breasts, and making big lips and eyes.

“I’m leaving on a bear hunting trip tomorrow, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

MEAT. That snapped me out of stripper mode. All summer I’ve operated with the theory that meat and fish would just come to me. There are two dynamics at work.

First there are the tourists, who fly up here and pay someone thousands of dollars to take them out in the woods and show them how to shoot a bear. They get the guide to take a gazillion pictures of them with the dead bear, and luckily the guide will do most of the butchering and packing out for them. When they get back to town they take and get the head stuffed, and they go to a meat processing place that packages everything up into jerky, sausage, and steaks for them so they never have to get their hands bloody. They pick up that big pile of meat and they feel like such a big man. But then reality starts to set in. It’s expensive to overnight all that meat home with dry ice. Their wife is on the phone explaining the limited freezer space and her inability to cook bear meat. So it’s easy pickings when they hit the strip club on their last night in town and the stripper asks for a little meat. Hell, since they’re such, big, manly hunters who killed such a big bear (and don’t wanna ship it all home) they give me a lot of meat.

Except it hasn’t worked that way this year.

Secondly, there are locals. They need room in their freezer for this years halibut, salmon, and moose. Last years stuff needs to go, and it might as well go to me.

But that hasn’t happened this year either.

“Really?” I smiled at him, suddenly feeling a little predatory. “You’re going BEAR hunting? Wow…”

“Yeah.” He flexed his muscles, I swear. “It’s dangerous, but a man’s gotta put some meat on the table.”

“You’re so brave!” I didn’t mention that I’ve been eating bear since I was a baby.

“I’ll bring you some meat when I get back. How much do you want?”

“Really? OMG I love wild meat. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

“Really?” He’s starting to think now. “You know there’s a bunch of caribou in my freezer from last year…”

“I’ll take it!!!” I swear I feel like a wolf that just moved in for that bone crushing hindquarter bite.

“Hmmm, I’m leaving town tomorrow. You could come over and get it now. You know, if you had someone to come with you so you’ll feel safe…”

I resent the implication that having boobs should make me feel unsafe. But if he hadn’t have said it I would have resented his lack of sympathy for the female condition.

I leaned across the bar to Ashley, who I was supposed to be giving a ride home. “Hey, do you mind if we stop off and get some caribou meat from this guy on the way home?”

“Sure!”

I turned back to him and giggled. “Don’t worry, Ashley and me, our hands are registered weapons in five states. We ain’t afraid of shit.”

I am now proudly in posession of about fifteen gallons of caribou meat and salmon, all professionally processed and vacuum locked. I need to either do some serious canning, or figure out a way to keep it frozen for another month or so.

Tags: Ecofeminist Musings · Stripping · The day-to-day of it all · Van Living

0 responses so far ↓

  • 1 Laurie // Aug 24, 2007 at 8:20 am

    Hey Tara…you must be the meat meister!!

    I loved your story…you’re quite the hunter, thanks for sharing!

    Make it a grr-eat day!

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