We watch for another hour, but the grizzly does not show. I return to the river. There I find my own party staring at a spectacle two miles away on the hillside west of the river. A big herd of caribou, two thousand, three thousand of them, a compact animal mass, is advancing steadily to the south. If they go up the side valley over there they’ll be blocked by the mountains; if they come our way they’ll have to pass within a quarter mile of where we stand, waiting and hoping.

But something, we can’t see what, spooks the herd, and after milling in confusion for a few minutes they reach consensus and reverse direction, returning north the way they had come, jogging along at a smart pace. Within ten minutes the entire herd is out of sight. The caribou, like the grizzly bear, is unpredictable. They refuse to be guided by precedent or reason or common sense or the wishes of a delegation of tourists.

“When you have a steering committee of three thousand chairpersons,” says Dr. Mike sadly, “you never know what is going to happen.” He limps about on stocking feet—injured his right foot two days ago. “It’s like Proposition Thirteen.”

“You see the racks on those bulls?” says John. “And those Dall rams—a trophy hunter would go crazy here.”

Yes he would. Fly in, set down, bag the biggest bull, the finest ram, hack off the head, leave the meat to waste in situ, fly out, go home, mount head on rumpus-room wall. Is there anything lower, I ask myself, than a trophy hunter? Think hard. Put your mind to it. But all I can think of is squid shit.

An albino mosquito sets down on my forearm. She walks nervously back and forth on my naked skin, searching for the ideal pore to probe for blood. I wait. She selects a spot she likes, the needle nose, like the drooping snout of a supersonic jet, comes down and enters. Slight prickling sensation. I hear a definite gurgling sound—but no, I must be imagining that. I am about to slap the little thing into eternity, into its next cycle on the meat wheel of life, when something stays my hand. Let this little one live, a voice says in my inner ear. Just once, be merciful. I hesitate. Another voice says, Don’t let that Buddhist karma run over your Darwinian dogma: mash the brute. But still I hesitate, and as I do, the tiny albino withdraws her dildo, waggles her wings and floats off into the mob. God only knows what ghastly plague I may have loosed upon humanity and the caribou by letting that one go. But I feel sort of good about it.

We deflate and unrig the rafts, roll them up into snug bundles, stack boats, oars, rowing frames, ammo boxes, rubber bags, icebox, tents and other dunnage at the downwind end of the imaginary airstrip.

The Cessna comes, Gil Zemansky at the controls, and the ferry operation to Barter Island begins. Mark assigns me the third and final flight, giving me four extra hours on the shore of the Kongakut. Last chance. Last chance for what? I know what but dare not bait the gods by even thinking of it. Last chance for an understanding with the spirit of the Arctic, that’s what.