Wheres the rest of this muskox?
This weekend the mighty Fearless is heading north to Edmonton, and I’m hitching a ride along with my two deadhead friends: a set of caribou antlers and a muskox skull. Actually, they’re my older brother’s souvenirs of a trip to Cambridge Bay in the Northwest Territories. He was there to catch fish, which he did, but he also kept tripping over bones and hooves and mandibular fragments and other mementos of just how incredibly harsh the lifestyle is a ways up thar. How I ended up with the bones is your typical bureaucratic story. Big Brother wouldn’t let my big brother take the souvenirs back until certain forms were filled out, certain nods and winks exchanged. So the outfitter, a strapping Swede named Jack “Don’t call me ‘Yack'” Elofsson, brought the “heeds” back to Calgary. And now I, or rather the long-suffering Fearless, am hauling them to my brother’s house. My packing list reads “Clothes, toothbrush, heads, antiperspirant, shampoo.” Should probably also throw in some puffed wheat
