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Show 88 "I knew a man once," I told Tip, "named Feathers." I smiled, remembering. "He would love it here. This is his kind of place." We pushed off for Lake Laberge, the last of the Yukon lakes, after which rivers flowed all the way to Dawson City-and on to the Bering Sea. "Any more rapids?" Tip asked. "Just a couple of little ones," I said, examining ray worn map. "About a hundred miles from here. Five Finger Rapids and Rink Rapids. Nothing to worry about." On Lake Laberge, as on Lake Marsh, we spent a lot of time on gravel bars. We talked about the gold, and we fished for grayling. I was glad when Tip said she was sick of fish, as it gave me an excuse to go hunting again. One morning early we poled the raft over to the shore. I wrapped myself in mosquito netting, grabbed ray rifle, and stalked into the woods. "I will return with game," I vowed. There were animals in the woods-moose, bear, caribou, and rabbits. I had seen them from the raft. Now I could see only their tracks in the damp earth. They all evaded me. Finally, I sat down under a clump of quaking aspens, cocked my rifle, and waited. After a while a red squirrel ran down the trunk of a spruce tree, darted in front of me, and scampered up another spruce. I fired once. |