A Briefcase full of Bear-Meat

Join Pal at the edge of the Arctic Circle, as he contemplates both starting and stopping, with a briefcase full of Bear Meat {Bear. Meat. Beart-Meat. Arctic. Blanko}

Oulu, Finland.

It’s pitch dark, minus 16°C ...and in my left hand, I hold a briefcase, stuffed-full of bear meat.

Midnight was passed some time ago, and I am hunting; a small and seemingly serviceable hire-car, in an encouraging shade of red. It occurs to me that at some point during the spring, what I am now standing in must be a ‘car-park’ ...but right now, in December, and just 100km south of the Arctic Circle, it appears as just another snowfield, at the end of the runway.

My plane had skidded to a stop half-an-hour ago, and a weary looking clerk behind the desk had passed me some car keys, and then announced that he was knocking-off for the night.

“Have you driven with snow tyres before?” he’d said nonchalantly, whilst donning a second top-coat and searching for the office keys amidst all the pocket options.

“Not recently...” I’d lied.

“Where have you come from?” said he, having found his key-ring, but now searching amongst the thirty-options, for something that might help him lock-up.

“Tonight I come from Helskini”. I replied, but this immediately sounded like pornography, so “...and before that I am coming from Oslo” I continued. This was not helping, and it was also the imperfect tense. I was tired. I dug deeper: “...and before that, Belgium”. I added, almost pleadingly, but not knowing why.

“Belgium?” he questioned, taking pity.

“Yes, Belgium...”

“So you are working your way north? ...Are you looking for Santa Claus ?” He chuckled at his own joke.

“It’s either that, or I’m a salmon...” I said. He looked puzzled by the salmon reference, but at the very same moment, felt the need to reassure me:

“Well, we have very many fine fish in Oulu”. He found his key, I was reassured, and we parted. I stepped-out into the crisp night air, and as I did so, a cleaner locked the airport behind me.

‘But why bear meat?’ is a question I’m (admittedly) not often asked, but which is one that is probably vexing you right now.

Well, let me explain... It just so happened a few months ago, young Kapps and I (you’ll remember her: small, brown, and with a very keen-nose for fish). I digress; young Kapps and I had been watching a TV documentary about a guy who had found The Lord, or had fallen-out with The Lord (I forget which) and has as a result of this finding/falling-out, had taken to living in the woods, and to eating nuts and squirrels, but mainly squirrels. Now then, in the depths of the winter just passed, his home-built hovel had been perused by an increasingly inquisitive and enormously ursine neighbour – and it being the middle of winter, and what with this bear being increasing ‘friendly’, he’d decided to shoot the bear, quite a bit, and mainly in the face. He’d justified his actions on-account of the fact that such friendly and inquisitive behaviour by bears, in the middle of winter, normally ends-up with one of the two parties being eaten ...and generally speaking, it’s not the bear.

Finding himself with a dead bear on his hands, and not wanting to attract other bears to his cabin, which he’d presumably also have to shoot (but possibly not quite-so-much) in the face, he’d taken it upon himself to butcher the carcass, and preserve it, and then eat it on special occasions, with his stout-looking wife who, whilst wrapped in a brown shawl, and in the dark of mid-winter, had been lucky to avoid a shot to the face.

At this point, the TV documentarian had turned-up in suspiciously new-looking outdoor clothes, and had taken dinner with them ...which, somewhat predictably, had been; ‘Bear-de-la-Maison’. He’d chewed on it longingly, but not lovingly.

Seeing his contorted face getting-to-grips with what he was just about to swallow, young Kapps (you recall her: small/brown/fish etcetera) had incautiously enquired:

“I wonder what bear-meat tastes like? ”

Now, knowing me as you do Dear Reader, at once you will see the gravity of her mistake, but not having been married to me for nearly as many years as she now regrets, Kapps had unknowingly broken a cardinal rule when speaking to a lapsed-Zoologists ...namely: never mention endangered animals shortly before dinner.

“It’s for my wife...” I’d said when purchasing it from the vendor. He had nodded knowingly and conspiratorially whispered into my ear: “...this is 100% bear meat” pointing at the label that I could not read. I nodded back and he nodded some more, and then I nodded again ...but all nodding aside, it was understood: he was not the sort of man to sell counterfeit bear-parts.

Not wishing to draw her attention this oversight, and not having immediate access to any form of bear–bits, the thought had lain in-wait until such time as I could find some. Given my wanderings and the type of folks I meet, I figured it was only a matter of time before I got my paws on some...

“It’s for my wife...” I’d said when purchasing it from the vendor. He had nodded knowingly and conspiratorially whispered into my ear: “...this is 100% bear meat” pointing at the label that I could not read. I nodded back and he nodded some more, and then I nodded again ...but all nodding aside, it was understood: that he was not the sort of man to sell counterfeit bear-parts.

I shook his hand, and the deal was done.

But all of this is besides-the-point Dear Reader, because now I am in a car-park, under 7 inches of snow, sat at the wheel of the only hire-car that wasn’t covered by a heavy tarpaulin. As I put key in the ignition, and recall that everyone's gone home, I wonder if this car is going to start? ...and if it does start, when I come to use the breaks, will it stop ?

...I guess there’s only one way to find-out.

Join Pal at the edge of the Arctic Circle, as he contemplates both starting and stopping, with a briefcase full of Bear Meat {Bear. Meat. Beart-Meat. Arctic. Blanko}