RICKO’S NOT-SO-MODERN LIFE
Ricko DeWilde steps off of a small wooden boat on the Nenana River and onto dry land. The steep, muddy ridge he must ascend to continue our goose hunt is too tall for him to see over the top, but it’s not too tall to climb. He eyes it warily. “I don’t like going up the bank without a gun,” he says. “There might be a big bear up there.”
At first, I think he’s joking. But we’re deep in the Alaskan wilderness, he has already told me a handful of stories about shooting bears, and he indeed reaches back into the boat to grab his rifle. Following closely behind him, I think of that old joke about how fast you have to be to outrun a bear — faster than whoever you are with. I could not outrun DeWilde, who is lithe and powerful from decades spent carrying animals out of the woods. Then again, DeWilde would probably just shoot the dang thing so I wouldn’t have to run.
Whatever bears live in these woods remain out of sight. We follow a faint trail for a half-mile until we arrive at a hunting cabin. This is not the picturesque cabin of your Alaska dreams. It has four walls, one roof, one big room, two beds, one table, and that’s about it. There is no power source
