Remember the caribou rack in John McPhee’s “The Encircled River”? I certainly do. It’s one of my favorite details in that great piece. McPhee finds the antlers while hiking the alpine tundra of northern Alaska. Here’s the scene:
Moving downhill and south across the tundra, we passed through groves of antlers. It was as if the long filing lines of the spring migration had for some reason paused here for shedding to occur. The antlers, like the bear, implied the country. Most were white, gaunt, chalky. I picked up a younger one, though, that was recently shed and was dark, like polished brown marble. It was about four feet along the beam and perfect in form. Hession found one like it. We set them on our shoulders and moved on down the hill, intent to take them home.
What happened to that caribou rack? Did it make it to McPhee’s home in Princeton? Yes! In his delightful “Tabula Rasa, Volume Five,” in this week’s issue, McPhee tells us that it “hangs from invisible fishing line against the brick chimney of our kitchen fireplace.” Reading that made me smile. Fifty years after it was plucked from the Alaskan tundra, the caribou rack endures. McPhee preserved it – in words and in life.
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