He seeks out feces. It is an ancient technique to find birds.
As the wind whipped around him, Peter and his hunting buddy, James Active III, whom everyone calls Big Boy, stalked across a meadow looking for dinner. Peter held his shotgun low in one hand. The only sound was the babbling of geese and Peter's calls to them: "Luk, luk, luk."
He scrambled over spongy tufts of lichen and crowberry and waded through the sedge-lined marsh, the smell of rotten eggs rising from his footprints.
As a chill set in, he disemboweled his birds in the traditional style: hooking one finger into the cloaca and tearing out the intestines with one motion.
He wiped his hand on the damp grass.
Peter said he was worried, but not that worried, yet. "Nobody's gotten sick," he said.
A few minutes later, he dug his fingers into a container of agutak, a dessert known as Eskimo ice cream, made of tundra berries, sugar and Crisco.
Still a bit hungry, he shook a helping of trail mix into his soiled hands and poured it into his mouth.