TenForward: Where Every Vulcan Knows Your Name

Honestly, it was like a scene from the wilderness of Qo'noS.

We'd hunt and gather geese during the spring goose hunt when these birds were migrating north. We could kill as many as we wanted, but we only gathered what could be processed, stored and smoked for future preservation to last for food for a few months. In April, the traditional practice was to pitch teepees near the hunting grounds where birds would be processed within a week or two. The teepees were basically butcher shops filled with gutted birds, piles of smelly innards and racks of long stringy goose flesh that hung over a smoky fire. The teepee lit a warm orange glow through the weathered wind and sun beaten dirty canvas. Spruce boughs, wood chips, logs and furs lined the floor and sitting areas all around. My mom, aunts and my grandmother sat next to the fire on cardboard matts to soak up spilled blood. The place reeked of disembowelled goose, blood, roasting flesh, mixed with a smokey fire, earth, wood and the scent of a dozen people who hadn't probably bathed in a week. We'd be dressed for minus 20 degree nights but during the day dressed down with t-shirts while keeping our warm weather pants and boots. Everyone's skin was weathered and tanned from the bright noon day sun that reflected light everywhere on the snow. A goose was always splayed out, spread wide open on a spit on a large skewer that was leaned over the fire pit in the center to provide breakfast, lunch or supper for the whole day. Next to the skewers were smaller sticks lined with bannock that roasted over the flames. Large pots of tea, vegetables and potatoes boiled over the fire. And as everyone laughed and talked in our Ojibway language, the roasted goose would be served for everyone to eat as we all drank from steaming hot mugs of strong steeped tea. Grandma would dissect the neck and head meat of the roasted goose as she talked. She was old, wrinkled and dark skinned but you could see in her eyes that she was strong and vibrant. It was easy to see her as a frail old woman but when you saw her work expertly with a knife as she reached down to the floor to butcher the next bird, you could sense the strength in her hands and the confidence of her movements. She was quick to smile but her gaze could also quickly turn to stone and you could sense a million stories in her thoughtful eyes. Then she'd wedge her large butcher knife on the blackened hairless skull of the roasted goose, smash the thing on a large piece of firewood by the fire pit, split it apart like an apple, then pick apart the meaty bits inside.

Oww, right in the deuterium tanks!

End of the neutral zone, don’t come up the property