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March 15, 2014
We followed the lynx into a shaman's grove.
Tied to the birches were rags in blue, yellow, white, red and green. Offerings to the spirits of the place. We did not go through. Farther along, we stopped for the dogs to regain the scent. The old man told me there had been a shaman there for many years. But he had died in February. "There is a hermit . . . One of ours . . . 40 kilometres away. He eats raw fish and glides away like a deer when hunters get too close." Hunting the Lynx | Standpoint
Posted by gerardvanderleun at March 15, 2014 6:06 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.