This story was originally published by Adventure.com, in August 2019.
In these times of overtourism, madcap presidents, addictive gadgets, always-on working weeks, and never-ending news cycles, there are at least a few places left that allow us to experience different models for living. The Yukon is one such place, finds Oliver Pelling.
It’s not that I’m against the idea of eating porcupine. It’s more that this particular porcupine has been hunted, butchered and cooked by a 14-year-old I met only yesterday.
The kid, Arthur, had to abandon the first porcupine he tried to cook this afternoon because he accidentally popped its bladder when he butchered it—a mistake that left the poor sucker marinading in its own urine for two days. “It was just no good,” Arthur explained to me, delicately.
So it’s a question of Arthur’s culinary prowess, more than anything. I trust his hunting prowess resolutely.
In fact, Arthur, who would like to be a fur trapper when he grows up—still a viable career choice in the Yukon—is already about as capable an outdoorsman as you’re likely to meet. But is he more of a chef? Well …
“Do you want a piece?” asks Arthur, again.
“Maybe in a little while,” I lie, firmly. Arthur walks over to my dad.
“Do you wanna try it?” he asks, shoving a pile of blackened porcupine flesh under my 73-year-old father’s nose.
“Sure,” says dad.
I’ve never thought of my dad as the gastronomically-brave type. Yet here he is, in the middle of the Yukon, masticating a rodent. Emboldened by his ‘whatever’ attitude, I try a piece too. It’s surprisingly pleasant—a bit like steak. But mostly not.