We’re going on a bear hunt
We’re going to skin a big one
We’re not scared.
What beautiful cinematography!
Vengeful, desperate, barbaric Arikara Indians.
We can’t get away from them.
We can’t fight them.
Oh no, we’ve got to make a feeble attempt to defend ourselves against them.
Ping, swoosh, bang, slice, pop, Oof!
A freezing, turbulent, dangerously exposed river.
We can’t get across it.
We can’t get round it.
Oh no, we’ve got to cram ourselves onto a tiny boat and squabble and clash with one another as we sail down it.
Snipe, jibe, shout, grumble, fume!
A wide, open wood.
I can’t see everything in it.
I can’t ignore the valuable pelts there might be in it.
Oh no, I’ve got to search round it.
Tiptoe! Tiptoe! Tiptoe!
I’ve got to… Aargh! Eegh! Ye-ow! Arlgh!
Rocky, slippery, rough terrain.
I can’t walk.
I can’t be carried over it.
Oh no, I’ve got to be left to die in the company of weak and untrustworthy men.
Mumble, spit, dribble, huff!
Deep, cold, bitter snow.
I can’t stand.
I’m barely alive.
Oh no, I’ve got to drag myself face down through it.
Heave, struggle, puff, brrrrr!
Open, bleeding, infected wounds.
Can’t bind them.
Can’t stitch them.
Oh no, I’ve got to use gunpowder and a naked flame to clumsily cauterise them.
Sizzle, fizz, burn, urrgh!
Painful, debilitating hunger.
I’ve got no food.
I’ve got nothing to hunt with.
Oh no, I’ve got to eat roots, raw fish and the bloody liver of a fallen bison.
Crunch, chew, slurp, yuk!
Armed with bows and arrows mounted Indians.
I can’t outrun them.
I can’t hide from them.
On no, I’ve got to pitch myself and my horse off this cliff to get away from them.
Gallop, leap, eeeeeee! Crump!
Bitter, unforgiving night.
I can’t survive it.
I’ve got no shelter from it.
Oh no, I’m going to have to graphically hollow out the carcass of my dead horse and climb inside it.
Saw, crack, slice, flop.
I’m not going on a bear hunt again.