I knew that was Vinnie’s first love. There were other hunting guides who could track animals for you, and then field-dress and tag them if you were lucky enough to bag one. Vinnie would do all that and then tell you the stories his grandmother had told him, about the land and the sky, the animals and the seasons. The four points on the compass and how they got their names. The manitous, which were the great mysteries, the spirits of Ojibwa mythology. If it was a dark, windy night, he’d tell you about the windingo, which was an evil, flesh-eating monster. Vinnie could take an ordinary hunting trip and turn it into summer camp for grown-ups.

Of course, he used his Ojibwa name on these hunts-Misquogeezhig, which in English is “Red Sky.” It just doesn’t work when your Indian guide is named Vinnie.

“So why didn’t they take you?” I said. We were going along Lakeshore Road, curling around the southern shore of Whitefish Bay to the reservation in Brimley. It was my favorite road in the world, and I figured I’d take it while I still could. In a couple of months, it would be obliterated by ice and snow.

“They told him he was the guy they wanted, and then they said something about him and peace pipes.”

“Peace pipes? Oh no, wait a minute-”

“Yeah. He got the idea. He told them he didn’t do that kind of thing anymore. This is what got him into so much trouble in the first place.”

“Did he tell them he just got out of prison?”

“No, I don’t think so. He just told them he was out of that business.”

“Okay, so then what?”

“They say they really want him and they’ll pay him a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars for a week in the woods?”