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on such a section of trail signal one another with whistles, because you do not want to meet another traveler coming your way. This circumstance would involve a negotiation about whose mule must take the long fall.
    Our gravel and dirt road was not that narrow, but it was tight enough that the story had the ring of truth. The river bottoms were at perhaps three thousand feet, while several of the mountains rose to eight thousand. The valleys themselves were intenselyV shaped, as if Allah had hacked them out of the high ground with one great whack of his mighty ax. There was only a thin sliver of sky visible between the slopes above. It was the first time I’d ever felt claustrophobic in the mountains.
    Captain Milbray didn’t buy our tiger story, not even a little bit. “I’ve been out in these mountains for four years,” he said. “I’ve seen bears and wild goats and wild pigs, but never a tiger. And none of my men has ever seen one.”
    “Have you ever looked for one?” I asked.
    “No,” the captain said. “Well, two days ago I shot one. But I ate it. Even the skin.”
    “What a good joke, Captain,” Tommy said.
    Presently, the road branched off to Yaylapinar. We stopped for a moment, and suddenly over a dozen heavily armed Kurds and several soldiers appeared out of nowhere. They came pouring down the slopes at a dead run, the Kurds in tribal dress—baggy pants and turbans and cummerbunds—and armed with knives, grenades, and automatic weapons. We were surrounded by armed men in the space of thirty seconds, and even though I knew they were with us, it was an acutely menacing display. This is how fast it can happen to you out here, I thought. And then the Kurds and the soldiers piled into the empty truck and we were moving into another V-shaped valley on our way to Yaylapinar.
    The road dropped into the valley of the Pison River. There were patches of snow on green grass, and cows grazed in the fields. The town itself consisted of perhaps forty houses, and dozens of people surrounded us as we stepped out of the Jeep. Someone put out white plastic lawn chairs. Tommy and I interviewed a man named Zulfir, who had shot a tiger, a female, perhaps ten years ago. “The mark of this animal,” Zulfir said, “is that when he walks, he seizes the snow. The talons are as long as my first finger.”
    Other men were butting in now, talking about tigers in the old days, and now Captain Milbray seemed to be caught up in the interview.
    “When you shot the tiger,” he said to Zulfir, “was it before or after your military service? Before or after your first child wasborn?” In this manner we ascertained that the tiger had been shot not ten years ago, but more like forty.
    Captain Milbray was no longer mocking us. “Why,” he asked Zulfir, “did you shoot the tiger?”
    “In those days, he who shot a tiger was a hero.”
    “These are not those days,” the captain said. “Today, he who shoots a tiger is my enemy. I will see that he goes to jail.”
    As quick as that. I found the captain’s conversion rather inspiring.
    We went to another village, Otakar, then returned before dark to the army post at Shemdinli, where the colonel debriefed us in his office. About that time, there was a knock on the padded door. A young officer stood at attention and reported that three village guards, of the village of Umurhi, had seen a tiger. Word about our visit had apparently spread. “When was this?” the Colonel asked.
    “Five days ago.”
    “Ah, I don’t believe this,” the colonel said. “I was there three days ago. They would have told me.”
    “Not,” I suggested, “if they were out hunting and not guarding the village.”
    “Just so,” the colonel said. “I’ll have the men come to Shemdinli.”
    There were three of them, the village guards from Umurhi. And yes, they were hunting goats instead of standing guard, which is why they didn’t mention it to the colonel. All three men were wearing Kurdish native