king' s outdoor world - Index

king' s outdoor world - Hunting Illustrated - October/November 2007 - Index

38
out to the truck. Packing up to go,
we looked at our bluish, black and
blistered fingers (our trigger fingers
took frostbite from our triggers in the
extreme cold weather). We vowed
never to make the trip after the first
week in November ever again!
The trip home that year
was just as spooky as the trip up,
due to continued extreme cold,
snow and wind. Happily, the trip
home was basically uneventful save
for a few encounters with monster
snow drifts. We made it home with
lot of caribou meat, frostbite and
jubilation. This hunt had been one of
the most challenging that I had ever
encountered, both physically and
environmentally.
Physically due to the two
kilometer no shooting corridor
and the no snowmobile laws - one
must drag the caribou by hand and
toboggan, extremely difficult work to
be sure. Environmentally due to the
aforementioned weather conditions
persistent throughout the entire hunt.
However, this hunt was one of the
most personally rewarding and the
first of a decade of similar hunts and
pilgrimages to the Arctic Circle.
Skulking, resting on that
lonely ridge top, I could see no sign
of wolf or the caribou. I sighed a
tired sigh, laid back in the snow and
thought back again, only a couple
years back now, the first and only time
that I observed and hunted in what is
known as a "major herd.? A "major
herd? is a large herd of caribou which
could conceivably number at 30,000
to 40,000 individuals. Thousands
of smaller herds comprise the major.
These smaller herds are everywhere
and 200 in a group on an open ridge
is an ideal hunting situation and very
common in the open ridges. Lines
of caribou kilometers long seem
to trail endlessly down off of every
ridge and drainage and creek bottom,
everywhere! As was usual for me, I
was hunting with four fellows from
my crew at work. First timers to
the Arctic Circle, all of them. This
year the weather was extremely mild,
unseasonably so. This trip proved
HUNTING ILLUSTRATED.com
to be the only time we didn't utilize the
lodge. We had brought a big camper
along and I set up a three-man tent and
tarp, sleeping in my ten-star bag, two
five-stars tucked into one another! At
any rate, I was quite comfortable with
the addition of the propane heater. As far
as weather was concerned, this trip was
at the total opposite end of the spectrum.
Around noon on our second
day of hunting, things were looking
grim. We hadn't seen a single caribou,
nor a solitary fresh track. We had made
our way north and were just below the
Northwest Territory border. Trucks
parked, we talked, contemplating our
next move when along came our saint,
our angel. It was the game warden, the
all-knowing game warden. After a check
of our hunting licenses, tags and rifles
(all was in order), he seemed to relax and
questioned as to why we were hunting up
this far north when a major herd of caribou
was crossing the highway approximately
20 km south of our location. Astonished,
we commenced to barrage the poor fellow
with a million questions simultaneously.
How many? Where were they crossing?
Any big bulls? Etc, etc, etc. He just
giggled to himself and as he started to
drive away he said, "Just drive south, you
can't miss them!?
Upon arriving at the area, we
were totally amazed because, just three
hours previously, we had not seen a
track anywhere. But now, "Whoa!? It
looked like a barnyard for about an 8
km stretch of the highway. Caribou
of the
5NORTH BORDER5
were literally everywhere. We
dispersed from the vehicles and split
up, going after various herds on the
ridges that surrounded us. I stalked
my way through the herd on one of
my own favorite ridges and passed
by a dozen different size bulls. As I
continued my stalk, I hoped to find
a "stick antler bull,? as I call them.
A stick antler bull has a faded greybrown
coat of fur and long, white
mane flowing down his entire cape.
Not much for top points or bez, but
70-inch main beams with 50-inch
spreads can surely look incredible and
uniquely "barren ground.? That is
what I hoped for and that is precisely
what I found that afternoon. I will
never forget the sight that followed.
About 200 meters from my fallen bull
was an ancient caribou trail. On this
trail, the caribou traveled single file
before me. As far south as I could
see, about 6 km, the line of caribou
moved steadily. Photographing my
kill, cleaning, caping and halving the
carcass took about one hour. That
line of caribou streamed on past the
entire time.
One of my partners arrived
to help and we each dragged half a
caribou, easily arriving at the truck
within another half hour. Glassing
the hill, I could see the line of caribou
trudging along, seemingly infinite in
their procession. This is a sight few
have witnessed I would suspect.
Another howl from a wolf
jarred me from my thoughts; it was
the miserable wail of a subordinate
young wolf awaiting its turn at the
kill. Standing, I stretch my tired
legs and thighs, and looked about
me and shivered. It was colder this
afternoon, I mused, and daylight was
running out. With the day's hunting
nearly done, I descended to my truck.
I was content even though the wolves
had taken the day and my caribou tag
remained in my pocket. The big 360class
bull was now just a memory
in my mind's eye. Tomorrow...yes,
perhaps tomorrow, I would find a
bull caribou. That holy grail of all
caribou, the 400-class, rarest of the
bulls from the barren grounds.