We spend the morning lying around sunbathing and generally wandering about; in other words, doing nothing. I woke up to the smell of American pancakes drifting into my tent. Greg gave me a good, large plateful, and then flew off to check the other camps, ferry more hunters around, supervise other events, and give new instructions to the guides. Our guides seem to spend more time in the air than they do hunting, or than the average driver does behind the wheel of his car.
We are admiring our trophies, and Striker puts a thick layer of salt over the skins. No matter how often we look at them, we always end up saying: these are beautiful horns! I don't even have to concern myself with their transportation to Hungary, as this will be done partly by one of Cabela's sub-contractors, and partly by the company belonging to Móni Tóth, who is a member of SCI.
I'm very pleased by about this, as all I want to do today is lie around. I shall let others do all the work.
Mark is telling us about yesterday's bear hunt. He says that he hit the bear, but they have not yet found it. There aren't many thickets in the area to hide in, but the bear does seem to have found one. Bruce didn't feel like going after it yesterday, so the search has been left until today. Mark, however, also managed to shoot a beautiful caribou, and its antlers are just being cleaned. But they are still fully covered in velvet, though nobody seems concerned about that, and Bruce takes a knife and skins it expertly.
Well, customs vary from country to country.
The meat from the sheep is still maturing in the sun. Late last night we had some sheep meat, from the rams in fact, but it didn't have a particularly strong smell or tang. Nor did it have much of a gamey flavour; I much preferred the caribou they served in Kavik, but after a hard day with nothing to eat, the freshly-made food was a real treat.
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Striker is a quiet, calm man, with a good sense of humour. He's probably about my age, but he is already an experienced mountain hunter. All day yesterday he was always in the lead, and Greg, his boss, never once questioned his decisions. He went through the whole day in a pair of jeans.
If I spotted him in the street wearing the same clothes, I'd never guess that he is an outstanding mountain guide. Right now he's working on our rams' horns, and he has already skinned the skulls. He thinks my ram is over 12 years old, and in all the times he's taken people hunting in this world of bare rocks, nearly a hundred or so times, he's never seen one of this age shot before. He himself has only ever shot two Dall sheep, as, because of his work, he doesn't have the time. He uses a pocket knife for both skinning and cutting up, as he feels a fixed-blade knife is too cumbersome.
Around 4.30 Mark and the others decide to go off to look for the wounded bear. I grab a water-bottle and put my binoculars around my neck - there are enough guns about, so I won't bother to bring mine - and try to join the group. But Bruce, who is leading the search, stops me, and at first I don't understand why. Jay is allowed to go with them, though he doesn't have a bear-hunting permit either; his status is the same as mine.
Striker gives me the following explanation.
He is my guide, not Bruce, and I can't go hunting without him, or go searching for wounded game, especially bears. In theory he is Jay's guide too, but Jay is going under Bruce's supervision. This is all explained by their position in the hierarchy of Alaskan hunting guides. As Bruce is at present at the bottom of the hierarchy, an assistant guide, he is not allowed to accompany anyone who is not an American citizen, whereas Striker, who is a master-guide, is permitted to lead foreigners. And as he doesn't have a permit to carry either foreign or American hunters in his plane, it explains why Greg had to make so many journeys bringing us here..
Jay soon returns. I can see that after yesterday he does not really feel up to a long treck. Dinner is ready at 6.00 and he eats it with us. then he goes off to do his packing as he will soon leave.
His plane home from Fairbanks goes tomorrow, so he must leave us now. Sadly we say goodbye. At Fairbanks airport we were trying to find a way to fly through the smoke to Deadhorse. We waited together in the air-taxi office for the weather to improve; in Deadhorse we shared a room; and even stayed in the same mobile-home in Kavik. And I honestly bear him no ill-will for shooting my ram's snail-horn; I really mean it. Striker is leaving too: he's going back to Kavik to help Greg with his work.
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For a long time I stare at the two little planes disappearing into the sky.
My new guide is Randy; he's actually only an assistant guide, but this doesn't bother him.
Bravely, we will set out to stalk a caribou. This part of my hunt is still to come, and it's success will depend very much on him. We go to the upper parts of the river; this is the same river that I had to cross several times yesterday using Jay's boots. We lie on the hillside waiting for the caribou. There's no chance of my shooting today as Randy has only just arrived, and the strict rule "You can't hunt on the day you fly" applies to him too. So I've brought nothing else with me except my almost-lost Swaros, and I'm scanning the horizon with them. There's no sign of a serious stag, just a couple of cows and calves moving along the river bank. We have time to talk.
Randy is one of the many Americans obsessed with guns. Right now he is hunting with .325
caliber Winchester Short Magnum ammunition and using a Kimber rain gun, which is lying beside his rucksack. He bought it specifically for hunting in Brooks Range, but, just in case, he has 25
other guns as well. He also has a .44 caliber Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver hanging from the waist-strap of his pack. That's to teach a lesson to any grizzly that comes too close. He's thinking of buying two more guns this year. He has his own rifle-range on his farm, and when he steps out of his kitchen he can shoot up to 1800 ft on his own land. It's not surprising that he's a good shot.
The weather is changing very fast!
This morning I was a bit cautious about putting on my boots, as the leather, damp from all the river crossings, had frozen overnight. During the day it was so hot in the tent that even in short sleeves I was sweating; the heat ruined my siesta. We have to hurry back to the camp as a huge raincloud is rapidly approaching. Very cleverly, I have left all my waterproof clothing behind in the tent.
On the way back we bump into the team searching for Mark's wounded bear. They have not had any success in finding it. Bruce is absolutely certain that the first shot hit the bear's neck, but it might only have been a fleshwound. All Mark's other shots missed, but this doesn't surprise Randy vey much. As he says, it's harder to shoot a running bear than a white-tailed deer during a beat. (Here they only go beating on a deer hunt - not for wild boar.) It's difficult to see precisely the outline of a running bear; as it moves, its shape continually changes, and the contours are hard to predict.
Mark is inconsolable.
I share in his sorrow, and we finish off what's left of the whisky.
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Sheep and Caribou Camp