It's been raining all night.
Again today we had the local version of pancakes for breakfast. It's a kind of national dish here, and none of the Americans can survive for long without it.
After our successful ram hunt, and yesterday's idleness, we are preparing for a caribou hunt today.
It should be easier as caribou do not like to climb mountains. We leave for the hunting grounds at 11.00, though time does not really have any significance here. There's hardly any dawn or twilight
- it's almost always light. Animals are active practically all the time, as the next proper twilight is months away. Randy says that the movement of caribou is completely unpredictable. It can't be linked to either the time of day or the weather; at least, not in this area. Many researchers have tried to decipher the pattern of movement of the Brooks Range caribou, but so far there has been no study that has bee of any practical value to a hunter. The herd just makes a decision and sets off. Nobody knows where, or why, they are going. There's no obvious explanation for their daily wanderings, which must not be confused with their yearly migration. It doesn't matter if we set out at 9.00 or 11.00; our chances will be the same. We choose the later time as the camp is sleeping in.
This type of hunt uses a hide.
We are heading for the banks of the same river that I had the pleasure of crossing several times during the ram hunt, and where we were sitting yesterday. Randy hopes that the river, as a sort of natural barrier, will funnel the caribou in our direction, and if we wait on the river bank then, sooner or later, a worthwhile stag is bound to pass by. His words are backed up by the fact that there are many sets of tracks running parallel with the river, some very recent; I'm not completely convinced; these tracks go off in every direction of the compass, so we needn't have made this effort: at least three sets seem to run through the camp, so we could have just stayed there.
I hardly dare say that the weather is bad, as I'm just beginning to learn the terminology used by the locals. Here all types of weather are considered good, up to the point where - excuse me for this - "blue shit falls from the sky". As this is not happening at the moment, peering out from my wind-blown tent I can honestly say that the weather is good. The fact that the temperature is barely over freezing in the middle of the summer; it's pouring with rain; and the wind is so strong that I had to tighten the ropes on my tent twice last night, does not make it bad weather.
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It might make me look like a bit of a wimp, but nevertheless, I dress up warmly. I put on all my waterproof clothing, including hat and gloves, and pull the drawstrings tight. We set off onto the tundra. There are no trees anywhere that can moderate the strength of the wind. So it vents all its rage on us. The rain rattles as it hits my hood, and the icy water runs down my face.
This is difficult terrain.
Here, even footpaths, fields and meadows, as we know them in Hungary, are completely absent.
Either we are walking over piles of slippery stones, or sinking into muddy swamps, water coming over the tops of our boots, or we have to pick our way through treacherous patches of marshy grass. It was features like these that made the ram hunt so hard. When hunting in Brooks Range you can't walk normally, or even in a straight line. You have to watch every single step, because you never know where, or on what, you're going to dread. Ditches are overgrown with grass, and swamps are invisible until you actually find yourself in them. Your boots won't grip on the mossy rocks, and the stones roll away beneath your feet. There's no easy route; the choices are: the difficult or the impassable. I can't compete with Randy's knowledge of the terrain and his ability to walk through it with ease; I'm always getting left behind. Our range of vision is practically zero, and I have to be on my guard all the time so that I don't loose sight of him. We don't walk for long; in 1/2hr we have reached the hillside, and from here we can see the entire valley. We sit on the rocks in the pouring rain, looking at the view.
Randy was right, again.
The caribou are following the line of the river, and one group after another walks in front of us.
They look happy - this is their sort of weather. And I have nothing to complain about either, as Cabela's has equipped me with excellent clothes and I'm completely dry. Randy is watching all the game through the spotting scope. On the taiga this instrument is invaluable, not only on ram hunts, but for every other type of hunt as well; with almost no vegetation in the way, you can use it to see over huge distances. But, sadly, it won't show us a suitable stag. A bit later, however, a large grizzly shows up in the spotting scope’s lens. It's at least 1.5 miles away, and even though I can't see much more than a brown dot, I believe Randy when he says that it's a big male. Randy doesn't need much information to identify and assess an animal, and after quickly doing so, he passes me the spotting scope. I watch the bear for an hour. Like the caribou, it will pass right in front of us. It's moving fast, getting bigger and bigger in the spotting scope’s lens.
It's a real grizzly.
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Eventually, the bear reaches the river bank and starts digging; stones as big as a child's head are sent flying by the huge, strong paws, but, as far as I can see from here, he doesn't find anything to eat. He doesn't hang around thinking, but plunges into the icy, cold river. Because of the rain and snow of the last few days the water level has risen, and I can see the current pulling against even this huge body. Perhaps the bear feels the cold; in two leaps he has crossed the river, not wanting to spend too much time in the water. Now he's on our side, but he's disappeared from view. He has rushed into the sparse thickets on the bank, and is rummaging around for food.
We follow his example and have lunch.
Randy produces a small stove and some freeze-dried mountaineering chow. This stuff is a great invention; all you have to do is add boiling water, wait for 8 - 9 mins, and then you have an appetising and delicious-smelling meal. It tastes good too; and warm food is vital in these polar regions. The name of the man who invented it has been included in moutaineers' prayers for decades. Randy places the stove in a small cleft to stop the wind blowing out the weak little flame.
We sit on the hillside until 4.00 in the afternoon, and then head for home. As usual Randy is in front, keeping an eye on the landscape. He notices every creature long before me; I have enough trouble minding my feet.
Now he has stopped... he raises his arm in warning... and points ahead... the grizzly is right ahead! While we were having lunch, he left his thicket and made his way up here! Our paths are certain to cross!
He is climbing up the hill exactly parallel to us! He's a huge animal, and is just 300 ft in front of us, blocking our way back to the camp!
We crouch down. Randy is alone up ahead, and I am lurking behind him. The wind direction is lucky - the bear can't smell our scent; not even mine, which after several days at the camp is getting quite strong - but we are too close to him. Randy is not happy about the situation, and silently points behind us. We quickly go into hide-and-retreat mode. The slippery stones no longer matter; we are leaping about with a speed and agility that would put any Dall sheep to shame.
Every 60 ft. Randy stops and looks back, which reassures me as, right now, I'm the one who is nearest to the bear. Having descended the hill, we try to worm our way along the bottom towards the camp. Hopefully the hill will stop the bear from sensing our presence. My guide listens with all his might, carefully scanning every ridge in the landscape, and checking every cleft in advance.
The bear seems to have remained on the top of the hill; our tactics have worked, and we have
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now overtaken him. My courage has returned, and I give a relieved laugh at our ungraceful retreat. From this safe distance I even make threats as to what I will do to him if we meet up in the future.
Back in the camp Mark listens sadly to our bear story. His chances are finished. Wounding an animal qualifies as killing it, and Bruce has found the site of the hit which is stained with blood.
There'll be no more bear hunts this year for Mark. They don't use dogs over here, though a good hound from Somogy County in Hungary could probably have found it. When I mention this, the guides disagree on whether it is allowed to use dogs to track wounded animals. Hunting rules vary throughout Alaska. What is permitted in one region might well be forbidden in another. But one thing is certain: in Alaska tracking dogs are as rare as white ravens. Someone training dogs to do this over here would be able to make a good living as he would frequently be asked to find game worth several thousand dollars.
Back in my small tent I crouch down and first take off all my waterproof clothing, then my hunting pants, and finally, in my underwear, I climb into my sleeping-bag. Then Randy arrives and says that dinner, or supper, or whatever they call it, is ready; but today there will be no more hot food. I start to get dressed again. My Alaskan hunt seems to consist mainly of dressing and undressing.
We undress to go up a hill, and dress again when we reach the top. When the rain starts we put on our waterproof clothing, and when it stops we take it off. There's no actor, or prima donna, who would put up with as many costume changes as we do. Our lives revolve around zips and velcro.
At around 7.00 in the evening we go back to our caribou hide. The only improvement in the weather is that it is no longer raining. The wind has got stronger, and cuts through everything; it blows away our sense of humour, dampens our spirits, and, whistling cheerfully, freezes any exposed parts of the body. On my tent the slack guy-ropes are flapping, and any small article of clothing, if dropped, will land many feet away. Before we set out I have to perform a short-distance sprint to retrieve my cap. Even when zipped up, the tents are draughty, and there is not one place in the whole of our desperate camp that is dry and draught-free.
We are definitely not normal. Instead of waiting for the weather to improve, in the relative comfort of our sleeping-bags, we are out and about, shivering.
We are sitting on our hill. There's not much to talk about, so we tighten our hoods and stare into the landscape. The strong, icy, polar wind continues to blow. The hours pass, but darkness does not come. The incessant daylight is difficult to get used to. At 9.00 Randy suggests making some hot cocoa. I readily agree; this has been his best idea so far today. At least we're doing
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something. The little stove is taken out; the water boils and the drinks are made. The cocoa loosens our tongues, and Randy begins talking about his home. He lives in Billings, Montana. He is very pleased when he hears that I am soon coming to his town, to go hunting nearby. He'll be home by then, but unfortunately I won't have the time to meet up. I'll only be in Billings for a maximum of two days.
We drink our cocoa, talk and freeze our butts off.
The warming effect of the cocoa does not last for long. By 10.00 we decide to call it a day, and, slowly, I start to repack my rucksack. Since the near-loss of my Swarovski, I now check my resting places very thoroughly before leaving. Otherwise the problems of sending back my luggage and clothes would be soon solved when I have lost everything I carry. Whoever follows in my footsteps won't need to bring a thing: by keeping his eyes open, and occasionally bending down, he will soon own all the hunting equipment he could possibly need. For safety's sake, Randy makes one last check with the spotting scope...
- Oh Yeah!
Here come the stags!
And not just one! They're all following on each other's heels!
This is what the experts say: there are either none in the area, or so many that you're bumping into them. Picking the right one is going to be difficult; there are lots of them, coming up both river banks, and the spective has to move all over the place. I can't look anymore; they're too far away for ordinary binoculars, so it's better that I get ready to move off quickly. I put on my rucksack and look at Randy, waiting for his instructions. He must make a decision quickly. The caribou are about 3/4 mile away and approaching fast. Randy assesses the situation in a moment and gives me the options.
The largest and most impressive stag is on the other side of the river; there are two on our side, but they are much smaller. In order to get to the big stag we'll have to cross the river, which is fast-flowing, waist-deep and almost freezing. If that's what I choose, we must set off immediately, and if I am successful we will have to return straight away to the camp to change our clothes, and come back for the trophy and carcass later. The other option is that I settle for one of the smaller ones; then we'll only have to walk a couple of hundred feet to find a suitable place to shoot from, as their route will take them right past us. The wind is not favorable as it's blowing towards them, but we're not worried. On our way back from our first outing today, with the wind behind us, a cow almost bumped into us, so unconcerned was she about our scent. Perhaps they've never come across the smell of humans before.
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I must decide. Right now!
I choose to cross the river. It's not going to be easy, that's for sure. Just the sight of the rolling waters makes me start to shiver. If this doesn't give me pneumonia, then nothing will - especially as I don't have many dry clothes left. We can't make a fire as there's nothing to burn; the nearest tree is several hundred miles away. We talk it over with lightening speed, as we race towards the river's icy embrace.
Nearing the riverbank Randy throws himself on the ground, breaking his fall with his pack. He looks through his binoculars one last time, to make sure our crossing is not going to be a waste of time... but then he spots an even bigger stag approaching on this side of the river! We weren't able to see it from our previous position, as it was hidden behind a hill. It's only 600 ft away and is running in front of the herd. I quickly take out my gun; rucksack on the ground; earmuffs on!
Randy is already in position, ready to fire, wearing his Peltor earmuffs. Meanwhile, I switch on my gunsight. In a monotone chant Randy gives me the herd's position; I change the magnification; I'm on target; they are right in front of us, but I can't see the stag clearly... now it comes jogging into the reticle and the laser is on it; 450 ft! There are four cows around him; we can't shoot! They get nearer; I can only see his antlers... but, oh, what beautiful antlers! They spot us, but don't turn around, just start running in a different direction. They want to pass between us and the river.
Lying on my pack, I follow the stag with my gun-sight; he's still running, always hidden by a couple of cows; I can't alter my shooting position any further as Randy is lying on my left, and I'd bump into him. We tug at our packs, and both turn together; but I've lost sight of the target. Once more my gun is at my shoulder; I can make out the stag, but it's still blocked; I have to adjust the pack again. I put down the gun, and we turn further to the left, still lying; something cuts into my palm; I'm looking through the reticle, searching for the stag... we're going to lose it, they're moving away!!! Randy makes the call of a cow... the stag slows down, and so does the rest of the herd; I'm back on target... but only for a second; the pause in their run didn't give me enough time to shoot. The stag finally realises what's going on, and starts moving at full speed; there is a cow pacing him, but only a foot behind, and right in my line of fire. Now I'm looking at the herd, not sideways on, but at a slant from behind; Randy is cursing, there's no clear target, nothing to aim at, and the cow is constantly hiding him... I'm aiming just in front of him, as there's nothing else I can do, and touch the sensitive trigger... bang...
- OOOHHH, YEAH! Very good shot! Very, very good shot! Awesome! Good shot, congratulations!
That was the most difficult shot of my life.
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A magnificent caribou stag is lying on the cold lichen of the tundra, the wind blowing through its antlers.
Randy is slapping me on the shoulder and congratulating me again and again. I'm grinning away, but I keep my eye on the target: you can never be absolutely sure. But it's definitely ours; this stag will come home with us. Slowly, I begin to relax and take a final reading with the laser: it is exactly 390 ft.
Before going over to the stag, I study all the details of the terrain; I will certainly never take another shot like this in my life. If there is such a thing as a once-in-a-lifetime experience, then this was mine. I don't know which makes me happier; the shot, or the trophy that I shall have.
Randy and I both agree that because of the cow that blocked my line of fire, there was probably not more than 12-16 ins of the stag visible for me to shoot at. In practice, however, it was even smaller as I had to shoot at an angle, not straight on, from the side, and all the time I was lying on the ground, tangled up with rucksack straps and having to push aside a thin, little bush with the gun barrel.
Gradually my feeling of exhilaration gets stronger and stronger. I'm much more pleased with this caribou than I was about the Dall sheep the day before yesterday. Everything has worked out perfectly. Randy and I operated in complete harmony, as if we'd been hunting together forever.
We both recognised the difficulties of that shot, and came to the same solution at the same time, when we turned to the left. We didn't have to discuss, or explain, anything. If Randy's assessment of the situation hadn't been so accurate, the shot couldn't have taken place.
The trophy is nicely curved, and well above average; any hunter would be pleased with it. For my first caribou it is unbelievable! I stand and admire the antlers, and touch the grainy branches; my thoughts are racing. Randy starts taking the inevitable photographs, but, like a film in my mind, I just can't stop re-running the moments leading up to the shot. There's hardly any need for a video camera: these pictures will never be erased from my mind. The bullet entered its left side, lengthwise, through the ribs, crossing the body at an angle and causing immediate death. The entry-hole is huge, caused by the bullet's expansion on contact; the SST polymer tip worked well.
We can't see an exit-hole. The bullet finally went through the first rib on the right side, and is probably stuck somewhere under the skin. It is unfortunate that we can't find the remains of the bullet, as I want to examine how much this Hornady Interlock SST has altered shape, and how much is left. That it is an outstanding bullet is beyond dispute: it produced first-class killing-power.
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It managed to pierce a Dall sheep from 1000 ft, though, then, it did not actually hit any bones.
It's a strange feeling holding tha antlers, touching the warm grain. They feel lighter than similar-sized ones from a hind, as if they were less dense. But it's possible that the difference in weight is caused by incomplete growth. I turn the head, still admiring this unusually-shaped ornament, as Randy gets down to work. Even I know that, in Alaska, the real work only starts after the successful shot. Luckily, we are quite near the camp, so we don't have far to carry it.
Randy doesn't bother to gut it. He begins to remove the meat, but leaves the internal organs untouched. Apart from the limbs, it is the neck, back and rib-muscles that give the meat, and we conscientiously gather every last shred into a bag. I want the trophy prepared without the skull, so, using a bone-saw, we cut them off at the stem. It's getting chilly, and I'm surprised that the hands of my excellent guide are not getting cold as he works. He also uses a pocket knife for the
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cutting, and when he has finished he even washes his hands in an icy pool nearby. He takes the antlers and some of the meat, and the rest is tied to my pack as we start the short but exhausting journey back to camp over the uneven ground. Our boots squelch.
Two hunters walking through the Alaskan night, with heavy bags on their shoulders, but light hearts because of their success..
Hunting Base Camp
Kavik "Hilton"