We fly up to the Arctic Circle in a little turbo-prop plane.
When I flew to Brooks Range I could see thousands of lakes beneath me, but on this flight I can see literally tens of thousands. You wouldn't be able to walk for 600 ft. in a straight line without falling into a lake. From what I can see, large expanses of water seem rare, most being no bigger than several acres.
It seems unkind to send such a small plane on such a long journey. It can't keep it up for long, and has to land at Coppermine to regain its strength (and to take on some fuel). I've never come across a more isolated place. The landing strip is compressed earth, covered with gravel, and the terminal building a precariously-built wooden hut. The washroom seems to be the only functioning communal institution; even the chocolate-vending machine is out of order. I haven't
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the faintest idea what the locals here can do for 365 days a year. Tranquillity is very pleasant, but this is too much of a good thing. When we, and the plane, have caught our breaths, we fly on.
Always heading north.
We are leaving the continent behind us. Below us, through the clear air, lies the blue sea, peppered with small white dots: the remains of icebergs sailing south towards their certain demise. We are flying over the Arctic Ocean! The pilot lets the plane drop lower and lower, and a desolate wasteland appears beneath us. The landscape has a wild, monotonous beauty, and seems to go on forever. It's the land of the Inuits - Victoria Island.
In most of the records of northern hunting expeditions the term Inuit and Eskimo are equally used, so I was initially unsure which applied to the local people. This might not sound important,
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but I feel that, if I am hunting on their land, even showing them the minimum of respect demands that I know how to address them correctly. I've taken the trouble to ensure I get it right. Lawrence Kaplan, the resident expert at the Native Linguistics Center of the University of Alaska, in Fairbanks, sums up the difference as follows:
"Although the name "Eskimo" is commonly used in Alaska to refer to all Inuit and Yupik people of the world, this name is considered derogatory in many other places because it was given by non-Inuit people and was said to mean "eater of raw meat." Linguists now believe that "Eskimo" is derived from an Ojibwa word meaning "to net snowshoes." However, the people of Canada and Greenland prefer other names. "Inuit," meaning "people," is used in most of Canada, and the language is called "Inuktitut" in eastern Canada although other local designations are used also.
The Inuit people of Greenland refer to themselves as "Greenlanders" or "Kalaallit" in their language, which they call "Greenlandic" or "Kalaallisut." Most Alaskans continue to accept the name "Eskimo," particularly because "Inuit" refers only to the Inupiat of northern Alaska, the Inuit of Canada, and the Kalaallit of Greenland, and is not a word in the Yupik languages of Alaska and Siberia. "
After all that, I think the safest thing to do is to ask, in person, what they call themselves, and stick to that.
Our run-down little plane lands at Holman, the center of the largest Inuit community on the island.
I'm met at the airport by some of Boyd's staff, two Inuits who live locally on the island. Greeting me is Jack Akhiatak, a small man, who with a wide grin, struggles to pronounce my name. He will be my guide on my musk ox hunt, as well as my instructor, advisor and nanny. I must have developed a slightly dubious reputation, as they've sent two people to look after me; the other is Isaac Inuktalik, a gentleman related to Jack in some incomprehensible way. Supposedly, everyone speaks English here, but it is an "English" of which I can barely catch, or understand, a word.
A taxi takes us to the town hall; at least, it is a building that looks like a town hall. This is where registration takes place, and it is swarming with hunters. The streets of Holman are dusty and covered with gravel. In dry weather each ATV - the no.1 vehicle for the summer; there are virtually no cars - creates a long, thick column of dust behind it. With its wooden houses, narrow streets and speeding ATVs, I'd compare it to a town in the old Wild West.. if we weren't so close to the North Pole. The weather is so good that I'm starting to get worried. According to my brief polar experience, good weather on this parallel does not usually have a happy ending. It could mean trouble. It is very hot, which baffles me, as I am much further north than I was Alaska.
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At the town hall after a lot of faxes, we receive our tags: aluminum bands that we are to attach to the horns of the musk ox that we bag. After the usual difficult beginning - no-one seems to realise that I've paid all these additional charges in advance - all the hunters get their ATVs. On the island this name is not used for these vehicles; they might be Yamahas, Hondas or Polarises, but all are referred to as hondas.
- " I'm getting the honda!" (and back he comes on a Yamaha). Just like the sherpas in Nepal, who call all trainers adidas. I doubt if you could find better PR anywhere in the world. In no time, Jack and I are firm friends. I once read that Inuits are a reserved people. They don't open up before strangers, and generally only converse with each other. They do their jobs well, but foreigners shouldn't expect much more from them.
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Well, that is simply not true.
I have not come across a happier, wittier and friendlier couple of people in a long time. Although we don't speak each other's languages - including English - we still laugh at each other's jokes; the atmosphere is excellent. All the hunters are standing around outside, shuffling their feet, looking for their guides and trying to learn their names. Each hunter will be taken to a different area, so that we don't disturb each other. The guides have a brief discussion together, as there is an overweight American in the group, who would find it difficult to stalk an animal over a prolonged period. They finally work out where it is possible to shoot musk ox from an ATV; sorry, a honda.
As in Alaska, driving regulations in Canada also forbid two people to ride on a honda together, because of the danger; but here necessity overrules the law. On the rack at the back of the vehicle they place a thick plank, and then put several layers of sponge on top: this is where I shall sit. I take my rucksack out of my yellow suitcase, and put various things into it; sitting on the ground, I first put on my boots, then other items of clothing and begin to look like a hunter. I have brought only the absolute necessities. We don't have much space, so we have to carefully consider everything we take. Thankfully, my gun can stay in its Peli 1750 case, which is a relief, as, according to the instructions I received from the outfitter, I should have brought a soft gun-case, to save room, because the hard cases demanded by airlines are "too bulky". Through my job at home I am quite familiar with insane ideas, but I haven't come across something as nonsensical as this for ages. How did it occur to them? Since leaving Budapest should I have constantly been checking-in a soft case on every flight as an extra piece of luggage? Or should I have folded it up into a suitcase, taking up 2/3 of the space? Or should I have been carrying it onto the plane as hand-baggage, using it to hold a change of clothes? But I don't care any more, as the Inuits are cleverer than their bosses, and there is still room for a hard case.
Jack's honda roars loudly as he drives us around; I can hardly hold on. As we go here and there , he introduces me to relatives, pals and acquaintances; I can't really work out who's who. We finally end up at his house and I meet the numerous children, and examine the preparations for the trip. We are leaving for the hunting grounds today; I shan't be spending the night in Holman, which makes up a little of my lost time.
We have to set up our camp on the hunting grounds today, which means that the whole day can be devoted to a successful hunt. All our equipment, and the inevitable camp paraphernalia, will not fit on to the two hondas, so we have to tie sleds behind them. The fact that it is now summer,
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and that consequently there is no snow, does not seem to bother anybody. The rope is attached to the tow-bar, and Jack - who considers himself a dead-ringer for Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean - gives a big grin, revs the engine and we whizz off. The metal runners of the sleds screech over the dry, gravelly ground. We leave Holman on a good, firm road. I agreed in advance with Jack that, because my seat is so unstable, he would drive slowly. We also discussed how each of us defined "slow". The result is, we are travelling between 20-30 mph; I enjoy watching the landscape, happy to be hunting again. Occasionally I glance back at the sled, and at poor Isaac's honda, which has to swallow all our dust.
We are racing along in the polar summer.
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Unfortunately, this regal life only lasts for 10 mins, and then we leave the road for a track. What follows is a bone-shaking, 3 hour journey sitting on the honda. We go along untrodden ways, through deserted, barren, completely isolated country, without a tree in sight. Sometimes we follow a faint path, but it is mainly Jack's memory that dictates our route. He laughs at the idea of a GPS: he grew up on this island, and it is impossible that he should not know where we are. We sink into the mud; climb up hills; ride over rocks; but, most of all, we shake. A lot. Although the honda's suspension is a bit softer because of all the extra weight, it is still no picnic. I don't envy this little Inuit; I know quite well how difficult it is to drive one of these machines. Colleague Isaac's machine, having only rear-wheel drive, gets stuck in one of the bogs. We go back to the stranded vehicle and unhitch the sled; that is the only way for it to get out of trouble. We have to stop three times for the engines to cool down, as the hondas are so overloaded. On one of these occasions, I notice another gun-case among the rucksacks. It's an old Tikka T3 rain gun, a .223
caliber Remington with a plastic stock, belonging to Jack. Actually, it's the property of Jack's lovely mother; the old lady goes hunting with it when she wants a goose for the cooking-pot. I've forgotten to mention that our ATV also belongs to her. This place must produce a lot of tough old ladies. On any afternoon they make a quick decision, hop on their hondas, and go off hunting.
Jack uses the Tikka not only for hunting birds, but as an all-round weapon; he also thinks it is perfect for hunting polar bears. He has shot six in his life - there are different laws for Inuits and foreigners - but not with this gun; on those occasions he used his own. That is a .22 caliber, which he felt was too small, and that was why he now uses his mother's... He looks at my .300
Winchester Magnum bullet with horror. He has never seen such a cannon, and he's sure it's not the right caliber. Its diameter is too large, he says, and it wil just make the meat disintegrate...
How these machines cope with this brutal usage, I can't imagine. There can not be a tougher test of strength than this. The manufactures should use this place as a testing-ground. We move on slowly, and eventually, in the late afternoon, we reach an area that has possibilities for musk ox.
Jack scans the land with his binoculars every 10 mins, studying the endless wilderness. At the moment, I can't work out what our hunting strategy will be, as there is absolutely no cover here at all.
Musk ox! - Jack points into the distance.
And indeed, there, far away on the horizon, six small dots are moving forward! Jack needs no encouragement, and we set off towards them. We head directly for them. We come to a small hill, which affords slight cover, but we need to get our hondas closer. The distance is at least a mile.
As we approach, they seem to become nervous, and move away a little; there's no point in
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forcing it, so we dismount. We start searching through the bags and the sleds; all my stuff is still packed up. It takes me at least 15 mins to find my gun-case key, get my bullets and ear muffs, and produce both cameras (still and video) from all the luggage. Nobody hurries me; they talk to each other calmly, and wait to see what gun I am going to use for the hunt.
I have to say that it is difficult to hunt musk ox in a sportsman-like way. Once a herd has been spotted, there is no way for them to escape. There's not one bush for them to hide behind, and they can't just disappear from the landscape. It is merely a matter of time before you get close enough to shoot.
For me it took 1 1/2 hrs.
The noise of the machines has disturbed them, and they run over some small rises. We are sure that we'll spot them from the next elevation, but it's just moss and stones that stare back at us. I can't understand what we are doing or hoping for; are we really going to try to run after them?
But Jack knows his job.
He tells me that a musk ox never runs far. When its momentary panic subsides, it will begin grazing again; it has no other choice. In order to maintain such a large body on the poor grass of the polar region it needs to eat non-stop. My guide knows all the nearby lakes, and which one they will go to to drink. We follow along trails, apparently stretching in front of us, but I can make out nothing but stones, moss and bare ground. Finally, after following for a couple of miles, we catch up with them. They are walking towards the lake, and all we can see are their rears. The Inuits haven't brought their binoculars, and in the rush I have forgotten mine too; but my guides don't need them. All they need is a few seconds to decide which animal will be the target. We can't see its horns, because of the angle we are at, but its dark hair, huge body and slow movements tell Jack that it is a mature male. I quickly take the gun from my shoulder, and set the laser, just to test it... 1800 ft. They are not very far, and are now moving even more slowly. But...
suddenly, one turns back... he can't have smelt us, as the wind is in our favor... he watches the horizon. We don't move a muscle, crouching on the open ground. The ox cannot see anything moving, relaxes, and then joins the others. We continue the stalk, slowly closing on the herd.
Stealthily, we are reducing the distance.
The wind blows constantly, never stopping. Its sound is now a familiar noise, part of the landscape. There is no polar region that has no wind. It may be hot or cold, or rainy or sunny, but there will always be a wind. I'm just starting to get used to it.
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The oxen reach the lake. They look around for a while, staring into the distance. We are now less than 600 ft away: we daren't go any closer. I get ready for the shot, and stretch out on the ground.
We aim the camera at the chosen ox, standing it on a rock sticking out of the ground. One last check, and I get the OK to fire.
I eye-up the target; it is standing sideways... 855 ft.
Too high!
A stone explodes in a cloud of dust! Big mistake!
I've missed an unmissable target in a completely inexplicable way! The Inuits begin shouting instructions; the herd is escaping to the left, and there's no time to start thinking about what went wrong... which one shall I go for? One says, the one on the left, the other says, the one on the right... not because they can't decide which, but because, in their excitement, they are mixing up their English words. It does not help me to calm down; we eventually decide to go for the one on the left, but by then it is far away...
The bullet whistles off from the Blaser!
It hits near the spine! Another shot at the jumping ox... I'm not quick enough: it hits a fleshy part.
I fire again... this time I'm on target, but the magazine clicks!
It's empty.
With shaking hands, I take out two more bullets from the cartridge case hanging from my rifle butt; I load them; I aim...
It's had it. This time it falls down. At least, that's what Jack says. I'm so nervous, I can't see it through my gunsight and I jerk the gun from left to right.
I keep asking, and for the fifth time they patiently reply: it's OK, it has been downed.
I am overwhelmed by a feeling of relief. I get up. Congratulations!
I've got my first musk ox! My first musk ox! Great joy; we slap each other on the back; it is difficult to say who is the happiest out of the three of us.
A quick camera adjustment, and we set off to the ox... Jesus, the size of this animal! The thick hair blows in the wind... Jack checks that it is really dead by tapping on its eyeball: there is no reflex. When I touch its woolly hair I can feel its warmth, as if heating elements were running through it. Musk ox need such insulation to survive the -60 to - 70F of their winter. As my excellent guide begins to remove the head, I start to analyze my failed shot.
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My biggest mistakes, the most inexplicable and bizarre, occurred at my favorite hunting ground in Hungary, a place near a town called Csákvár at the foot of Mt. Vértes.
As usual, I was out with Robi, a wonderful, professional hunter, in the hide code-named Nagy-tiszta Külső. Robi was leading the stalk, and, as we approached the hide, he indicated with a sharp gesture that a herd of wild boar were in the clearing. This was very unusual; it was nowhere near twilight, and, up until then, any self-respecting boar should be hiding in the undergrowth.
Traditionally, in Csákvár, there is a complete ban on hunting from the end of the season until the 15th April. This is how they protect the sows - the penalty for shooting one out of season, which is most of the year, is HUF 50,000 (US$200) - and the rest of the large game after the intensive hunting in winter. This six week ban is long enough for the boar to return to their normal routine and to start moving about during daylight.
As we are creeping, crawling and sneaking towards the hide, and the grazing herd, we are startled by the sound, on our left, of a roe deer scraping its antlers against a tree. Peering into the forest, we can see it less than 15 ft. away. It's a stalemate; we stare at it, and it stares at us; none of us quite know how to resolve the situation. Shooting it would not require any great skill - if it
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came to the worst, I could knock it down with my gun-stock - , but, firstly, I do not have the landowner's permission to shoot it, secondly, the young warrior only has rather under-developed antlers, and thirdly, we are here to shoot boar.
And I don't usually shoot bucks from 15 ft.
We daren't move as the boar can not be more than 240 ft. away, and alarming them would not be very productive. I'm beginning to feel that I might be standing here,motionless, until the end of the season; but Robi has had enough, and, very slowly, he starts to move. The buck begins to run, making a terrible racket. But, thankfully, the herd, still feeling quite safe, are not disturbed by the roe's din.
Down on one knee, I scan the clearing with the riflescope and try to get into a firing position in which the RWS Evo bullet, from my .30-06 ammunition , will not be affected for the first 60 ft. of its flight by the blades of grass. I find an opening in the grass; Robi points at a suitable young boar, and then it's up to me.
On firing the Remington 700 XCR, the medium-sized boar falls over, and doesn't move. Hooray!
For safety's sake I keep an eye on it through my sight, but this is being somewhat over-cautious.
We climb up into the hide and spend the next few mintes examining my new GPS.
The good thing about this hide is that, from it, we can watch two clearings. The nearer one is about 90 ft. away, and the further one no more than 210 ft. ; so none of the ever-vigilant guardians of hunting ethics can reprimand us magnum-carrying fighters for shooting at game from an unfair distance, something that is unworthy of a true hunter.
As we discuss the merits of my new toy, two young boar cautiously enter the nearer clearing. One is standing right in front of the other, exactly in my line of fire; it would be hard to miss it, and gives me the opportunity to perform the "two with one bullet" trick. Once again, it was a success, the single Evo knocking down both animals; but just to be certain, I fire off two more shots. Some hunters are rather sceptical about these stories of trick shots. I tend to believe everything I'm told, especially these reports of "two-with-one-bullet". If there are two young boar in a clearing, and you are prepared to wait, then, sooner or later, they will get into a position where such a shot is possible. I don't particularly consider it a great example of shooting virtuosity; you don't even need much luck. I have had two chances for this kind of shot, within a couple of months. I know for certain that an Evo bullet, fired from a .300 Winchester Magnum, or a .30-06, is capable of doing the job within a distance of 300 ft. if they are young animals. But I'm not entirely convinced that this technique is true to the spirit of hunting and the demands of fair play... if the latter expression can be used in connection with hunting, anyway. For me the most important thing is that I kill the game causing as little suffering as possible. If we truly understand our own
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capabilities, and those of the gun well enough to attempt the shot, and are satisfied with the position of the animals, then I don't see that such a shot would be considered unethical.
Especially considering the amount of damage that game has recently caused.
Problems only arise when we over-estimate our own abilities; something I was to do just a few minutes later...
We are both happy with my first shots, and a good day's hunting, but it isn't over yet. Despite the commotion caused by my four shots, a decrepit old fox ventures into the clearing to investigate the two dead boar.
Shoot it! - whispers Robi, and "White Barrel" roars.
Too high. Not by very much, but still too high.
I look at the gun, at Robi, and then back at the gun: I do not understand. How could I have managed to miss? I have hit much smaller targets from a far greater distance. To miss a fox from just 90 ft. ... that is