I know that I have already mentioned how large the American North is several times, but, from time to time, I shall return to the subject as the distances up here are quite astonishing. For someone from Hungary it is almost impossible to comprehend how large these vast, almost uninhabited wastes really are. Back in Hungary, if I started by car from Budapest, I could reach even the most distant little village within a maximum of three hours, even keeping to the speed limit. But here we can fly by float-plane for an hour, and, looking at the map, we appear to have hardly moved. I can't understand how those people managed to cover such huge distances on foot during the gold-rush.
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The lonliness and isolation out here make me feel very strange. I don't feel bad, I just find it hard to come to grips with the fact that the nearest trace of civilization is several hundred miles away.
I've never experienced anything like it. Nowadays such isolation holds little danger for hunters, though it is nevertheless a long flight to the nearest hospital, and these can easily be disrupted by bad weather. But what can those first pioneers have felt, walking for years to get here, and knowing that, just to find the nearest hotel, they would have to walk all the way back? How did Robert Falcon Scott and his team, setting out to explore the Antarctic, cope with the thought that, should they get into trouble - which they did - there was no help available whatsoever? What were Neil Armstrong's thoughts as the Eagle began its descent to the lunar surface, knowing that NASA - despite the almost obligatory optimism - only gave him and Buzz Aldrin a 50% chance of a successful lift-off from the moon? How will those heroes who, in the forseeable future of the next 2 - 3 decades, making a journey of 34.5 million miles to Mars, avoid the possibility of going insane?
To be an explorer requires a discipline and strength of spirit that few people possess.
But let's have a look at exactly what the term "North" means here.
The territory of Alaska, as I've said before, covers more or less 580,000 sq. miles. To this we can add the province of Yukon as, though the border is visible on the map, in the wilderness it doesn't exist. This gives another 186,500 sq.miles. Continuing east we come to the NWT, with its 533,000 sq. miles, and then Nunavut with a further 772,000 sq. miles. We have now reached the figure of 2 million sq. miles, an area that is 58 times the size of Hungary. And in this we have been very strict, not including the more southerly Canadian provinces, which are also not well known for being small places.
And how many people live in this vast area?
Alaska has the largest population: 626,000. Yukon has 30,800. The NWT has 41,000. Nunavut: 27,000. This gives the North a population of 724,800! That's less than half the population of Budapest!
These people live their lives in a way quite unfamiliar to us in Hungary. The state is unable to, and has no intention of, individually helping each inhabitant. The saying "God helps those who help themselves" could well have originated here. It is true to say that all the people I've met up here are very adept at solving their own problems. There is no such thing as a lost cause for them; and this attitude is not a special virtue, but a part of their everyday life. They have no choice in the matter. Whatever problems arise in these desolate places, they must cope with them on their own. When help is needed, they don't stand around moaning, waiting for the problem to solve itself, but, instead, turn to their community. And the community always helps those who need it. If someone gets lost in the wilderness, then the entire community will be out
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trying to find them. The feeling of solidarity is very strong, and almost instinctive: they couldn't imagine their lives any other way.
Some might consider them to be unfriendly, living in isolated groups, where strangers are unwelcome. Well, that is simply not true. I can personally say that since I have been here I have met nobody who is not friendly and open. If you ask anyone a question, the first thing they'll do, before replying, is to give you a smile. If you need to ask directions, take care! They will give you such accurate, clear and detailed information that you won't have the time to wait for them to finish.
Breakfast was very big, which meant that I was in a good mood to start the day. Pat fried up a lot of eggs and bacon, and, as well as that, I had some tinned fruit, muesli, and bread and jam, all washed down with several liters of orange juice and cocoa.
The role of the man who damaged the bow has now come to light: he is a guide and, what's more, he is the archers' guide. The three of them get into a boat, together with a young man who is the guide's son. Why he is here, is still a mystery. Our rucksacks are placed in another boat, each one containing our lunches, which in my case is only two sandwiches I made myself. If I just have a good breakfast, I can keep going all day.
The boats set off onto White Wolf Lake.
Pat and I are in front, and the archers follow behind in our wake. This Wolf is meandering and shallow, with several inlets running off. Up until now I've mistakenly held the belief that if a lake is big, it must also be deep. In the case of the Wolf, it is certainly not true; on several occasions we had to raise the engine to prevent it hitting the rocks on the bottom. Diving in head first would definitely not be advisable here, and not just because of the low temperature.
Our plan is to sail up and down the lake, and if we spot a bull mature enough to shoot, to go ashore and start the hunt. We shall go ashore at certain times, even if we haven't seen anything, and do a bit of stalking.
A simple enough plan, and not too difficult to grasp.
We have been sailing for an hour, and have spotted lots of caribou, both nearby and far off, some are even lying down on the shore. They are sunbathing, enjoying the brief summer. We have only seen a few bulls, but they were weak, puny specimens. Both boats are moored together on the shore, and we all climb up a 30ft. hill and start looking through our sights. I load my gun even though we have only gone 150ft. from the boats. Out here it really feels like the Wild West: nobody makes a move without their gun. Everyone is worried about bears, which is why we
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always carry them. But, I've now been told not to load my gun with ball-cartridges, even when ashore, to prevent accidents. In vain do I explain to Pat how the. R93 works, that I can keep ammunition in the barrel without the needle-spring being stretched. It doesn't matter: he won't let me. Perhaps he has not heard of that well-known fact that if you are carrying a gun for self-protection, and it isn't loaded, then there's no point in having it. Those people who have arrived at this conclusion are better-known in the gun world than this Canadian guide. Still, I don't feel that I am particularly in danger; I would have been quite happy to leave my gun in the boat. But there's absolutely no point in having to carry it about everywhere, while being forbidden to load it. So, the most I could do with it is to use it as a club. When we are in the boat even the magazine must be empty, just in case the blazer loads, cocks and fires itself. These are the three steps required before the bullet can fly down the barrel. Perhaps, when I'm back in Hungary, I shall suggest to police and soldiers that they try going into action with unloaded guns. Then, when they've seen the target, they should ask their commander for permission to load, and beg the enemy to be patient until they're ready.
There have been times in my life when I have not handled a gun correctly. Once, I leaned one against a tree, ready cocked, because I was so pleased with what I had just shot, that I completely forgot the basic rules of safety. There could have been a tragedy, but fortunately there wasn't. Somebody was very alert and warned me. This had two results: one, it ruined my day. I'd never have believed I could do something like that. I've always thought of myself as a gun-loving man, who uses them frequently and carefully. The second was that I have trained myself to carry out a certain action obsessively, several dozen times during a hunt. I touch the safety catch, constantly checking its position. So I am checking my gun, not only on the usual occasions, but almost all the time.
I regret to say that there are some hunt organizers and guides who are reluctant to take firm action against irresponsible hunters, and who fail to enforce proper security measures. I have personally witnessed several such cases. I read every Hungarian hunting magazine, and once saw an article asking why we are reluctant to criticize our more famous colleagues, if we see them violating the rules.
It's impossible to over-emphasize the rules of gun safety. However, I can't stand the type who constantly devises new rules, just to prove his expertise. I once came across a man of such great experience that he even warned me against pointing the empty barrel that had been taken off the blaser. (I hadn't actually done that, but he didn't care). He might as well have told me not to point
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the cartridge I'm holding in my hand at him, in case it goes off. But, I don't want to argue with Pat, as this is his home territory, and it's all his responsibility; and anyway, I don't argue over trivia. It's just that the constant loading and unloading of the magazine is tiresome, and is not good for the ammunition, either.
The spotting-scope is produced and the six of us use it to look in seven different directions.
Without doubt, there are a lot of caribou. The only cause for concern is that, knowing their behaviour, it's not certain that they will be here tomorrow. It also means that there might be ten times the amount. We talk a lot about what shape of antler each of us would like to take home.
Everyone's ideal varies. Some prefer them smaller, but broader, while others want them larger, even if they don't have so many branches. Personally, I'm not really fussy which group my prospective caribou falls into. I tell Pat that whatever bull he chooses, if he says it's a beauty, and shootable, that's good enough for me. But, even so, if I do have a choice, I will go for the one with the bigger antlers; the number of branches is less important. I judge my trophies according to Hungarian hunting values, which say that size and weight are preferable. It's worth mentioning that Hungarian deer do not have such a wide variety of antlers as caribou.
While I'm on the subject, I'd like to talk about the way the locals use particular words.
In English, just as in Hungarian, the words horn and antler are both used differently, but here everything is referred to as a horn. If they spot an animal with anything growing on its head, they'll talk about its horns. All my guides in Alaska, and most of the American hunters that I've met, use this term. I've no idea why. When I ask them, they can all explain the difference between horns and antlers, and afterwards use the terms quite correctly.
We return to the boats: the stalk will continue on water. The sun is shining brightly, it's getting warmer and warmer, and even the wind has dropped a bit. We are quietly gliding over the water on a low throttle, parallel to the shore; at each inlet we slow right down. Suddenly, we spot a cow on the shore. This, in itself, is not very extraordinary, as we have already seen several since we set out; to myself, I have even named the area the "Hunting Park". But, just 150ft. from the cow, is a huge pair of horns - I should say antlers - sticking out of a thicket. It's as if there is a solitary trophy mounted on the top of the bushes; nothing can be seen of the head, or any other part of the animal.
There is a bull lying in the undergrowth.
It is very close, and promises to be an easy stalk and shot, just right for the archers. They have already begun the necessary maneuvers, and are approaching the shore. We make an about-turn, and steer the prow of our boat towards the nearby opposite shore. We want to moor there so that we can observe the archers' technique through our binoculars and cameras. We are just
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setting up our equipment when we see that the bull has stood up, and, at a leisurely pace, is walking out of range of the archers, who are about 300ft. away from it. Perhaps it has seen them.
It would be an easy shot with a gun, but it's an impossible distance for an arrow. For an archer there is no such thing as an easy bag. We jump back in the boat: now it's time for the guns! The caribou has escaped the archers, so we try to intercept it. We reach a hill, where we wait for the bull to pass in front of us. We look around, staring; it's nowhere to be seen.
It has got away.
We decide not to return to the archers, which must be a relief to them. The methods and requirements for their type of hunting are so different from those of gun-users, that a joint hunt is virtually impossible.
We are sailing and sunbathing.
No stress.
Shootable bulls appear in front of us, one after the other. We watch and appraise them through the spotting-scope and binoculars. None of them are absolutely outstanding, but each is beatiful, a worthy example of its species. I can't decide on any of them, and Pat does not urge me to do so. This is only our first day, so we still have time. We agree that the first one should be a so-called "safety" caribou. I am not insisting on a royal stag. If I get my "safety" caribou, at least I shan't leave Canada empty-handed. Once I've done that there will still be enough time for a second one on my final day.
We moor the boat on the shore, climb up a small hill, and, sitting at the base of a boulder, get out our grub.
The weather is so pleasantly warm that I feel like taking a nap. As we eat we hardly speak, preferring to look through our binoculars; beneath us, the cows trot past our hill. Taking our time, we make our way back to the boats, where I start to have terrible misgivings.
I'm not carrying my permit. I've left it behind in the camp.
I check all my pockets, but I can't find it. I give Pat the bad news. The thing is, unfortunately, that the hunter must have the permit on his person at all times during the hunt, and, also, must attach the aluminum tag on the stag's antlers immediately after the kill. We can be checked on at any time, and the authorities have both planes and helicopters with which to do it. It's not worth taking the risk: the permit is not valid unless the hunter has it on his person, and breaking this rule can result in being banned from hunting in Canada for years.
That is the law.
The gun itself is not a problem as everyone here walks around with one. The mere fact that I am carrying a blaser does not make me a hunter, that is, I don't need a permit. There's no time to go back to the camp: it would mean travelling 8 miles by boat, so I will have to spend today just
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looking.
I honestly can not understand how I keep forgetting about that damned permit. It's not as if we have to go through some complicated, multi-level, illogical, bureaucratic process every morning before we set out, during which I could easily forget one part. The process we must go through has only a single element: put the permit in your pocket. (Or rather, never take it out.) Despite all this, I have forgotten it again, just as I did in Alaska, and in doing so have created a problem for myself and for Pat.
We sail into one of the bays. To our right, on the shore, a stag appears, bearing a beautiful set of broad, very impressive antlers. I'm drooling as I watch it. Of course, such a magnificent animal would only turn up when I'm not allowed to shoot it.
Pat is merciful, and we make a deal.
I can shoot at the bull, but if there are any problems, he will deny knowing that I wasn't carrying my permit. I give a big sigh of relief, let's go!
The bull stands thinking for a moment, and then leaps into the water. He's going to swim to the opposite shore, right in front of us. We can't shoot it in the water, and, anyway, what kind of sportsman would want to? Using the engine, Pat turns the boat through 90 degrees, and then, at full throttle, we head to the shore, travelling parallel to the swimming stag. The important question is: who will get there first?
We do!
I jump out of the boat, loading my blaser at the same time. There's a small hill in front of us; even though we can't yet see it, the bull will have to come up here. Pat sends me on ahead; I must run as if I've been fired from a cannon, or the bull will escape! I finally finish loading and rush up the side of the hill, desperately looking for safe footholds among the small shrubs. I reach the top of the hill at exactly the same time as the bull, which is about 240ft away from me!
We have been racing each other!
He has made up for his swimming handicap in a matter of seconds!
By the time I have slowed down and taken the gun off my shoulder, he is far away!
There's no time for earmuffs; gun to the shoulder; I'm on target... The caribou is running like the wind, but I can still see it in the reticle... I aim well in front of it... Bang!
Just above it to the front; there's a puff of dust from a rock; I quickly fire again... I got it, but what's going on now? It hasn't collapsed and there's no definite sign of a hit, except that the altered rhythm of its steps shows that it has been shot. I shoot again, but I needn't have bothered as all I can see now is its rear disappearing away, and, of course, I miss. But now it suddenly stops... My magazine is empty, as I had only loaded three bullets, and I had no time to put one in the barrel.
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Finally, I manage to stuff two bullets in the magazine. The bull is now standing side-on to me. I want to fire, but Pat - who, in the meanwhile, has caught up with me - won't allow it. The bull's head constantly droops to the side away from us, and Pat is worried that if the bullet passes right through the body, it could hit the antlers and damage them. I watch it through the riflescope; I can't see any evidence of a wound, although I'm looking at the side that - if all is correct - must be the side that I hit. I can see that blood is dripping, quite heavily, from its other flank, but where is the entry wound? Eventually, the bull stares ahead, the target is clear; I hit it in the shoulder and it collapses.
I'm very curious to examine it.
I take a look: I've never seen anything like this before. My second shot, taken as I was running, hits its eye socket, which is why I couldn't see an entry wound on the body.
Bizarre.
When a bullet hits the eye socket, it should cause death instantly, as the brain lies right behind it.
can hardly believe that a bullet from this gun would not be powerful enough to reach the brain cavity.
What could have happened?
I stare at the wound trying to unravel the mystery. Behind the wound is an easily-seen strip of missing hair.
I'm not a crime scene investigator, nor yet a criminologist or pathologist, but this strip must have been caused, if not by the whole bullet, at least by a part of it. I imagine that, at the very moment of the shot, the bull turned its head so that the bullet, instead of hitting straight on, hit the eye socket from behind, and in doing so scraped away that line of hair. I can't think of any other explanation; all the evidence supports it. This type of bullet is very fast, so I don't need to aim too far in front over a distance of 240ft.
This is the fifth game I've shot, and not one of them has been similar to the type of shot I'm used to taking at home. A well-supported gun, an ideal distance, a stationary animal, enough time for a careful aim... in Hungary these usually all occur at the same time - during a hide hunt, or out stalking, for example - but here, never.
One or another of them is always missing. I shot the Dall sheep from 1000ft. and the Alaskan caribou by awkwardly wriggling about on my stomach. I fired at my first ox from 850ft. The second can't have been closer than 700ft. either, and I was on my stomach for that too; but, after all the previous shots, I was pleased to finally have such an easy one, under such pleasant conditions. And now there is this shot. I was only able to get my earmuffs on by the fourth bullet, and had no time to take off the life-vest, which is compulsory to wear in the boat.
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I have actually shot a stag, while wearing a life-vest!
I shan't forget it until the day I die.
Stalking in Hungary, even for wild boar, isn't so complicated, because there, it's not allowed to chase after the animal, or fire while you are on the move. If you did so, you would be banned from any further hunting immediately, and if that was the worst consequence of such behaviour, we would think that the sinner had got off quite lightly. I would like to emphasize that all of the shots I have taken while on my trip have been strictly in accordance with local laws and customs, and the ethics that apply over here. Not one of the people here considers me to be an adventurer, or an irresponsible hunter, who shoots randomly. Here this is the norm. Otherwise, you will never succeed!
Anyone who comes here must be prepared to do the same.
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He should accustom himself to these unfamiliar hunting situations, because, if he intends to return home with a trophy, he'll have no other choice.
My caribou has beautiful, broad antlers, and will definitely do as my "safety" caribou. The poor thing still has its velvet; according to Pat the stags will start rubbing it off over the next six weeks.
Though it is uncertain that all the stags will start to do it at the same time. Like everything else up here in the north, this is also unpredictable.
Pat cuts up the carcass, without gutting it, in exactly the same way that Randy did in Alaska. We put the meat into a backpack, I carry the head on my shoulders, holding it by the antlers, and we return to the boat.
We reach our camp after 6.00, and Pat orders me to produce the permit and tag the moment we get out of the boat. Remarkably, I find it at once - I'm quite surprised by this - and then we take the head to the tent used for storage. I'm no longer a poacher.
It's 7.00 already, and there's no sign on the horizon of the archers or their boat.
There is a very simple regulation: by 7.00 everyone must be back at the camp. Anyone who is not back by then will be declared missing by the camp commander - namely Pat - who will then start searching for them.
So, as it's 7.00, Pat decides to start the search. He leaves me alone in the camp. I've already mentioned that there's a Mossberg shotgun loaded with Brenneke slugs in our tent, and Pat now gives a precise explanation on the gun's use and its purpose.
This morning a huge grizzly was seen near the camp. Before leaving, we examined its tracks; I saw them myself. And we have now brought fresh, bloody meat into our storeroom. According to Pat, this is not an amusing combination.
If the grizzly comes into the camp, I must shoot it. Right away, without any thought or further consideration.
We do have bear -alarms. The storeroom is encircled by wires, which look like an electric fence.
If the bear breaks the wire, that breaks the circuit and the alarm goes off. If I hear the alarm, I must start shooting. He lets me decide which gun I want to use - the shotgun or the blaser - but he emphasizes one point: if the grizzly arrives, the worst thing I can do is to think about what's best to do. The only answer is in my hands and has the name Mossberg on it. He asks how and where I will spend my time while he's away. I will write up my diary on my netbook, as I do every day. He thinks that's a good idea, but I must have the gun leaning against the table. The tent entrance is not the right place to leave it. If the grizzly does arrive, the six feet to the tent entrance is exactly six feet more than I'll have time to cover. The gun is now here, on my right.