We finally set out at 11.00 am. The rain has stopped - for the moment, anyway - so there are no longer any excuses for lazing about.
We load up.
We all go off in the same direction. Guides and hunters, carrying bows and guns, setting out to track down the caribou. We don't have to walk far, as, just a few hundred feet from the camp, we spot our first deer. I can tell that Jake is the most experienced hunter among us, and that includes our guides. He is the first to spot the bulls, and quickly assesses them. I am starting to rely on him, as Pat is still not very talkative. I'm glad that I'm hunting with the archers. In the hunting world Jake's name is famous; it took him just six months to complete the Grand Slam of American ram hunters, and not using a gun, either. That entails the bagging of four different rams
... Ricardo is also not quite your average hunter; right now, he is considered to be the second most successful archer in the world. His name is linked with several world records, and he has over a hundred trophies that are rated up in the top ten category of game. I consider myself very privileged to be hunting with them.
We walk for nearly a mile, staring at the horizon, frequently using our binoculars, and putting up with the weather. It has become very cold, and the wind is getting stronger. We wade through marshes, praying, with each step, that we won't sink in. We cross a shallow little lake, climb up a hill, but still can't see any big bulls. I can see bushes growing about three feet high, but that seems to be the total extent of the jungle in this desolate landscape.
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We stop to think. Shall we go on together, or try our luck seperately? Shall we turn right, towards White Wolf Lake, or go left? We agree to go our seperate ways.
Pat and I head back to the camp. Almost two hours after setting out we are back among the tents. The bear alarm is going as we arrive. Pat stops me going any further, and looks for signs of a bear. It finally turns out to be a false alarm. Somehow, the wind has damaged the wires, which has broken the circuit, and that is what set it off. We change our clothes once more, have a bite to eat, and then we are off again. We will be stalking all day, as the wind is stopping us from going on the lake. Pat even has a machine to measure windspeed, which is registering 18.5mph.
There are big waves on the Wolf again.
The two of us set off towards a small hill.
On the summit we start our interminable scans with the binoculars and spotting scope. We don't speak at all. We are no longer pals; our friendship has degenerated to a rather chilly working relationship.
Among the numerous caribou I suddenly spot a bull that looks quite big. I suggest stalking it.
We approach it, sneaking up, crouched down in the bushes. The wind is not favorable for us, but I've stopped worrying. We are now watching two bulls, as one of his friends has turned up. Both are strong, shootable specimens; it's up to me which I want to bag. But... the bulls have noticed something ... uh-oh ...with a couple of leaps they disappear from sight. When I next see them, the laser shows a distance of over 2000ft. Pat is seething with rage; he thinks the bulls spotted me.
Why he thinks they saw me, and not him, I can't imagine. I was never more than 12ft. behind him, and I always did just what he did. I really can not understand why he's so irritated. I think if anyone should be irritable, it should be me. However, I feel quite relaxed; we are bound to find another bull.
The general mood does not improve.
He won't tell me what strategy to use and when, and I am not a mind-reader. He says almost nothing, and when he does, I can't make out a word of it. When I tell him, I haven't understood what he said, he merely repeats it again, in exactly the same words. Now, I'm not particulary anxious to talk either, and the next time that we use our binoculars, I sit down several feet away from him. This is not going to work. If Ricardo is successful today, his guide will be available, and I'll ask if I can go with him.
We go on.
It is getting colder and colder, and I am enjoying the hunt less and less. I cannot get on with this man. What I'd really like to do, is go back to the camp and come back later with the other guide. I can't come up with an ideal solution, but the current state of affairs is no good for me.
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I am simmering away when, in front of me, Pat suddenly stiffens. I creep up closer, but I can't see anything from here, apart from the side of some damned ditch. I crawl up beside him... bulls!
There are many cows in the herd, along with two, big, strong bulls.
One is on the left side, with huge antlers, though they don't have many branches. The other, on the right, has smaller antlers, but the shape of the branches more than compensates for their reduced size.
As I already have a trophy of large antlers, I pick the second one.
I must shoot quickly because, as they graze, they are moving farther and farther away, and caribou can move quite fast, even when they are eating. I sit down and rest my elbows on my knees; I aim with the laser... 12ft.! Something is in the way... I crawl nearer. The ground is clear here, with no obstructions to my shot; the laser is on it... 495ft. Perfect. It's a shame I can't fire.
Although the bull is at the correct angle, there are two cows blocking the whole target area. They all begin to move, and now I can only see its rear; they continue in the same direction. Slowly they move away, occasionally glancing around.
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Suddenly, they stop again. Even though the two cows have got out of the way, there is still nothing to shoot at as the bull's rear is all I can see. He might turn at any minute, so I keep the sight on him ... meanwhile, I measure the distance... exactly 600ft. Now it's turning; now it's in the cross hairs - there won't be a better opportunity than this.
My caribou hunt is over.
The shot hits him close to the heart, but he is still alive when we get there.
I put him out of his misery with a single shot; I don't like to watch an animal dying.
I've now shot my second caribou here, which is the third bull I've shot during my whole trip. My Canadian trip has been a 100% success; I've shot everything I intended to!
I'm overwhelmed by feelings of satisfaction and achievement. It will all make a nice little caribou collection when I get home! But, even more important to me, every shot I've taken during my expedition has been a memorable one.
Pat starts cutting up the carcass. He asks me to go to the top of the hill with my gun, and keep watch through my binoculars. He's worried about the grizzly which has been roaming around the neighborhood for days. Hunters rarely incur fatal, or even serious, bear attacks as they always have their guns with them. But cutting up the game is a dangerous time because then the hunter is concentrating on his task, often with his gun out of reach, giving the grizzly an advantage. I can't remember the exact percentage that Pat quoted, but the majority of fatal attacks occur during this time. I am doing my best, when, after ten minutes of keeping watch, I spot ... the archers! They must have heard my shot, as they are heading right towards us, probably to check out the result. I come down off the hill to meet them, and none too soon, as it was very cold up there. On the top of the hill there's no protection from the wind or the rain, which has just started falling again.
Pat doesn't have much to do; the shots have damaged a lot of the meat, and the unusable parts will just be left here. He finds the bullet recovered and unexpectedly throws it over to me. He takes me by surprise; I try to catch it, but miss. This little scene perfectly sums up the incompatibility between us. Our whole relationship has been defined by mutual incomprehension, talking at, rather than to, each other, along with constant misunderstandings. I have to rummage around in the moss before I manage to find it. The Interlock ring has prevented the bullet from disintegration, but it got separated. This fragment might have come from my mercy-shot, which I took quite close up, and maybe the lead came off because of the bullet's high speed. The killing-power of the bullet is unquestionable, but I need further experience with it, before I can judge the stability of its lead core accurately.
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The archers are true sportsmen. They each praise my trophy without a trace of envy, and give me lengthy handshakes. Jake, the expert, explains the growth patterns on the antlers. It's really good that these two globe-trotting hunters are here to share my joy in my lovely bull.
Meanwhile, Pat puts the meat into a bag, but I must carry the trophy. I toss the head onto my rucksack, balancing it with both hands, and Pat carries the bag. We both set off home. The archers decide to stay and wander around the neighborhood: we arrange to meet again on the top of yet another hill. But, by the time Pat and I get to the summit, we feel almost crippled. For Pat, especially, the situation is hard, as he is carrying the greater weight. We decide to leave our bags on the top and he will come and collect them with the ATV. I must keep going with my trophy as, if I leave it, the grizzly might damage it. Good old Pat! Despite our personal differences, he still showed me where to find the best bulls in the NWT. That's the most important thing.
Once back at camp we turn up the oil stove to full blast. Its iron frame starts to glow. We got back just in time, as a huge windstorm, such as I have never seen during this whole trip, is approaching. Hopefully the wind will not blow this patchwork camp away. And the rain pours down. Soon the archers' guide arrives, bringing my now sodden bag, which I left on the top of the hill.
Everyone begins drying out their things; the air in the barracks starts to get very muggy...
In the pleasant warmth of the tent, its inmates go about their favorite occupations.
Jake is dozing, and Ricardo and I are fiddling with our computers. This peaceful scene is interrupted by one of the guides suddenly rushing in, almost knocking the door off its hinges.
- Bulls! There are two bulls right next to the camp! Quick! - he yells.
Ricardo - because this message is for him - is still fully dressed; he has only to put on his boots, grab his bow, and run out into the storm. I'm not so lucky; I'm sitting at the only desk in the tent in my underwear. I put on a jacket and run out after them. Ricardo stops to take a quick look through his binoculars ... there are indeed two bulls, and only 600ft. away! And how good they look! He still has one permit left, and really ought to convert it into a trophy! I'm able to watch what's going on for a few moments, but then I have to go back to get dressed, as in a few more seconds I'd freeze to death. I get dressed in a flash, and run back outside. Ricardo and his guide have disappeared into the undergrowth. They must be crawling on their stomachs, otherwise we would be able to see them. Even Jake can't tell where they are: the camouflage clohing is impossible to spot. But we can, however, see the two bulls, and the two hunters must be heading towards them. But... now a third bull has arrived...
Time to concentrate; the wind is so strong that I can hardly hold the Swaro steadily to my eye. It's
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difficult to see anything in these conditions.
Jake spots the hunters walking back, and goes to meet them. He points at the third bull, the new arrival. I can follow the conversation through my binoculars; they are using theirs to examine the bull ... it's no good, they don't want him.
In just a couple of minutes they are back at the camp. Ricardo missed his target. He shot from 150ft. away, which is the maximum range for a bow. He says he took the wind into account, and corrected his aim accordingly, but, over this short distance, a sudden gust drove the arrow 15ft.
off course. That type of arrow is not suitable for these conditions, it is too light, he explains. He demonstrates this by throwing an arrow up into the air: it falls 15ft. away. None of us expected such strong winds.
After this adventure, the residents of White Wolf Lake Caribou Camp retire for the night.
White Wolf Lake
Caribou Camp