We just can't get the heating stove to work properly. It's either on full blast - which heats the room to 86 F. - or it doesn't work at all and we almost freeze. It doesn't seem to like any settings in between. Today I am going to examine exactly how it works as I don't want to wake up to the cold again.
This is the second night that Ricardo and I have been tortured by some unknown insect. Each of us has been bitten on the inside of the lower part of the arm by the little pest. Our symptoms are identical. It must be some sort of pervert insect, only being interested in the inside of the lower arm. I spray my sleeping bag with insect repellent; it might help.
Perhaps, eventually, we'll get fleas.
In the morning Jake hangs around the door, watching the horizon. The bulls are back, close to the camp, but Ricardo isn't interested. The wind is still strong, and he doesn't want to shoot at a difficult target in such weather. The weather - of which I write so much, it being a key factor of northern hunts - has, contrary to the forecasts, not improved. The night was supposed to be windy, which it was, but it was meant to die down by morning. (Unfortunately, this hasn't happened.) Ricardo is perfectly relaxed, even though he's the only one of us not to have got his second bull.
Chapter IV.: Caribou hunting in the Northwest Territories
Page 30
It's the 1st September!
Back in Hungary, the season starts today! I wonder when the troating will begin? Today is only Tuesday, so it could begin this week, though I don't know what the weather is like in Hungary.
Since I've been here, at the lake, I've had no internet connection. Robi and his fellow hunters must be getting ready to go hunting by now. In Csákvár there are no large bul s. You hardly ever see one with antlers weighing more than 17.5lbs, and whoever is looking for a set of royal antlers
- 26.5lbs. or so - won't find them at the foot of Mt.Vértes. But, that aside, some of my most enjoyable hunts have been in the Csákvár region. It's a varied, exciting forest, which constantly produces something interesting, and I'm always happy to go there.
At 10.00 Pat starts to prepare the trophy from my smaller bull. He removes the remaining velvet, and then gets out his saw. He cuts them still attached to the skull, just as I wished. Now I would have expected him to start boiling the antlers, but here - just as with the cutting up of the meat -
they do things differently. We take the antlers down to the lake. Pat ties a long string to the branch of one antler, and then I, with a strong swing, hurl them into the Wolf. Pat wades a few feet out into the lake - he is wearing waterproof boots, so he doesn't have to stand on the shore to do it - and throws them again. The antlers fly even further out, until they are completely submerged. Each set of antlers will spend at least a day in the lake so that all the blood is washed off.
We have finished the antler -throwing when, back in the processing tent, the son of the archers'
guide runs in: bulls! And, once more, they're right next to the camp!
Someone calls Ricardo - he's in a constant state of readiness, sitting fully dressed in the barrack -
and he's off after the caribou in a moment. We follow events through our binoculars, and this time we can see Ricardo and the bulls very well. Once more, there is no hide - that's normal for the region - and the herd begins to move, but only 150ft. They begin to graze again, and Ricardo continues his approach ... they spot him again, and this time they run quite far off.
Archery is a difficult craft.
Back in the barracks I look at an archer's unique hunting career, distilled into pictures on his laptop. Photos of a bongo, a thick-maned lion, an elephant, and a rhino appear on the screen.
Then comes the polar bear which he killed, not with a modern helical bow, but in the traditional manner, with a longbow. Then there's the bateng, killed in Australia, which has set a world record, and not only for archers: there has not been a better one bagged with a gun! While some people, perhaps getting ready to go shooting in Africa, debate which animal out of the Dangerous Five is the most dangerous, and what magnum bullet is most appropriate for each, Ricardo just goes out and shoots his game from 90ft. with his noiseless weapon .
Chapter IV.: Caribou hunting in the Northwest Territories
Page 31
The morning passes uneventfully.
We are waiting for the weather to improve. The antlers have been put in the lake, one by one, but, at the moment, it is raining so heavily that they might just as well have been left on land.
They'd get just as clean in a day. I force myself to clean my gun. I should have done it ages ago, as over the last few days the gun and the optics have got very wet. We sit in the tent and spend the time talking.
I nod off, and when I wake, the weather has brightened up. The archers are already getting dressed, setting out on their afternoon's deployment. Pat comes in, mumbles something, and leaves. Ricardo interprets and I learn that we're going fishing. Apparently, I have a permit for that too. The camp is rather dull without my two fellow hunters, so I'm quite happy with this plan.
Before leaving I sew a button back on my pants. Clothes wear out very quickly here.
We push the motor-boat out into the water. We whizz along over the waves cheerfully, in our stable little craft. Our first journey is to a tiny island. Pat produces some garbage bags, and pours the contents, caribou heads and pieces of skin, onto the ground. If the grizzly wants it, it will have to swim a long way, but at least it won't be going through the camp.
We move to another mooring, this time on a larger island. All the boats are made of aluminum and are treated fairly roughly. The technique for mooring is that Pat just drives the boat up on the shore, no matter how inhospitable it is. When the boat is grounded, the person sitting in the bow jumps out and drags it as high as he can up the beach. The aluminum screeches out in protest as it grinds over the stones. Each time we moor, I'm convinced that we'll hole the boat and will have to swim back home. Pat climbs to the top of a hill to take a look with his spotting-scope, and I remain behind with the young Native-American boy. We take out the fishing-rods. I haven't yet found out what we're going to fish for, or what method we'll be using, but I have aleady noticed a blinker tied to the end of a line. This means we are after predators, and will be spinning. The last time I went spinning was at Lake Balaton when I was around ten or twelve, and caught a couple of bream; but unfortunately that was quite a long time ago. I start to remember the old method, which is to cover an area by several casts. So that is what I do: I cast to the right, to the left, and almost throw the entire rod into the water in my enthusiasm; but with no result. The young boy soon gets bored and reels in his line, but I still carry on. But this time patience is not rewarded, and in the end, all I have in my hands is my fishing-rod. It has the word "Shakespeare" written on it.
We return to the camp. We arrive at the same time as the archers, who did not bag anything again today. Tomorrow will be our last full day for hunting, but Ricardo doesn't seem worried.
Chapter IV.: Caribou hunting in the Northwest Territories
Page 32
Pat starts preparing dinner.
Andy Morrison, the organizer of my first ten days hunting, knows a lot of guides in the north. He warned me in advance that not all of them would be very friendly. They are under a lot of pressure, and must produce results. If a hunting company does not enable its clients to have a successful season, that fact will soon get around. The competition is huge; many companies would like to be in the business of hunt organizers, but only the top few manage to survive at it.
The whole tourism industry in Alaska is on a downturn because of the economic crisis, and hunting is no exception. There are fewer and fewer clients and they don't want to travel these distances just for a walk in the woods. If a company is working with Cabela's, expectations are high. Obviously, they are not going to be pleased if their client returns empty-handed. The final resting place for this burden of responsibility is on the shoulders of the guide. There are many people involved in the organization of a hunt, but, at the end of the day, it all comes down to the guide. However good the team working behind him might be, they can't help him score the final goal.
How one copes with this burden depends on the person and their personality. The Inuits did it with constant good humor and friendliness. Greg and Striker, the great experts at Brooks Range, treated me with endless patience, even though I couldn't understand any of the local slang. Pat is a man who keeps his distance. There are some, no doubt, for whom he is the perfect guide; people who come here to listen to the silence or to be engrossed in the study of nature, will not find a better guide than him. But I'm not one of them. Being very outgoing, I love chatting to everyone, and like to laugh with them at silly little jokes. Pat is not the guide for me. Though I have shot two bulls with him, he is not the person I shall remember most fondly.
The freezer has its own generator, but we can't take any power from it. Our supply depends on a separate generator, and is the only way of recharging our batteries; but Pat alone knows when it will come on. We can only tell if there is power if the light comes on in the barracks, and then we all grab our chargers and take turns recharging out batteries. The other guys are generous; they know I'm keeping a diary, and so my notebook always gets priority.
The residents of the camp can be divided into two parts: the guides are one and us hunters the other. We don't go into each other's tents, or socialize. I remeber Greg once saying that large get-togethers of hunters and guides are not a Canadian thing. I don't mean by this that Canadians are not friendly people, or that the guides are not good at their profession. A single hunt is not really enough to make a judgement, and I honestly think that Pat, and the archers' guide, are competent professionals. But nothing more. They are not sociable people. I think that the
Chapter IV.: Caribou hunting in the Northwest Territories
Page 33
Alaskans were much more easy-going. Of course, I don't really know how typical this behavior is, but I do feel there is a difference in their attitude.
I hadn't realised how fond I am of tinned fruit. I can easily demolish a pack of four cans in a day, and the only reason I don't eat more is that I must make our supply last for the next few days.
Jake brings out his excellent whisky again, and now we drink it the way he likes it: with hot water.
I'm past caring whether we take it with or without water, either hot or cold; just as long as it's there!
White Wolf Lake
Caribou Camp