I've already mentioned several times that the local caribou seem to treat humans with great naivety. It's a condition that, in certain instances, can make the hunt both simpler and easier.
There have been times when, on spotting us, the caribou have bolted, but that is not usual. And, even if they do run away, they generally don't go very far. Mostly, what we have noticed in them, is curiosity. When I was alone in the camp I started to scan the neighborhood with my binoculars, and could see two cows, quite close to the camp. I decided to test their courage. I marched straight towards the nearest, whistling loudly; I wanted to see how long it would be before it ran off. Well, I got within 150ft. before it decided to move, but even then it only went 30 - 60ft. I kept heading for her, and then I started clapping. She stared at me in puzzlement, and let me get within 90ft. But you can't always guarantee such behavior when you're hunting, as Ricardo - who, as a hunting archer, has infinitely greater experience with camouflage and stalking than I have -
has tried in vain to get within shooting range on two occasions. Murphy's hunting laws apply here too: if you see a nice bull, it is bound to be shy and timid.
Reading old hunting books set in Africa at the end of the 19th century, I could never comprehend how it was possible to bag, in an open landscape, several dozen animals, including one or two
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rhinos and elephants, in a single day. But if those animals were just half as trusting as the local caribou here, such figures become understandable.
At around 3.00 in the afternoon, sitting in the barracks, I hear the distant sound of an approaching motor. Is it a plane? No, the sound is different ... it's a helicopter! A helicopter is coming over White Wolf Lake! I step outside, in front of the tent so that I am clearly visible, and watch it through my binoculars. They circle the camp and land 90ft. away from my tent.
The pilot and two uniformed men get out.
Hunting Inspectors!
That Pat is always around until you really need him.
I can see badges on the arms of their shirts: the polar bear emblem of the NWT and the words Environment and Natural Resources.
I have no option but to be the host. They ask me a few questions: how many of us are there, and how many are hunters? Why aren't I hunting, and where is my guide? I answer each one, and show them the cold-storage unit. They are calculating the number of dead caribou from the body parts, but the figures don't add up. We've shot five caribou, but there is far less meat in storage.
They can't work it out; none of us can.
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What an idiot I am: yesterday we cut up a carcass and the meat is still in the freezer! They peer into the freezer, and there's the meat. We drag the antlers out of the lake, and they take down the tag numbers and my details. By the time they have finished, Pat arrives. The inspectors can see that all is in order, and the atmosphere relaxes. They've never come across a Hungarian hunter, or many other European ones, either. They ask if they can take a photo of me. I agree, but only if they will let me be photographed with them. We talk for a few more minutes, and they laugh when they hear my itinerary. Finally, they give me their cards, and say to call them if I have any problems! That's how well this inspection ended.
The archers get home a few minutes before 7.00.
We can hear the boat's engine as it approaches, and I excitedly get out my binoculars ...
Unfortunately, I can't see a trophy with them. There weren't any big bulls where they were hunting. Ricardo took a shot at one caribou, but missed it. It was nearly 165ft. away. That was the final result of his best bow being broken on the first day. He is unable to shoot so far, or so accurately, with his spare. It is most exemplary how this hunter accepts failure. He is not upset about the original accident, though he has every right to be. When I ask him if he is disappointed with his lack of success, he just shakes his head and smiles. "You know," he says, "it's as if you missed your target from 1500ft. with a gun you'd never used over such a distance." Anyway, the caribou he shot at was smaller than the one he already has in storage, ready to take home.
The archers retire for a rest; they must have had an exhausting day.
For dinner Pat is cooking a soup made from some freshly caught fish. Even though it has nothing in common with Hungarian fish soup, it is still delicious. I must admit that Pat is a very good cook, though he could use a little more salt.
After dinner we go fishing.
Davin, the young Native American, is our guide, and Jake and I are the anglers. We use the blinkers again, but this time we choose a simpler method of fishing. We throw in the two blinkers, Davin sets the boat at its lowest speed, and we tow the bait behind us. I think this type of fishing is banned in Hungary, but it is quite legal here. Suddenly, my rod jerks violently, and in my surprise I almost drop it. I slowly play the fish, but we have no landing-net, so Davin lifts it into the boat with his bare hands. I don't know what kind of a fish this is, only that it is a greenish color. I can only recognize two types of fish with certainty: the one is carp, and the other is white shark.
This must be a third kind. Jake catches three more of these fish, and I get another two, though we manage to lose some others as we play them. We release all of them, as we are not going to eat them. We spend an hour out on the lake.
In the distance small points of light begin to glitter: they are the lamps of the White Wolf Lake
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Caribou Camp, powered by a small generator.
Room 313
Chateau Nova Hotel
Yellowknife