Month: December 2018

The following is an account of day six of our trip to the Arctic Circle.  If you missed day five, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.

We woke up to another thin layer of ice on the tent. Our bodies were a little sore from the pack out, but not as bad as we’d feared. We had our mochas, did a little stretching, and decided to try our luck at fishing. Prior to the trip we’d investigated what kind of fish might be swimming around in the lakes and streams of the arctic, and learned grayling and arctic char were a likely bet. They allegedly loved the Blue Fox lure… so we made sure to pick up a few of those before we left.

We headed out of camp and toward the spot where the Oregon boys told us they were catching fish one after the other. Trout, they claimed. We brought our collapsible poles and a rifle… we did have one more tag to fill, and didn’t want to see a huge bull with no way to bring it down.

The morning fog and drizzle refused to go away, but our Gortex gear kept us nice and dry. Back in the lower 48, I was skeptical about buying a rain jacket and rain pants… but I was glad I did. They fit over my layers and would not allow any of that Alaska moisture in.

On our way to the fishing hole, the decision to tote the rifle proved a good one. We spotted a herd of caribou. They were plodding along on the far side of the hill, headed toward Whale Rock, near where Edgar had taken his bull the day before. We also saw a lone bull, who decided to lie down in the field about two miles away. We decided to put off fishing for a moment to track the single bull. We crept toward him, quietly as possible and without exposing ourselves to the horizon. We were just about on him when he heard the other group of cows and calves calling, and got up to join them. We could see then that he was on the smaller side, and limping.

I’ll pause here to get a little personal with how I feel about hunting. I love animals. I have always loved all sorts of furry creatures, and even thought about being a vet at one point. I also eat meat. I’ve been one of those people who understands where my food comes from, but sort of ignores the delicate details of how that all happens. Until now. Now that I’ve been on some hunts, I understand the process a bit more. I understand that there are different kinds of hunters, and that there are many who really like animals as well, and have a great deal of respect for them. I understand that there are “canned” hunts where the outcome is all but decided, and true hunts where your skill and persistence as a outdoorsman is required. I appreciate the skill and enjoy the adventure, but I have never taken an animal myself. It means something to me, and I can’t just pull the trigger without a lot of thought.

So for weeks leading up to the trip Edgar would causally ask me, “Are you planning to shoot a caribou?” and for weeks my answer would be, “I don’t know.”  One day I was sure it was an experience I wanted to have, to prove to myself that I could be a hunter, and I could fend for myself in the wilderness. The next day I thought about looking at that beautiful animal and taking its life and thought there was no way I could do it. “I might cry,” I told Edgar. “You will cry,” was his reply.

Now the moment had arrived. I could track this wounded bull and probably get within shooting distance. I had practiced at the range with the 7mm-08 and did better than I thought at 100 yards.   If I could get into position I had a chance at making the shot, but did I want to?  I admit ego was also getting in the way of my decision. I could shoot the wounded animal and it might be a way of showing mercy; he likely wouldn’t make the winter with an injured leg. But if I did shoot him, did it show some kind of weakness on my part, for taking a specimen who could not run away like the others?

While I pondered, the group moved off, and I decided I didn’t want to track them. I would hold off for a better opportunity, and perhaps a better bull.

As we headed back toward the fishing hole, we saw two more groups of caribou, but they were cows and calves, so we stuck with fishing. A few casts in, we had dinner. Two nice-sized grayling jumped on our line. We cast a few more times just to see if the char would bite, but they weren’t interested, so we headed back to camp.

Our camp supplies included some onions and potatoes, so I got to chopping those while Edgar prepared the fish. I don’t know if it was because of the cold drizzle or the calories we’d burned the day before, but I was starving and that fish really hit the spot. Even now I remember that meal as one of the best of the trip.

After our dinner, we warmed up in the tent for a while, and then Edgar wanted to go for a walk. My knee was bugging me from the pack out, so I decided to rest it and wait to see if he saw anything good. He came back from a wander over toward Elephant Mountain and said he saw a bunch of caribou by the spire. We took advantage of the last hour of daylight to see if a bull might be among them. As we walked along the lake the rain got more and more serious, and dark was coming quickly.  We realized it wasn’t going to be the right time to pull the trigger even if we did see something, so we headed back to camp.  We made the most of the trip back, picking up driftwood to burn for a little warmth, and taking a moment to enjoy the brisk night air and arctic sky. 

On day seven, we nearly lost our boots in the muck of the tundra, and spotted some young caribou who definitely lost their herd.