The following is a recap of Day Seven of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Six you can catch up on that here.
We kept a fire going all night long and stayed nice and toasty under our wool blankets. In the morning we got a tour of the rest of the property from one of the employees. Simon and his two children walked us down to the rope bridge, which Kevin had told us about in our previous visit. This time, we had a demonstration. Simon carefully climbed on the rope to show us how it was done… slowly working his way across the water and to the other shore. It looked very challenging, and Simon clearly did not expect any of us to even attempt it, but Edgar decided to give it a try.
No one else was feeling strong enough to jump at that challenge, so we thanked Simon and packed up our rig to head down the road for a tank of gas and a bite to eat.
Breakfast!
Edgar and Marie had tacos from a roadside stand, while I visited the horses in a nearby field. My stomach wasn’t quite ready for tacos, but I am always ready for a little neck scratching. Our morning complete, we headed on to Monterrey. The traffic in this city is ridiculous! It took some fancy navigating and map searching, but we finally found a hotel at a reasonable rate and checked in. We thought we’d order pizza instead of venturing out again, but didn’t think our limited Spanish vocabulary would cut it over the phone. We went back to the desk to ask the clerk for help. She was happy to call it in, and we enjoyed the veggie and meat lovers options.
We brought the leftovers to our new friend at the desk.
Our road trip across Mexico was nearly complete. Day eight would see us head for the border crossing, where all manner of items are on sale, from sombreros to Virgin Marys, and on to a new project on the gulf.
The following is a recap of Day Six of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Five you can catch up on that here.
Marie and I had good yoga intentions, but I was up all night with some wicked food poisoning and finally got some sleep around 6am. Marie accompanied Edgar to the beach instead while I rested. After the morning surf session we met back up for coffee at Chocobanana, a Sayulita staple. The tables were busy and a local musician entertained everyone with a few Coldplay and Pearl Jam tunes.
Actual musician not pictured, but I bet these two are phenomenal.
It was time to hit the road for the long drive home, so we returned the board Edgar had been using, back to Casa Aves. The drive back toward El Salto was peppered with multiple tolls, some official and some not, and we repeatedly dug into our cuota stash, tucked into a plastic cup in the console.
Here’s another interesting thing about the Mexican roads: vehicles pass in the middle. Really. In a lot of spots, there are two lanes, one in each direction, and huge trucks will pass in the middle. This is as normal as getting leche in your coffee. Other drivers will do their best to scoot over and let them by.
One of my favorite things to do on road trips is to try the local snacks, so wherever we stopped we purchased a few things with little knowledge as to what they were. Most were very good…. and we snacked on candy, nuts, cookies and all sorts of things as we traveled.
We weren’t sure how the timing would work out, but it ended up just perfect for us to stop by to see Kevin again, and to rent one of his big cabins, which had all the comforts of home, including a kitchen and cozy fireplace. (Cabañas “El Arroyo del Agua” on Facebook.) He helped us gather firewood and we got enough to last the night. The temperature difference between the beach in Sayulita and the air up in the mountains was dramatic. We were grateful to see a large stack of wool blankets in each room.
Once we dropped off our things, we headed into the city to find a cash machine and a restaurant. The latter was no problem, but the cash was tricky. We finally spotted an ATM but it had a line outside. Sayulita folks are used to seeing Americans, but in this town, not so much. We drew some curious looks as we waited our turn, and then again when we entered a small family restaurant for a bite. The manager or owner’s kids were all helping to wait tables while doing homework, and they kept looking over and giggling at us. I felt like we were the talk of El Salto.
This super-sized Sprite tasted amazing.
Back at the cabin we settled in to do our own giggling at an Adam Sandler movie dubbed over in Spanish, and eventually turned in.
On day seven, it was time for the feats of strength! Who among us would be brave enough to try the bridge made of rope, and would they make it to the other side?
This is a recap of day five of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed day four, you can catch up here.
Day five began with leftover pizza for breakfast. We made quick work of that and made tracks for the beach. Edgar surfed the Sayulita break while I practiced yoga. I played around with handstands against a mural wall, and toyed with foot placement and shoulder activation. Our morning exercise complete, we walked a few streets into town and got coffee at a new place. New businesses are popping up all over town… restaurants, coffee shops, yoga studios and B & Bs. While we were walking around and taking note of the new spots, we found a barbershop, and Edgar decided to get a hair cut.
Not long after the scissors came out, another man came into the shop and had a heated discussion with the barber. He then went to a work station and began to pick up products and tools and put them in a bag. The barber working on Edgar’s hair didn’t seem to like that, and some more angry words and gestures were exchanged. Then the barber opened up the angry guy’s bag, and took some of the product back out, clearly claiming it belonged to the shop. Things were beginning to get uncomfortable so Edgar spoke up and asked if they could possibly settle the matter later, perhaps when scissors and razors were not so close at hand. They agreed and the angry guy left, and Edgar got a nice haircut. A boy of about eight came into the shop while we were there. He had a little money — it appeared he’d made it selling trinkets in the square. Edgar and the barber agreed to split the cost of his cut so he could keep his earnings.
Angry guy is packing up his work station in the background.
Another one of the new shops is a little less formal, but a lot more tasty. This guy set up a candy store just off one of the main streets. We struck up a conversation to see what he had, and he offered some free samples of the candied nuts. We purchased several varieties to take with us as snacks for the ride to the airport. Edgar’s youngest daughter Marie was making the drive back with us, and we needed to fetch her from Puerto Vallarta.
Don’t ask me what they are exactly, but they’re good.
We had to again switch hotels, since they were out of rooms, and we moved into a place just a five minute walk away. We didn’t have a bunch of time, so I walked across the street to get fish tacos, while Edgar got our stuff to the rooms. You can’t drive past a surf break without at least having a look, so we took the scenic route toward the airport and stopped by Punta Mita. There wasn’t much to it so we kept on.
We also had another mission in mind. Casa Aves has had a table and chairs outside on the bodega since we’ve owned it, but the seats just aren’t comfortable. Several furniture stores line the way to the airport and we stopped at a handful, but didn’t see exactly what we wanted… at least, not for a good price.
The PV airport stays pretty busy, so we camped out in the stream of arrivals and kept a keen eye out for Marie. At only 18 years old, she’s already well-traveled and quite accustomed to this particular route. While we were keeping our eyes peeled for her, a familiar face appeared. Our friend and sometimes driver, Espie, was at the airport and we chatted for a moment about family, business and how things were going for him in general. Seeing people you know at an airport in Mexico, reminds us of how small the world is, and how much this section of it feels more and more like home.
After we grabbed Marie, we headed back to Sayulita and went for another stroll on the beach. There are always vendors walking up and down the beach and offering something. This time we ran into a guy selling Mexican blankets. We had seen them before, but this guy quoted a price we couldn’t pass up, and we wound up with a really nice blanket.
On our way back through the square we saw a group of little boys skateboarding, and showing off their tricks. We watched for a while and then Edgar asked if he could have a turn. They thought that was kinda funny but gave him a board. He skated for a bit and then said, “Wow! Why are your wheels and trucks so loose?”
“Because we’re surfers,” came the reply.
Little skater/surfer making it look easy
We had agreed to meet up with our house host for dinner. A local artist, who came to Sayulita by way of Italy, stays at Casa Aves year-round, keeps the house nice and is a great resource for guests. We met at Don Juan’s just up the street from Aves and shared a meal and good conversation. After dinner we went for another walk, and then turned in for the night. One of us planned to surf in the morning, while the other two had their eyes on a yoga class.
This is a recap of day four of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed day three, you can catch up here.
On day four we decided to soak in the view a little longer, and have breakfast by the water. We ordered lattes and shared this plate of pancakes with fruit. It was as delicious as it looks.
We could have spent the day there just enjoying the view, but we also wanted to get to Sayulita and maybe find a wave. Sayulita has grown as well, in the 3-4 years we’ve been visiting. The official population is about 5,000, but there were tons of people in the streets and walking around the town square. We stopped off at Casa Aves to drop off the boards, but we were unable to stay as a nice family from Canada was renting the place for the week. Instead, we booked another place in town and then hit “Wild Mex” a coffee/surf shop across from a local break. They’ve expanded too, going from just a coffee stand, to a restaurant with lots of tables and open air seating.
The break, called “Burrows”, was pretty busy but we found our spots… Edgar hit the lineup and I headed down the beach where it was smaller and less crowded. I was comfortable in my shorty (wetsuit that comes to the knee) – the water temperature was on the way up but not bath water yet. We caught some rays and nice waves and enjoyed the beach. We always seem to be starving after a surf session so we hit the showers then hit one of our favorite beach-side restaurants for Mexican pizza. People were still surfing the beach break, wringing every bit of swell out of the day.
Sayulita has a square where people are usually lounging or snacking, or just watching others go by. This visit we noticed a new selfie opportunity. New letters have been added to the square for pictures and there are no shortage of models.
There are a couple of places in Sayulita that serve ice cream and we’re quite familiar. We got our treat and then enjoyed an evening stroll. We spotted the guy who offers folks a seat on his burros for a small fee. He only had one long-eared friend when we first saw him; now he has three. Business is booming, and more and more visitors are enjoying Sayulita’s charm.
This is a recap of day three of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed our run-in with the cartel on day two, you can read about it here.
Day three began with free breakfast at the restaurant next to our hotel. We carried on an animated conversation with the waitress, her side all in Spanish and ours mostly in English. She was sweet and trying to help us, but looked around the restaurant a few times, obviously looking for a coworker who spoke English. We understood each other well enough to settle on eggs, beans and bacon, and a dish we didn’t recognize, but ended up being green sauce over tortillas and very good.
Even if you’ve never traveled to Durango, you’ve likely seen pieces of it. It was a big destination for the film industry beginning back in the 1950s. The vast desert and cheap labor drew many productions to this Hollywood of the South, and there are ribbons of super-sized film above the main drag as a reminder. According to a 2003 article in the Washington Post, John Wayne, Clark Gable, Rock Hudson and Rita Hayworth all shot movies in Durango.
We wanted to stay longer to explore, but we had set our sights on checking out the big fish of El Salto. If the internet could be trusted, this town in the middle of no where had some of the best large-mouthed bass fishing in the world. We couldn’t drive this close and not just have a look, so we headed in that direction.
The tricky part is, we couldn’t tell exactly where it was. We stopped just shy of the city at a gas station, and wandered in. There was a woman working the register, and a couple other folks having a snack. We used our rough Spanish to ask where we could find the pescado with the grande boca. They pointed and gave us directions, but it seemed to be for another place where we could stop and ask. We admired her bottle of tequila with a large scorpion inside of it, which was then offered, no gracias, and we hit the road in the direction we were given.
A few miles down the road we found a turnoff for a camp site that looked promising. The first resident we encountered was an old man who was deep into a rock-painting project, and being monitored by a friendly dog that looked part lab, part pyraness. The painter didn’t know about the fish and sent us up to the office. The girl inside said they had fish there but they were very small. She showed us with her fingers. She said she’d get her husband who spoke English. Kevin spoke perfect English, having grown up in Arizona. He showed us around the fish farm, where they were raising trout. These were not the trophy bass we were after, but were interesting to see anyway, and Kevin and his wife were very nice and obviously proud of the place. Kevin said what people come to do here the most is relax but sometimes they also walk the bridge made of rope and make bets on how far their friends will go.
We got some information about the cabins and made tentative plans to return on our way home. Our fish search had to be set aside as well, since our goal was to stay in Chacala that night.
On a previous trip, a local had told Edgar about a secret wave south of San Blas. We had that on our minds as we made our way toward the coast, and caught our first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean.
We got on the road to the secret break, passed by the outdoor restaurants and pack of stray dogs and rumbled through the jungle a bit. The swell turned out to be small, so we moved on to Chacala.
This is the “road” to the secret surf break.
Chacala has exploded in the past couple years. There were more tourists on the streets than we’ve ever seen before. We found a hotel with rooms available, and made friends with the clerk’s daughter Alice, who was about three and lugging around a baby doll. She and her father helped us find a place to park, and then we walked to a beachside restaurant for dinner.
Nearby La Cruz is a popular starting point for sailboats making long trips across the ocean, so we saw many bobbing around just off the beach. We dined on shrimp (Chacala translates to “where there are shrimp”) with avocado and chips and guacamole, and then went to bed dreaming of waves.
On day four, we finally pull into the driveway of Casa Aves, only to realize we can’t stay.
This is the story of our surfboard run down to Mexico. If you missed day one you can read about it here.
Our hotel had free breakfast, so we dined on biscuits, eggs, sausage and potatoes and then hit the road for the border. The line was long coming out of Mexico, but going in was a breeze. We cruised right through and were so pleased with our progress we missed the turn for car permits, a critical stop before going on into the country.
The turn was tricky. We knew we needed to be in the far left lane, but it appeared to have traffic going only in the other direction, away from the car permit place. We made the turn and found ourselves on the wrong path, headed to the checkpoint back into the United States, and right into the lanes jammed with traffic. A concrete wall was to our right, so we couldn’t swerve over into the appropriate lane. We slowed as we considered our options, and saw a man in a yellow vest motioning to us on the side of the road. Our official position is that Edgar and I don’t speak Spanish, but I must say I was considerably impressed when after a quick back and forth with the man Edgar said, “This guy will let us in for twenty bucks.” I did understand when the man shrugged in that “what can you do” sort of way, and explained it wasn’t his doing, it was the jefe. Uh huh.
We were in no mood to argue, having seen the line to go back into the states. We knew $20 was worth it, so we gladly paid our first mordida (“the bite” – i.e., everyone gets one) of the trip, and followed our new friend as he moved some orange barriers and let us cross an empty lot, and merge into the appropriate lane. The alleged “jefe” was a very quiet, older man, who didn’t give off the jefe vibe exactly, but hey, we were across, and headed to get our vehicle permit, so we got over it in a hurry.
The process of getting a car permit involves a number of steps, but if you plan ahead and have the right documents, you can follow the procedure and get it done. Part of that procedure is checking in when you leave the country, to cancel the permit. We had not done that when the Land Cruiser cruised on out of Mexico last year, so we were sent back outside, to go into another line to cancel our vehicle permit. Thankfully, that was a little drive-through area that came with no charge, and we ticked that box, peeled off our old sticker and got back in line. We showed our registration and title, and got our new sticker, good for 180 days in Mexico.
After a few minutes on the road, we had a need for a bathroom and a craving for a diet coke. Even though we knew better, we stopped at a gas station not too far from the border. As soon as we did, we were reminded why it’s not a good practice. A car pulled in next to us, and the passenger was making aggressive gestures before we even shut off the vehicle. He made an exaggerated motion to roll down the window. I didn’t see it at first, as I was busy counting out pesos for the diet coke. He made the motion again and Edgar gave him a hard look. The driver made a more gentle motion, and Edgar rolled down the window.
Passenger: (in English) “Where are you from?”
Edgar: “Where are YOU from?”
Passenger: “We’re from the cartel around here.”
It’s at this point that I made slow motion moves to slyly place the money I’d been counting under my seat.
I don’t know if you’re from the cartel, if you actually say you’re from the cartel, but clearly they had some sort of ill will in mind. Edgar didn’t say a word – just gave them another look like, “and..?” and the driver decided this wasn’t going to be worth the trouble. They tossed it in reverse and took off. A few seconds later we did the same. There was no sense sticking around at the border, when there were such nice places inside Mex to explore, and they were likely to have diet cokes as well.
We ticked off happy miles and not so happy tolls. You have two choices for most routes across Mexico: the toll road, or cuota, or the libre, the free road. The toll road has just that, tolls every so often. But it gets you to your destination a lot faster than the free road, and it’s better maintained, so if you’re not familiar with the area the toll road is the way to go. Just resign yourself to the fact that the tolls do add up. The amounts very from 30 to 270 pesos at each stop, so by the end of the trip we’d paid more than $200 USD in tolls.
Now, here’s another interesting note. Most of the toll plazas are manned by official-looking men and women in uniform, collecting a set amount listed on signs and digital displays. But in a few places, there are no uniformed staff, and the booth is manned by what appears to be locals from a nearby village. Dozens of people stand at the gate, and one is designated as the one to push out an orange barrel, usually on a rope, to stop the approaching vehicle. Another, usually a young girl, is enlisted to step forward and ask for the toll. The amount seemed a little arbitrary. At one stop the girl asked for cincuenta pesos – 50. When Edgar asked again how much, she said ciento – 100. He corrected her that she had just said 50, and she looked back at the group, unsure. An older man stepped forward and immediately showed off his conversational English, “What’s the problem, man?” Edgar explained there was a discrepancy with where we landed on the toll amount. He told the girl that 50 would be fine and we paid and went on our way.
More miles, more tolls. Beautiful country. We snacked on oranges from our pack, and offered some to the attendant when we got gas. All the gas stations are full service, so we learned and practiced the words for “fill it up!”
At one of the stops I had to visit the bano, and was about to let the attendant know they were out of toilet paper, when I remembered the fee. A lot of places charge you to use the restroom, and I found this contraption at the entrance. I gladly put in my 5 pesos and hurried back inside.
We made good time to Torreón so decided to push on to Durango. We arrived in town around 8pm, or what we thought was the town, but we more on the outskirts. We found a gated hotel and got checked in. The place next door served us a delicious meal of shrimp and boneless wings, and we saved room for an incredible apple crisp dessert. There were turtles at the restaurant, and I’m assuming they feed the turtles instead of feeding the turtles to guests, by the way they all swam over to me when I visited.
On day three we left Durango in search of El Salto, and the tales of a world-class bass fishing village. You don’t want to miss our efforts to communicate this to random gas station attendants and customers.
The following is an account of day eight of our trip to the Arctic Circle. If you missed day seven, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
Thursday, day eight of our trip, was our last day in the field. Or so we’d planned. It was cloudy and rainy again when we woke up, and we were a little hesitant to crawl out of the tent. At 8:30 we used our Garmin inReach to send a text to our outfitter, giving them the weather report. The micro-climates of the Arctic Circle can vary greatly, so just because it was sunny with no wind at our camp, didn’t mean it would be the same at the base. The reply came that the odds of flying were marginal at best, and that we should text again at noon.
We didn’t want to break camp prematurely, especially in the rain, so we took some time for candy and a little more rest. The camp supplies included plenty of sweets to keep our blood sugar spiking, and we made a dent in the remaining stash while we avoided the rain for a bit.
Rain not pictured. Please enjoy this view from the tent on a nicer day.
Properly wired, we ducked out of the tent to glass for a while, but didn’t see any animals. At noon we texted with another weather update: light drizzle, no wind, clouds breaking up. This time the reply said to check again in 45 minutes. We glassed again, and decided to do a little more fishing while the wind was down. I could have gone for another hot lunch, but the fish only teased us with some showboat splashy moves, and no bites. Then came the text. Our pilot was taking off and would be at camp in a hour. That didn’t seem like quite enough time to get back to camp and break everything down into bags and tubs, but we surprised ourselves with how quickly we packed our dry bags, chairs, broke down cots and stuffed sleeping bags back into their sacks. We waited until we heard the plane’s engine to pull out the poles and fold up the tent.
All packed and ready to go!
All our gear had to be loaded into nooks and crannies on the float plane. We kept our waders on as we delivered our bags and gear to the pilot. Edgar even had to split his antlers so they’d fit on board.
It was a smooth 90 minute ride back to “civilization”. We saw two bull moose and a muskox from the air. Mike the pilot said most of the camps on the river saw bears that week, but camps on the lake (like ours) did not. We landed on the water “runway” in Kotzbue and unpacked the van. We took some time to cut up the meat back at base camp; anything we didn’t plan to take, we donated to the locals. Even the scraps were set aside as food for the sled dogs. We took the sections we wanted back to the hotel, where they agreed to freeze them for us overnight. Back at the hotel, we took everything out of our bags and reorganized for the flight home. I took my hair out of the braids I’d had for a week… it was time to lather, rinse and repeat.
The hotel had a restaurant that was a little pricey, but we were in no mood to bargain shop. We enjoyed a meal with a view and revisited the highlights of our trip. We’d conquered the tundra, taken a bull caribou, fed the locals and enjoyed the beauty of the Alaskan landscape. It was an adventure like no other, and we were grateful to have experienced it.
The following is an account of day seven of our trip to the Arctic Circle. If you missed day six, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
Day seven began with our now standard mochas – that Swiss Miss really hit the spot. After taking note of the grey sky, we shimmied into rain gear once again. Breakfast was granola bars, with an option of chewy or crunchy, and then we packed up for our last full day of hunting.
Just look at all that firewood. 🙁
We made our way east along the lake and then up the valley where we knew the flat area thinned and created a funnel for the caribou to travel right by us. They were not so accommodating. Hour after hour we glassed and listened. We stopped for a snack with the wind at our backs, then moved on to cross a boggy “bottleneck” toward the Double Spire. When you look out over the land, it looks grassy, with scattered tussocks, and barren areas that look orange from the dirt beneath. But when you step, water shows up out of no where and oozes up over your boot. I nearly lost mine a few times when I sank deeper in the muck, but always managed to come out with it.
Afternoon came, and still it rained, and still no caribou. We hiked to the top of a ridge deeper into the valley. The thought was always, if we can’t see beyond that ridge, we should just go there. Maybe there are tons of caribou on the other side. But in this case there weren’t tons… just two small ones huddled up together. Edgar made a noise like a momma caribou, and they got up and came toward us for a moment, before spooking. They looked too young to be alone, and I hoped they would find their herd again soon.
We took the long way back toward camp, picking our way along the bend where we had seen the limping bull and the others the day before. The sun made a brief showing so we leaned against our packs and feasted on almonds and the rest of the beef jerky. No caribou appeared, but this rainbow made a lovely showing.
We slowly headed “home”… swapping stories and singing songs. Back at the tent we built a fire, and cooked over our little two-burner stove. Dinner was potatoes and onions, and fresh caribou. Not long after dinner we were ready to turn in. We had walked 8-10 miles in the rain and wind, and were looking forward to our warm, dry bags.
Day eight was our last day in the field, or so we’d planned. But our outfitter warned us we should be ready to stay longer based on the weather. Keeping that in mind… we drifted off to sleep.
The following is an account of day five of our trip to the Arctic Circle. If you missed day four, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
We woke up to a thin layer of frost on the tent, and a layer of ice on our coffee kettle. Edgar discovered a supply of Swiss Miss in our food tub, and we enjoyed steaming cups of mocha while we waited a moment for the sun to reach camp.
We had planned to venture into the valley about three miles away, so we packed the necessities: almonds, mini Snickers, Reese’s, and beef jerky, as well as a knife, saw and other items we’d need to field dress the caribou once we got it. Feeling confident, we tracked to Wader Hill and conducted a 360 scan.
I’ll pause here to explain that one of the many fun things about camping in the wilderness all alone and away from civilization is that there are no signs or names of things. You’re free to make them up as you go. A small rise where one might drop their waders becomes Wader Hill. The big rock that looks like an elephant eye and trunk becomes Elephant Mountain, and the bump with the two rocky formations is heretofore referred to as the Double Bubble.
So, Wader Hill. We glassed there for while, before sneaking up to the next rise, where the view was great but we were still well-hidden. Eventually, far away on the horizon, we saw a group of caribou making their way down into the basin where we were spotting. They were so far away, all I could see were flashes of white where their chests caught the sun. “Looks like two bulls in that pack,” Edgar noted. I looked at him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if they were rocks or animals, and he knew their gender.
Sure enough, as the group made its way closer to us, I could finally make out that two of the animals were larger, and had more white on their chests. The cows have antlers too, just a bit smaller than the males, so that alone doesn’t distinguish the sexes, but after staring at the group for a while, and allowing them to get closer, I could see the difference in size, coloring and headgear.
After watching them for about an hour, Edgar decided to make his move. It appeared that they were headed for the river bed and then the valley, and he’d have to move quickly to cut them off. Our research told us that you can’t outrun a caribou, and it was right. You can’t even out-walk them; they’re so quick on the tundra that gives humans so much trouble.
I watched the two in my binoculars. To my left, a herd of caribou was coming on strong, and to my right Edgar was making quick tracks down to the riverbed. Back and forth I checked their progress, until I saw Edgar stop. Everything was quiet. The shot seemed to take forever to get to me… a sound like I’ve never heard before. Part shot, part echo, it reached my ears and kept going past me into the lake. I saw the animal stumble but keep going. A second shot. He was down.
Edgar is standing at the spot where he took the shot. If you zoom in, you can see the white of the caribou way out there. No? Okay, hang on.
Look for the white speck, with brown attached to it that’s darker than the landscape. That’s the caribou.
Edgar had warned me that this is when the real work would begin. Alaska Fish and Game are serious about harvesting the meat of the entire animal. A hunter can’t just take the trophy antlers and be on his way. The animal must be cut up and carried out, and the antlers need to be the last to leave the field. Our outfitter also clarified what to do if you found yourself sharing your harvest unexpectedly. “If you come back to pack out a second trip, and a bear is on your caribou, you don’t need to fight a grizzly for your meat. But you do need to take a photo of the grizzly as evidence he was there.” We assumed this rule was an effort to kick some lazy hunters in the pants… don’t just say a bear was on it and leave half the animal.
Of course we had no intention of doing any such thing, so Edgar got going on the skinning and I headed his way with my pack and his waders. He’d had to cross the river to get to the caribou, and the water was cold and the rocks slippery. My waders were full-length and heavy, so his hip waders were better for transporting and sharing. I was grateful to have them on the way over, and we traded off footwear for the multiple trips back.
It took a little more than an hour for me to reach Edgar and the caribou. I helped him cut up and bag the meat. Hind quarters, shoulders, ribs and even neck meat went in the bags. Once we had it ready to take back to camp, we started loading up our packs. On the first trip out, all I had was my rifle, day pack and a heavy coat, and it felt like a million pounds. Edgar carried the first sections of meat, attached to his pack. Three miles later, we were back at camp, and creating a refrigerator out of a small brushy alder tree down the beach from camp. (re: in case of bears) With the bright sun and the heavy packs, we no longer needed the layers of fleece over our wool. We stripped down to our long johns for round two.
A male caribou can weigh up to 400 pounds, and its hind quarters are not light. Prior to the trip Edgar and I had many conversations about how much weight I could carry. I didn’t know, but I did know from years of lifting that I am more confident in my front squat than my back squat, and expressed an interest in having some of the weight in the front. Enter the pack out bag. A couple of Idaho hunters invented this carrier with big pockets in the front and the back. Edgar loaded me up and stood back. “Too much?” I took a couple of test steps. “I can’t move quickly, but I can move. I want to try it.” So he grabbed a shoulder, all the loin meat and ribs and we set off.
I had trained for the trip for weeks by loading up a backpack with weights and walking on the treadmill at the gym, but no amount of fitness equipment can prepare you for carrying the hind quarters of a caribou through the marshy tundra. I had to stop quite a few times to flatten my back and take a breath, but I never actually took the weight off, for fear I wouldn’t put it back on.
We sang a couple of songs and did our best to enjoy the scenery on that second trip back to camp. We knew we had to keep moving, as the sun was going down quickly, and we didn’t want to be in bear country in the dark with meat on our backs, and in my case, my front. We made it back to camp in twilight and added the second helping of meat to the fridge. I felt a huge sense of accomplishment and relief. We did it. We tracked and harvested the animal, dressed it out and packed it out in only two trips, and 12 miles. It was time to relax and enjoy some Mountain House spaghetti by the fire.
I’m pointing to the spot where the caribou fell. Give or take.
As we climbed into our bags for the night, we talked about where we might head the next day. I could barely keep my eyes open for the planning, and drifted off in my comfy bag and 47 layers.
On day six we tried our hand at fishing for grayling and arctic char, and the Arctic Circle decided to show off its repertoire of changing climates.
The following is an account of day four of our trip to the arctic circle. If you missed day three, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
It was a chilly night in the tent. We had a little propane lantern going before bed, and that helped to heat the area, and of course my bag was cozy, but the morning air was not. I was happy I had splurged for a sleep sack, which boasted an extra 25 degrees of protection. I don’t know about 25, but it was soft and well worth the extra layer to keep in body heat.
My penguin socks also came in handy as a secondary foot layer.
The provisions from the outfitter included a two-burner stove and a kettle; the latter we had filled with lake water the night before, and had it ready in the vestibule. Edgar broke up the thin layer of ice that had formed overnight, and got coffee going, since one of us is not such a morning person (cough, cough, me, cough cough) and he kindly served it to me in my sleeping bag so I could warm up before I got up.
Once we were properly caffeinated, we greeted the morning at first light. We couldn’t get over the beauty of our camp site. The water was blue and clear, and clean enough to drink. I’ve never been camping anywhere where we just took our water bottles down to the edge of the lake and scooped up a bunch to drink, but that’s what we did all week with no arguments from our digestive systems. (Special thanks to my friend who gave me a life water tube to use just in case – I did try it out just so I’ll be ready if it’s needed on the next trip!)
My stomach wakes up slowly, but Edgar woke up starving and decided to have a Mountain House spaghetti for breakfast. We didn’t know what to expect from the ready-to-eat packs, but we found them surprisingly tasty. We poured a couple of cups of hot water right in the pouch, let it sit, and in no time it was ready to eat.
The guys who stayed at the camp prior to our arrival had killed several of their caribou after spotting them right from camp, so our binoculars were never far away, and we glassed in between making coffee, and packing gear. It wasn’t uncommon for one of us to be making a sandwich, and the other to take a quick climb up the hill to see what we could see.
We decided to head to a small hill not too far away and put our binoculars to work. The caribou seemed to be coming from the south and heading north into a valley. We made some pb&j sandwiches, filled up our water bottles and layered up for the day. We also packed meat bags, knives, a bone saw, and other items we’d need if we were successful in our hunt.
Once we found a comfy spot, we leaned against our packs and looked over the tundra, up on the hill, around the rocks and back to the tundra again. At first my eyes deceived me. Everything that dotted the landscape looked like a caribou. I’d stare at a dark speck with a shiny side, slide off it and then move back over. Did it move? No. Rock. We did this for an hour or two, snacking on mini snickers, but eventually the sun warmed us so nicely that we found ourselves dozing here and there. We woke up a while later to see a cow and calf crossing the tundra. They moved pretty leisurely for a long time, before suddenly trotting away.
A while later we saw another cow and calf hanging out by the river… which was easily a mile from us but still in our view. We walked up the river bed for a closer look, and to get a better understanding of the best way to travel. Prior to our trip, the one warning we got more than other wasn’t about low temperatures or grizzlies, but about the challenge of walking on the tundra. The land is boggy; it sits on permafrost. Trees can’t root down through it, so we saw grass and small shrubbery on top and some sort of plant that looks like a head of broccoli, called a tussock. Sometimes when we’d step, we’d get grass. Sometimes our boots would sink under mucky water, and sometimes we’d land on a bouncy tussock. The river bed was mostly gravel, and much more inviting, and we traveled it whenever it was going in our general direction, even if we had to wind around a bit.
Just down river, no bulls were in sight, so we had to be content with enjoying the scenery, which was easy enough to do. It was so quiet that at one point I heard a noise and couldn’t figure out what it was. Eventually I placed it. It was the rustle of a bird’s wings as it flew above me.
At dusk we headed back to camp to build a fire and enjoy a warm meal of beef stroganoff. We made a plan to move into the valley the next day, where the animals all seemed to be headed.
In part five, our patience pays off along with our waders and pack out bag, and we hit our record for number of miles traveled across the tundra in one day.
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