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 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.
This is a photo of me, giving it 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.
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.
The following is an account of day three of our trip to the arctic circle. If you missed day two, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
The wind died down on Saturday morning, and we got the text we were hoping to see. “Can you be ready in 15?” Ten minutes later we were anxiously waiting for the van to take us back to the staging area. We got our bags organized and in the van, and enjoyed a few laughs as the guys from Wisconsin seemed to be forgetting everything in their rush to get into the field… including a rifle! We also noticed they were well under the weight limit, and we heard one of them regretfully admit, “I didn’t really bring any cold weather gear.” I glanced down at my bag of coats, hats, gloves and wool long johns and felt a little bad for him. It’s Alaska, friends. It might be late summer, but it still gets cold.
We needed our waders for the boarding process, since the float planes were tied up close to shore, but still required a few steps in the water. I got to sit up front next to the pilot, while Edgar took the chair right behind me. Taking off on the water is unreal. The plane glided for a while while we got up speed, and then lifted effortlessly into the Alaskan sky. It was a bumpy ride for some of the 150 miles north to our camp site. While my stomach lurched and dropped, our pilot was completely unbothered. I glanced over and caught him sending a smiley face emoji to someone. Edgar and I locked eyes and I knew we were thinking the same thing. If your bush pilot is confident enough to text while he’s flying you out, he’s either unhinged, or there’s nothing to worry about. We settled on the latter.
We saw caribou, and so much water. It’s crazy how many rivers and lakes we saw from the air. We knew we were being dropped off by a lake, so every time I saw a big one I was thinking… maybe we land here… or here… this one looks nice. Finally the pilot spotted what he’d been after, and we landed smooth as silk on a good-sized lake. A bunch of guys were gathered in camp chairs on the beach, and they greeted us warmly. They wasted no time in sharing the layout of the camp, where they saw animals, which direction the caribou were going, and which meals they enjoyed the most from the Mountain House packs. They also had a stack of leftover firewood, which was much appreciated. There were six of them, so they’d had three tents, and left one standing and ready for us to move in. Only half of them could fit in the plane, so the other three stayed back with us for a few more hours. It took 90 minutes each way to ferry us back and forth from the staging area.
Fish and Game officials have serious rules about NOT hunting the day you fly. But there is no law against getting the lay of the land, so once our new friends had departed we spent the next five hours of daylight getting to know the valley. We saw a few caribou, including one rather large bull we nicknamed Mr. Wide. He had really tall uppers, but no bez. We watched him for a good while, and slowly got closer, until he’d had enough of us and headed back toward the canyon.
The visual judging of distance is deceiving. These caribou were close to camp, but still about 200 yards away. With our binoculars we could see for miles, so it felt like everything was so close, but the actual distance and the mushy give of the tundra made crossing the valley more time-consuming than it appeared.
The daytime temperature was comfortable – in my wool base layer, lined overalls and fleece I was plenty warm, but when the sun went down the temperature really dropped. We got a fire going and each enjoyed a warm Mountain House meal before burrowing into our sleeping bags. I admit it took some time for me to fall asleep that first night. I heard soft, unidentifiable noises, that for no reason whatsoever I suspected might be a grizzly bear. Once I was certain it was just the wind, I pulled my hat low and my sleeping bag high and drifted off.
On day four we established a morning coffee routine, had an unconventional camp breakfast, and devised a strategy for crossing the tundra.
The following is an account of day two of our trip to the arctic circle. If you missed day one, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
On Friday we got packed up not-so-bright and early for the 6a flight into Kotzebue. The journey took about 90 minutes, and most of the passengers had one common denominator: camouflage. Nearly everyone on the flight looked like they were prepared to rough it in the elements for a few days, and hoped to fill their freezer in the process.
It makes sense. Kotzebue is a small town, and is considered the gateway to the artic. It’s also an island, so getting goods in or out is tricky. (That might explain why a bag Cheetos at the local market sold for a cool $7.) Once we landed at the small airport, it wasn’t too hard to find the two young men with the name of our outfitter embroidered on their jackets. Kaleb and TJ helped us load up into a van to take us over to the staging area. A few other hunters shared the ride, and a couple more were already at the base camp. There was a team of two from California, one bearded quiet guy, and one clean-shaved and chatty fellow. Another pair of guys were traveling from Wisconsin and said they had hunted together for 30 years. A third duo were also longtime hunting buddies from somewhere in the lower 48.
We all got busy breaking our big bags down into smaller bags, per the instructions of the outfitter. The bush planes are small, so the pilots prefer many small bags that they can tuck into limited cargo spaces, versus just a couple larger and more cumbersome bags. We had quite a few items when we broke everything out, and were a little nervous about how the weight would add up once they put everything on the scale. As it turned out, my bathroom scale had set us up for success. We were both at about 71 pounds, one pound over the limit, but the outfitter let us slide.
The plan was for us to get into the field that morning, but the wind was up and we decided to grab breakfast while we waited it out. It was fun to chat with the other hunters and hear their stories about “that one time” when their buddy shot a big moose, or how one guy had the perfect spot for his trophy bull, until he put it on the wall and couldn’t open his back door without hitting the tines. We all had a delicious breakfast (Edgar raved about the chicken fried steak) and a few good belly laughs before heading back to the staging area to see if it was safe to fly.
The weather was beautiful in town, but reports were that the wind was still howling en route to our camp, so it was decided we’d wait a day and get into the field on Saturday. We resigned ourselves to the delay, and wandered around the town. Hunting, fishing, four-wheeling and sled dog mushing are clearly the big pastimes in Kotzebue. We also saw quite a few broken down vehicles and equipment in yards. Living in a place that remote, and for some of the year, that cold and snowy, must make it hard to get those items removed, and people probably make use of whatever parts they can.
We had a nice dinner with a view, and pondered about the journey ahead. Would we see caribou? Would we see bears? Was it really that tough to walk on the tundra? What kind of camping area would they select for us, and would our gear stand the test when the Alaskan wind and rain blew into the valley?
We couldn’t wait to get out into the wilderness and see what the arctic circle had in store.
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