Tag: grayling

Into the Tundra: Part Six

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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. 

Into the Tundra: Part Five

Leigh, Travel

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.