I was awakened in the middle of the night, and for a moment I thought a wolverine was shuffling around under the floor of our little plywood cabin. As I gained consciousness, I could hear claws scratching on wood and began to think the animal was actually on the roof. Then the porcelain washbasin on the table at the foot of the bed crashed to the floor, and I became urgently aware that whatever it may be was now snarling and huffing at the toe of my sleeping bag.
My wife, who up to this point had been sleeping through the whole affair, leaned over and whispered, “Do you think it’s a bear? Where is your rifle?”
I had no response to the first question. The answer to the second was even worse, as my rifle was leaning in the opposite corner of the cabin, drying out from the previous days soaking. With few alternatives, I reached for my flashlight and a can of bear spray, not really looking forward to using the acrid substance in the tight confines of the little cabin. As the light went on, I was greeted with a terrible growl and two intensely glowing eyes not six feet in front of our faces . . .
Fortunately, they were not attached to a bear, or a wolverine for that matter, but to a large male pine marten that had apparently smelled the fresh caribou blood on our clothes and boots and come looking for a meal.
We both let out a sigh of relief, and I set about evicting our visitor. I shimmied past the now highly agitated and snarling marten to open the door, which had closed behind the little ball of fury. I then grabbed an old straw broom and gave the little fellow a jab in the nose, which sent him running for the door. Having learned my lesson, I donned some boots and went out to grab a large rock to brace the door shut.
As I walked out to the shore of what the outfitter called “Desolution Lake,” I was greeted by the howl of a single wolf on the far side of the mirror-still water. I forgot about the rock for a moment and just stood, soaking in my surroundings. The air was crisp, frosty, and filled with the resinous scent of the scrubby firs that surrounded our camp. The moon and stars were visible for the first time in days, and little streamers of the northern lights danced on the horizon.
Then a great howling erupted behind me, up on the divide with the Taku River, as a pack of wolves answered the call of the lone trespasser. There are few sounds that so invoke the spirit of the wilderness like the howl of a wolf in truly wild county. Perhaps the dawn roaring of a pride of lions or the bugle of a big bull elk, but at that moment, there was no better place to be.
Thankfully this caribou’s blood didn’t cause too much trouble for the author.
The last few days had been a tremendous experience. It seemed like only hours ago that we had arrived at the lake on the second of two float plane flights from Atlin, British Columbia. We had come all this way to hunt mountain caribou. The place names where these, the largest of the North American caribou exist, are the stuff of hunting legend. Names like Whitehorse, Telegraph Creek, and Carcross dotted the map. Names I had read in sporting literature since I was a schoolboy. Jack O’Connor himself had hunted this area for Stone sheep, caribou, and moose in 1951. Not much had changed in that timeless wilderness. We were still more than 50 air miles from the nearest dirt track, and the country is still filled with a bountiful variety of game.
We were there for the caribou, and on the morning of August 28, we set out at dawn. We mounted up and moved along the eastern shore, then, after crossing the little river that flows out of the lake, we turned northwest and began to climb a long ridge that rose above timberline to some nameless peak about four miles away. It had rained all night, and the saturated fir trees that lined the ancient game trail made it feel like you were riding through a carwash. After about an hour, we pulled up, tied off the horses, and set about glassing a large, rocky basin called Hurricane Creek. We located a few cows and calves and watched a cow moose swim directly across a mile-wide lake, but the only bull we found was a small yearling.
And so it went for the next five days. It would rain and the fog would move in, first up the Taku River and then up the smaller drainages, until on several days glassing was impossible. We saw more herds of cows and calves, more small bulls and more moose, but nothing that was enticing enough to shoot.
Then, on the afternoon of the sixth day, as we were making our way across a far-flung area called Lost Gun Pass, the weather began to change. The afternoon turned into the type of day that just made you happy to be alive. The sun was out, and the countryside was shimmering from the prismatic effect of the water drops that clung to the scarlet arctic birch. We stopped to glass and soon noticed a lone bull caribou trotting around in circles. The bull would buck like a horse, run for a spell, come to an abrupt halt, shake his waterlogged hide, and repeat the whole process. We quickly found him in the spotting scope, and what a bull he was! He carried long, heavy main beams, good tops, and a double shovel. Our guide, Tony, said the bull was a very good specimen and asked if I wanted to try and get closer. I looked the bull over again and decided it warranted a closer look.
We hurried to the horses and began a long, sinuous arc that would take us to the ridge where the bull was located. When we were about a mile from where we had last seen the bull, we tied the horses and began our climb on foot. After about 1,000 yards I spotted something white in a patch of scrub fir. Closer inspection through the binocular found it to be the bull, now dozing on his feet in the warm September sunshine. All that running must have tired him out, but it left us in a precarious position. From the bull’s vantage point, he could easily spot us making our way up the small draw that we had hoped would conceal our approach. Tony had a rangefinder, and he determined the bull was 450 yards away. A long shot for sure, so I decided to get closer.
We began stalking towards the bull, walking when he would drop his head, stopping when he would shake his antlers to rid himself of the small biting black flies that had emerged with the sunny weather. We continued to close the distance until we came to a wide-open slab of granite. We needed to cross this opening to gain a clear view of the bull’s vitals, as from here all we could see were antlers above his hideout in the firs. We quickly scrambled across the granite slab . . . only to find that we could not see him at all now that we were on the same hillside.
Our only choice at this point was to keep getting closer, so on we went. We were able to close the distance to about 80 yards when the wind hit the back of my neck. A few seconds later, the bull perked up his head, turned 180 degrees, and began trotting up the draw. This gave me a brief opening. I shouldered my rifle, swung through the body of the rapidly departing bull, and tapped the trigger as the crosshairs appeared on his neck. You could hear the bullet strike flesh, and the bull dropped immediately. It was the perfect end to the perfect afternoon.
We caped and quartered the bull, then set off leading the horses back to camp. We would go on to hunt moose for the rest of the trip, but without success. The moose were there, to be sure, but I did not see one of the wide, heavy bulls the area is famous for.
All the more reason to go back again.