North of the Border:Bulls of the Barren Grounds

Bulls of the Barren Grounds
Withstanding the elements for a trophy caribou
By W.P Williamson

Ghostly whiffs of movement through the stunted pines did little to betray the animals’ presence. However, the occasional yips and yaps of wolf pack communication did. Suddenly, I realized that I was not the only predator stalking the herd of caribou bedded down on the barren, wind-scoured ridge above. Just as suddenly, I switched my intended quarry from herbivores to carnivores. I strained my eyes to glimpse one of the fleeting, smoky apparitions. I knew this particular ridge from a decade of previous hunts in the area; I quickened my pace and remained on my pre-chosen course.

Lagging behind my intended target, I hurried toward the tree line which ended about 300 meters from the top of the ridge. I carefully made my way through the stunted pines and spruce – ragged and torn shapes twisted into hideous forms by extreme arctic weather systems over the centuries. These trees, perhaps three meters tall, would easily have growth rings of a couple hundred years or more, yet they were barely large enough to make suitable Christmas trees. My newly formulated plan was to reach the edge of these trees and perhaps ambush one of the wolves who were now out in the open skulking around the tree line edge. The fresh snow was deep, soft and quiet and acted as a sponge to absorb the sound of my footfalls. Between the quiet conditions and the gusting north winds, I managed to get among the preoccupied wolf pack undetected, easily within shooting range. It became increasingly difficult to cover that last few hundred meters as the trees became smaller and more sparse as I approached the tree line. I finally ascended to the last of the scruffy trees and held up within the cover of a small thicket of spruce. I immediately spotted my original target bedded down and enveloped by the rocky, cornice rimmed basin some 300 meters up the slope. The tips of the bull’s 360-class rack were the only visible hint of his location. Glassing the ground which lay between us, I noticed that the wolf pack had split ranks. Tracks indicated that they had circled around the ridge top in an attempt to get behind the dozing and unsuspecting caribou. One set of tracks angled up toward the basin refuge of the caribou herd of thirty-odd head.

I suppose that I felt it as much as I saw it. The huge, bluish-grey wolf moved with the speed of a lightning flash and was instantly among the astonished, scrambling caribou. When last I saw the wolf, he was hot on the tail of some poor yearling caribou calf, as the entire herd bailed over the ridge top and down the other side. The unsuspecting herd had no idea that their escape route would lead them headlong into the main pack of wolves which had circled around behind the ridge. By the time I reached the summit, the hunt had already unfolded. I spotted the caribou herd as it single-filed over the next ridge top across the small valley. I heard the howling of the wolves below as they sang of their successful hunt. I sat and took it all in, smiling at the turn of events and my good fortune to have been witness to them. These two most ancient of enemies playing out the timeless life and death ritual as repeated countless times over the eons. I sat resting, tired by my climb, and allowed my soul to devour and savor the moment…this time…this place.

The solitude allowed me a moment to reminisce. November 20, 1987. This was the time of my first excursion to the Arctic Circle and it would prove to be one of the most extreme of hunts. We had -38 to -40 degree temperatures and 70 km winds for the duration of that hunt. If extreme hunting is your game, you won’t find hunting more difficult than late-November caribou hunting on the Arctic Circle. Our hunting party of three all worked on the same crew at the mine and consisted of myself, big John Hayes and Trevor Harding. All of us were new to the Yukon within the last couple of years. We had heard the tales of this Northern realm and the humongous herds of caribou contained therein. We were going to the Arctic Circle to hunt for Barren Ground Caribou. The Richardson/Ogilvie Mountains of the North Yukon Territory – the winter range of the Porcupine Caribou herd. This herd numbers up to 200,000- plus individuals. They range in all three Alaska, Yukon Territory and Northwest Territory areas, the latter two being winter range, the former being summer range and calving grounds.

John, Trevor and I had gotten off work at 7:00 a.m. and had packed all the gear into the 4×4 for the trip the previous night. We were immediately on our way. The road north proved to be wicked, indeed. The road was iced over and falling and blowing snow was piling up steadily as we traveled north. By the time we reached the Dempster Highway, the fresh snow was 30 cm deep and drifting badly on some of the more exposed portions of the road. Crashing through one meter high snow drifts, some of which were probably 30 meters across, definitely added to the extreme conditions we were already faced with. We soon began second-guessing our very sanity; the anxiety in the cab of the truck was as thick as the accumulating snow outside the cab. But, undaunted, we continued our journey north. Some fifteen hours after leaving Faro, Yukon, we finally arrived at the Eagle Plains Lodge, our destination. The Eagle Plains Lodge is located about 20 km south of the Arctic Circle, perched high on a mountain top like some lone sentinel watching over the Eagle River in the valley below. Upon entering the lodge, we instantly caught sight of a beautiful, full-mount, double shovel, 400-class Barren Ground caribou bull which was the centerpiece of the common room. With much ooohing and awing, we all but forgot about our ordeal at just arriving here at the lodge. We once again commenced to go over our weekend hunting plans for the thousandth time. Having finally awoken the manager, Stan, we got signed in and received keys to our rooms. As wiped out as we were, we still unloaded the truck and got our gear to our rooms to thaw out and then crashed soundly in our beds.

In November, in this frozen north country, the first shooting light is not until around 9:30 a.m. Last light is around 3:00 p.m. To say that hunting time is at a premium would really be an understatement. Fortunately, by sheer numbers of caribou alone, hunting is generally not difficult. Finding a trophy class, 350- plus bull, however, can be difficult and challenging. One can observe a great many caribou before finding that sought after trophy. The largest bulls drop their antlers first, generally by the middle of November. Big bulls are very plentiful, their antlers unfortunately are not! November 21st, and my birthday to boot, we each packed two caribou tags and we literally had thousands of caribou to choose from. Within a couple of hours we had six fat, young bulls down and gutted, awaiting the drag out to the truck. Packing up to go, we looked at our bluish, black and blistered fingers (our trigger fingers took frostbite from our triggers in the extreme cold weather). We vowed never to make the trip after the first week in November ever again!

The trip home that year was just as spooky as the trip up, due to continued extreme cold, snow and wind. Happily, the trip home was basically uneventful save for a few encounters with monster snow drifts. We made it home with lot of caribou meat, frostbite and jubilation. This hunt had been one of the most challenging that I had ever encountered both physically and environmentally.

Physically due to the two kilometer no shooting corridor and the no snowmobile laws – one must drag the caribou by hand and toboggan, extremely difficult work to be sure. Environmentally due to the aforementioned weather conditions persistent throughout the entire hunt. However, this hunt was one of the most personally rewarding and the first of a decade of similar hunts and pilgrimages to the Arctic Circle.
Skulking, resting on that lonely ridge top, I could see no sign of wolf or the caribou. I sighed a tired sigh, laid back in the snow and thought back again, only a couple years back now, the first and only time that I observed and hunted in what is known as a major herd. A major herd is a large herd of caribou which could conceivably number at 30,000 to 40,000 individuals. Thousands of smaller herds comprise the major. These smaller herds are everywhere and 200 in a group on an open ridge is an ideal hunting situation and very common in the open ridges. Lines of caribou kilometers long seem to trail endlessly down off of every ridge and drainage and creek bottom, everywhere! As was usual for me, I was hunting with four fellows from my crew at work. First timers to the Arctic Circle, all of them. This year the weather was extremely mild, unseasonably so. This trip proved to be the only time we didn’t utilize the lodge. We had brought a big camper along and I set up a three-man tent and tarp, sleeping in my ten-star bag, two five-stars tucked into one another! At any rate, I was quite comfortable with the addition of the propane heater. As far as weather was concerned, this trip was at the total opposite end of the spectrum.

Around noon on our second day of hunting, things were looking grim. We hadn’t seen a single caribou, nor a solitary fresh track. We had made our way north and were just below the Northwest Territory border. Trucks parked, we talked, contemplating our next move when along came our saint, our angel. It was the game warden, the all-knowing game warden. After a check of our hunting licenses, tags and rifles (all was in order), he seemed to relax and questioned as to why we were hunting up this far north when a major herd of caribou was crossing the highway approximately 20 km south of our location. Astonished, we commenced to barrage the poor fellow with a million questions simultaneously. How many? Where were they crossing? Any big bulls? Etc, etc, etc. He just giggled to himself and as he started to drive away he said, Just drive south, you can’t miss them!

Upon arriving at the area, we were totally amazed because, just three hours previously, we had not seen a track anywhere. But now, Whoa! It looked like a barnyard for about an 8 km stretch of the highway. Caribou were literally everywhere. We dispersed from the vehicles and split up, going after various herds on the ridges that surrounded us. I stalked my way through the herd on one of my own favorite ridges and passed by a dozen different size bulls. As I continued my stalk, I hoped to find a stick antler bull, as I call them. A stick antler bull has a faded greybrown coat of fur and long, white mane flowing down his entire cape. Not much for top points or bez, but 70-inch main beams with 50-inch spreads can surely look incredible and uniquely Òbarren ground. That is what I hoped for and that is precisely what I found that afternoon. I will never forget the sight that followed. About 200 meters from my fallen bull was an ancient caribou trail. On this trail, the caribou traveled single file before me. As far south as I could see, about 6 km, the line of caribou moved steadily. Photographing my kill, cleaning, caping and halving the carcass took about one hour. That line of caribou streamed on past the entire time.

One of my partners arrived to help and we each dragged half a caribou, easily arriving at the truck within another half hour. Glassing the hill, I could see the line of caribou trudging along, seemingly infinite in their procession. This is a sight few have witnessed I would suspect.

Another howl from a wolf jarred me from my thoughts; it was the miserable wail of a subordinate young wolf awaiting its turn at the kill. Standing, I stretch my tired legs and thighs, and looked about me and shivered. It was colder this afternoon, I mused, and daylight was running out. With the day’s hunting nearly done, I descended to my truck. I was content even though the wolves had taken the day and my caribou tag remained in my pocket. The big 360- class bull was now just a memory in my minds eye. Tomorrow…yes, perhaps tomorrow, I would find a bull caribou. That holy grail of all caribou, the 400-class, rarest of the bulls from the barren grounds.