One Heck Of A Ride

23 The Making of a Hunter was excited when I directed him to the bull, and we quickly decided on the route we would take to stay out of sight and try to get in front of the animals. Imagine my disappointment to find they were gone when we reached the spot where we expected to intercept them. Cliff and I sat down with our binoculars and began glassing. We didn’t find those three bulls, but standing in the bottom of a wide valley was a caribou that was even larger than the one we had been stalking. “He has very good palms and a huge single shovel,” Cliff said when he found the bull in the spotting scope. “Wait. There are two more over here.” “There are three more bulls above them with a bunch of cows,” I said. Two more groups came into view 300 and 175 yards out. I was going to say we were surrounded by bulls when another bull stepped into an opening below us. There soon were seven record- class caribou within rifle range of where we were sitting, and not one of them had a clue that we were watching them. “That last bull has great top points and double shovels,” Cliff said. “He’s coming into our front door. What do you think?” “He’s the best bull I’ve seen this season. What do you think?” “I’m going to take him.” I was sitting with my elbows inside my knees to steady my .300 Weatherby, and squeezed the trigger when the crosshairs were behind the bull’s shoulder when he stepped into the next opening. He dropped without kicking. When we reached the caribou I was surprised at how large and handsome he was. I’d expected these animals to be about the size of a big mule deer, but this bull probably weighed 400 pounds or more. His coat had thick, pale brown hair with a white mane and neck. His antlers were wide with long C-shaped beams and, as Cliff had said, they had double shovels. My first caribou easily qualified for the SCI record book’s Quebec- Labrador caribou category. We were at least five miles from where we’d left the canoe so, after photographing ourselves with the bull, Cliff and I field dressed and skinned him, then loaded our packs with the head, cape and hind quarters and headed for the canoe, leaving the backskin and the front half of the carcass to be packed out the next day. Note the double shovels on author’s trophy Quebec- Labrador caribou. When we reached the canoe, we dropped our loads and built a small fire to boil tea. We were eating the lunch the cook at the lodge had packed for us when Cliff said, “All we need now to make this the perfect fall hunt would be to find us a bear.” “Yeah. That would be great,” I said. A second later, I pointed to a large black spot on the side of the mountain across the creek. “There’s one right there, up near the top.” We both got our binoculars and started scanning the hillside above us. Talk about a fluke of good luck: A closer look at a black spot nearly a mile away showed it was a bear eating berries! Cliff and I grabbed our packs, left the caribou parts with the canoe, and started climbing the steep hill. By staying in a shallow drainage and monitoring the wind, we were able to get within four hundred