Brad Fenson

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

We stood slack-jawed as the colors changed from green to red to purple and back to chartreuse, as the smoke seamlessly morphed into wide bands and clouds and then waves that pulsed across the sky.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

A giant green campfire had been built on one horizon out of spent nuclear rods, it seemed, and the fluorescent smoke curled into the sky, drifting across a dome of stars before melting into the outlines of spruce on the far horizon: We'd pretty much given up on seeing the northern lights, but now they put on an incredible show.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

Josey, who as a lifelong resident of the Far North knows the aurora borealis the way we know thunderstorms, looked up and said, "Northern lights at night means dirty weather in the morning."

She was right. Clouds rolled in and kept the plane away for another three days. But standing there that night, awed and humbled by this unbelievable place, I didn't care about Josey's warning. I didn't care if the plane didn't come for another week.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

That night back at camp I was tired and a little homesick. It was my birthday, and despite my terrific hunt and the homemade cake (with candles!) thoughtfully baked by our cook, Bernie's wife, Josey, I was starting to feel the isolation of this vast wilderness and dreaming of home. But when I stepped out of the cook cabin, I was jolted back to reality.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

When I got there I was panting and blowing. I looked down on the bog. Empty. I was wondering exactly how fast you have to be to catch a caribou - like an Olympic sprinter? A trotting wolf? - when I heard splashing. The band was walking into the bog.

There was no way I could hold my rifle steady after that run, so I dropped prone, rested my Model 70 on a rock, and tried to settle the crosshairs over the lead bull, a beautiful animal with a white mane and a rack in full velvet. He was just about to disappear into the trees on the far side when he stopped 170 yards away. It was only for a moment, but that's all I needed to make the shot.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

One Step Behind: I was hunting with outfitter Jack Hume on what's typically called an "American Plan." It works like this: After a series of flights, the last on a floatplane, you're dropped off in a primitive camp made up of a few plywood-and-tarp shacks. A cook prepares meals. A guide chops wood, shuttles you around the lake by aluminum skiff, and points you in the right direction. After that, you're on your own. Depending on the guide's time and inclination, he may help you pack out a caribou, but this is a do-it-mostly-yourself hunt.

A lot of hunters, spooked by the wild, isolated country, stick close to the home lake. There is also the sobering fact that the farther you travel from where the boat can reach, the farther you're going to have to pack meat if you get a bull. But you'll have the most success if you're not afraid to cover some ground. The best way to hunt is to hike and glass, working the ridges and checking out as much country as possible. Once you spot caribou, the trick is to get into position for a shot before they move on, something that I had trouble grasping.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

After that blown chance, we learned another hard lesson of caribou hunting: It's feast or famine. When caribou are moving through, you have lots of action. In two days we saw nearly 50 animals as group after group of caribou pushed through the area. On the third day they were all gone. We covered several miles, glassed every rock that even remotely looked like it had fur, and never saw a thing. It was as if the country had been emptied of every critter except a few jays. And it wasn't just us. Every hunter in camp saw the same: nothing.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

The Long Run: Every fall, two great herds of caribou filter out of the far northern reaches of Quebec, where they spend the summer feeding, calving, and trying to find relief from swarms of mosquitoes. Before the breeding season, they start to stream south on their annual migration, pushing to reach their wintering grounds. The larger Leaf River herd numbers 700,000; the George River herd, about 400,000. With over a million animals, it's understandable why hunters head north with visions of rivers of caribou flowing past their camp and the idea that hunting them is little more than picking out the critter you want and pulling the trigger. But as I found out on my first caribou hunt last fall, the truth is far different and the hunt much more interesting.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

The Deer That Never Stops: by Anthony Licata

I saw my first big band of caribou sidehilling on a ridge about 500 yards from the one I was sitting on. Through my binoculars I counted 14 animals - mostly cows and calves, but mixed in were three nice bulls. I grabbed my pack and rifle and sneaked to a lone spruce on the open tundra that would give me some cover to take a better look. Despite the clear view I now had at the open ridge, I couldn't find the herd. Finally I spotted them, still walking at the same steady pace, but in front of where I expected them to be by about 200 yards. This should've been my first clue that caribou aren't whitetails.

Trying to stay out of sight, I worked my way up to the head of my ridge, where I figured I could get in front of the herd, meet up with my hunting buddy, Joe Arterburn, and put us in position to have bulls cross 200 yards below us. I got there in five minutes and told Joe the plan. The two of us set up and waited for the herd to show. But we weren't there 30 seconds when Joe said, "Wait a minute. Is that them?" I looked up just in time to see the last of the caribou slipping over a ridge way off on the western horizon. Caribou spend much of their lives moving, traveling thousands of miles a year, every year. I knew that, but it still was not easy for this deer hunter to believe they can cover hundreds of yards in the time it takes me to round up my stuff and brush off my pants, without ever breaking the pace of a determined walk. Over the next six days, I'd have plenty of chances to learn the hard way.

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fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0400

We went after them, working our way into the trees, mucking across a small bog, and slipping through several openings, creeping and peeking into the cover the whole way. Finally we came to a cliff that overlooked a bog about 50 yards wide and 200 yards long, running parallel to the base of the cliff. We figured the caribou ended up down there, crossed the bog, and entered the timber on the far side - probably about three minutes into our 20-minute stalk.