Brad Fenson

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

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

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

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

Wait A Second: On the final day of my hunt, I was back in the spot where Joe and I had begun our unsuccessful stalk. I was sitting on the same rock, in fact, when caribou began to file out of the same dip and went into the same timber. I quickly got into position for a shot, but it turned out that the best bull of the bunch was the first one, the one that was already gone by the time I mounted my rifle.

I was determined to catch these caribou, even if that meant spooking them in the process. After the last one was out of sight, I took off at a dead run. I plunged into the timber. My only shot, I figured, was to get to the cliff and catch the caribou crossing the bog at its base.

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

But no matter how much he stressed it, I couldn't get my head around how quickly caribou cover ground.

"They look like they're just ambling along, but they're moving, believe me," said Belvin. "They can cover 30 miles a day. You will never catch them from behind. You've got to get in front of them and be ready to take a long shot."

I was starting to get the idea after Joe and I failed to cut off the group on that ridge, but we got burned again a day later. We were high on the open tundra, in a spot where we figured we could see for miles. When we spotted caribou, however, they popped out of an unseen fold in the land about 170 yards from us, walked across 10 yards of open space, and then disappeared into a finger of timber.

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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.