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Caribou Above the Circle

A self-guided caribou hunt in Alaska’s western Arctic region

Story and photos by Mark Nelsen

As the small formation of single-engine aircraft disappeared into the heavy skies, the sounds of their high-pitched engines--the last sounds of civilization--followed them. That’s when it started to sink in: thirty-five years of dreams were coming true. I was on an Alaskan wilderness adventure!

Since the age of twelve, when I started reading every outdoor magazine and book I could lay my hands on, I had longed to experience the Alaska bush, to hunt in the footsteps of the legendary hunters: Jack O’Connor, Russell Annabel, Fred Bear.

And here I was, standing at the base of the Brooks Range, farther than I’d ever been from any civilization, on a weeklong hunt for caribou.

I was anxious. Never before had I felt so cut off, so alone, even though there were five other hearty souls on this dream trip. As a hunter, I’d never felt so alive. We stood silently for a long time; everyone was struggling with the reality that were now on our own, with little chance of assistance should something go wrong. I was glad for the company I’d chosen, and glad my company had chosen me. I wanted to stand on the gravel bar forever, savoring my first taste of true wilderness.

But a few hundred pounds of camping and hunting gear lay scattered across the gravel bar, demanding attention. We donned waders and tackled the arduous duty of hauling gear across three river channels to a suitable campsite; the chore of setting up camp consumed the remaining daylight hours.

I never get much sleep on the first night in any hunting camp. I’ve never been able to figure out if that is because of the unfamiliar surroundings, anticipation of the hunt, or a healthy fear of the unknown. But my first night under the September sky some eighty miles north of the Arctic Circle, I slept like a baby. It might have been the endless hours of hauling gear and setting camp; it may even have been the whiskey; but I suspect it was the sheer weight of thirty-five years of dreaming of this experience. Even the fresh grizzly tracks along the river--tracks I looked at more than a dozen times while packing tents, cots, food, supplies, and gear across the river--couldn’t keep me from deep slumber.

The first day, Jeff, David, and I stepped out of the timber and onto the open tundra for the first time. Our little packframe-clad band made its way across the tundra at a slow, miserable pace. The tundra/muskeg is without question the most hideous habitat in the world for a person to walk across. Water lurks below every piece of vegetation, and hidden holes lie neatly covered, like a trapper’s perfect beaver set, waiting to swallow you to your thighs. Progress is slow across this terrain, yet as I would later see, the caribou move on it with a fluid, effortless motion. I try to stay on top of the tufts of grass and hummocks, but it was a fool’s game as the fragile mounds refused to support my weight. I fell again and again, as did the others. By the time Jeff, David and I reached higher ground, we’d spent a few hours crossing this mile of hell.

Glassing back past camp, across the river, and up to the peaks that surrounded us, I spotted three Dall rams, the first I’d ever laid eyes on. David took his turn at the scope--I knew these were the first rams he’d ever seen as well. From this vantage point, we also spotted the first small band of caribou--all cows and calves--working along an impossibly steep scree field about a half-mile away. Jeff worked around above us to check out the next valley; David and I made our way down, hoping to sneak into the valley along a willow-choked creek. The valley opened to reveal a hidden glen, a bit of an oasis nestled between the high fields of scree. Caribou were all over the valley, and we soon spotted Jeff working into position directly across from us. It was obvious from the way he moved that he had his eyes on a particular bull. David set up on another group of bulls. I was carrying my trusty .58-caliber Hawken blackpowder rifle, so I simply watched the two stalks unfold--a position I was quite content with on the first day, although I kept the Hawken close at hand, just in case.

Minutes passed, and I wondered if Jeff was going to shoot. David had decided to wait for him, since Jeff didn’t know where we were and neither of us wanted to mess up his stalk. Eventually I heard a shot and the telltale thud of a solid hit, even though the willows obscured my view of Jeff’s target. David shot a moment later, and just like that, the first two caribou of the trip lay still. Caribou started streaming out of the valley, and that’s when I saw one bull I will never forget. It came over the hill from another hidden dale to investigate the commotion. It was a true monster, dwarfing the other caribou in body length and antler size. My Hawken did not have the range for this monarch at 350 yards, so I watched it join another old bull and two cows. The foursome marched up the scree, onto the ridge top, and out of my life. I can still picture that bull.

Some time later, while helping Jeff and David take photos of their bulls before the arduous task of butchering and packing began, I watched another group of fourteen bulls skylined on the ridge. The group finally disappeared over the edge, walking single file on ancient trails caribou have undoubtedly walked for millennia.

The weight of caribou quarters on the packframe was a good feeling. I knew it would take more than one trip to retrieve all the meat, with antlers and capes going out last. As daunting as the muskeg had been at the beginning of this day, it was ten times worse with the extra weight of caribou quarters on our shoulders. I fell more times than I care to count, cursing the miserable terrain each and every time. By the time I reached the creekbed leading to camp, my knees ached, my back was killing me, and I was soaked from all the faceplants into the tundra. Still, strangely enough, that feeling of satisfaction and exhilaration remained.

On day two, I learned a valuable lesson: Walking in the drainages that run through the tundra every half-mile or so, rivulets making their way to the river below, is much easier than walking on the tundra. In fact, walking in the water was the easiest path of all. I made a mental note to shoot my caribou near one of these drainages. Tom, Bill, and Steve all shot great bulls on day two--Steve taking his with a muzzleloader. Our meat and antler pile on one of the river’s sandbars was beginning to look impressive.

My turn came on day three, and it was an unforgettable day. Working back toward the high ground, David and I found a large herd and decided to try a stalk. We had just made it to a small hummock that offered some elevation when a different group of bulls came streaming from another direction, on their way to join the larger herd. There were some good bulls in the small bunch, and I had to decide fast. Every bull looked good to me, but the last bull had tall beams and great, palmated tops. It was the one. Today I’d traded the muzzleloader for a .300 Remington Ultra Mag, and as the bull crossed one of the creek drainages, I shot. I was elated when it fell less than a hundred yards from the creek drainage. This pack out would be much easier than the first.

The bull’s coat was beautiful, a thick mane of mottled grays, browns, and whites. It was the most gorgeous antlered animal I’d ever seen. From afar, caribou bulls all seem to look alike, but up close, each is unique.

David had just finished helping me with photos when we heard more shots from the valley below as Steve and Bill each connected on their second caribou. Meanwhile, more caribou ghosted in and out of view above us, where the tundra gave way to the higher foothills. A group appeared some seven hundred yards above us, moving toward the creek. Suddenly they got very nervous and closed ranks as a honey-colored blur came streaking toward them along the base of the hills. David and I both scrambled for our binoculars. Focusing on the fast-moving blur, we exclaimed at the same instant: “Grizzly!”

The blond bear slowed its gait as the caribou lined out across the tundra. I wondered if perhaps the bear hated walking across the tundra as much as I did. Probably the bear knew it wasn’t going to catch the herd when the chase started--it was just being a bear and reinforcing its place at the top of the food chain. Speaking of the food chain, I realized that I was up to my elbows in caribou blood and viscera. My bull took some time to butcher since I kept one eye kept constantly on the hillside, monitoring the bear’s position. But the young grizzly seemed content to sit high above the tundra, surveying its kingdom. That was fine by me.

Despite the bear’s presence, there were still caribou everywhere. David left me to stalk a bull with great tops that was bedded within easy rifle range above us. It had appeared while we were still taking pictures of my bull, and with the wind perfect for a stalk, it was a cinch that David would kill his second bull.

When I heard the shot, I put down my knives and made my way to the top of the hill to take David photos, and then we each went back to our respective tasks. That day, six of us had taken five bulls within a mile of camp. We worked together and got them all off the mountain before sundown. The whiskey in camp that night had never tasted so smooth, so crisp, so deserved. Ten caribou lay on the gravel bar. Although I had another tag in my pocket, I decided I would carry that one home, content in the yield the mountain valley had provided.

On the final day, the intruding sounds of small airplanes meant it was time once again to retreat to the civilized world. I thought I was ready to leave. This had been the hardest, most physical hunt of my life, but also the most satisfying. As the small plane lifted off the bar, I found myself struggling with the same emotions that overwhelmed me on the first day. I’d survived the Alaskan bush, but now I couldn’t wait to return, to struggle in the muskeg, to touch the bear tracks in the soft mud along the river, to once again feel terrified, exhilarated, alive.

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