Chapter 3 - A lesson in humility

“And this is what happened, and this is why the caribou and the wolf are one; for the caribou feeds the wolf, but it is the wolf that keeps the caribou strong.”
-Farley Mowat


“All conservation of wilderness is self-defeating, for to cherish we must see and fondle, and when enough have seen and fondled, there is no wilderness left to cherish.”
-Aldo Leopold





Hunting is a somewhat of a moral struggle for me. The value that wild places and wild things have in my life can't really be put into words or be defined in simple terms. How do you put a price on the essence of being, the meaning of life, and the things that have made you who you are? I abhor the thought of destroying something beautiful, but I do it just the same in the name of sustenance and meaningful experience. Like the wolf, the pursuit of wild game in wild places and the fruits of these labors keep me strong, but what do I have to offer in return? This love affair is certainly one-sided.

On one hand the thought of doing damage to things that mean the world to me is unthinkable. On the other hand, I believe one of the most pure forms of human existence is a subsistence lifestyle, living off of the land around you and the wild creatures that inhabit it. Don't get me wrong, I'm no purist, but knowing where my food comes from and providing for my family is a big part of what drives my desire to "harvest." I do enjoy a good adventure now and then, which is certainly part of the draw as well.

So off for an adventure with the hope of harvesting we went. Bags packed the night before and on the road at the end of a long work day, our plan was to make it to a decent camping spot near treeline before dark and do a bit of glassing to pick out an objective for an o'dark thirty wake up the next morning, opening day.

The weather forecast was marginal at best. Getting wet wasn't the biggest concern but rather not being able to see through clouds in the high country was. From the trailhead we rambled a handful of miles until the wheeler trail ran out at treeline and we pitched tents. With less than an hour of light left I was keen to get some glass on the land to see if we had any hairy neighbors that might make for a good morning objective.






Before I could get the scope setup I picked up a small band of caribou on a distant ridge some 5-6 miles away. Being new territory with a lot of unknowns it was really exciting to know that we were in the game right out of the gates. The first animal I saw through my binoculars was a magnificent bull, perhaps one of the finest I'd seen. Even from this distance I could tell he was huge. He was some distance from the rest of the small herd, which appeared to be made up of a handful of small to medium sized bulls and cows perhaps numbering 12 in total.

After canvasing the rest of the terrain around and above our camp nothing else of interest jumped out at us and these animals had our primary focus. Their location though was a bit of a conundrum. To get to where they were we’d had to descend a few thousand feet, cross a drainage of unknown size or depth, and in doing so re-enter the dreaded “green zone,” that is the alder and Devils Club choked bushwacking nightmare below treeline.

As the last of the light faded on the land we formed a plan. Wake up, wander up the hill for a while to see if we would find something closer and easier, if we couldn’t, we’d make a play on the small herd we hoped would still be there in the morning.







As I tried to force myself to sleep I couldn’t shake the vision of that big bull silhouetted against the distant skyline. I wasn’t hunting antlers by any means and I fully intended to shoot the first bull that I happened across if I was lucky enough to stumble into one. This bull was a special animal though, and he haunted the few dreams I had that fitful and relatively restless night.

Dawn broke gray. The cloud ceiling was above the hilltops but not by much. There was an ominous energy in the air. Up well before light we brewed up and choked down lukewarm crappy trail food before setting off up the hill at first light. Only a mile or two from camp it became clear that things were not improving on the weather front. Wind picked up, clouds came down, and soon the sideways rain was forcing itself into every weakness in our layering systems.

Lenses fogged, fingers numbed and there wasn’t really any question about whether continuing up was a good idea. We were inside the ping pong ball and we weren’t going to find more animals unless we happened to trip across them.

The caribou we’d seen across the valley had still been visible in the morning, but by now we were just as likely to see Russia from the ridge we were on as we were the small herd a few miles away. At least we knew where they were and generally how to get there.

With some reluctance we started scrubbing elevation towards the creek a few thousand feet below. Before too long we re-entered the green zone and it was bad, perhaps as bad as I have encountered. It took 3 hours to cover a quarter of a mile pushing our way down hill to the creek through jungle so dense that at times my feet weren’t touching the ground as I thrashed and cursed for every inch of progress. Thoroughly soaked to the bone with streams of water coursing down my body and filling up my boots we reached the creek. It was wadeable, but barely. On the other side we faced the same 2,000 feet of steep bush bashing but in the opposite direction, up this time, to get back out of the green zone and into the open where travel would ease and allow us to maneuver towards our objectives.





It was soul-searching time. Could we do this? Yes. At least that was my perspective. But what would it cost? We were working towards spent and the hard part was yet to come. Getting through the terrain that we had already was brutal and we had empty packs. Making our way back through this stuff with full loads and antlers catching every twig and branch along the way seemed horrific at best. I estimated that it would take three days to move two animals back to our camp from where we were likely to find them, and we didn’t have that time even if time was the limiting factor.



So at the bottom of the valley, drenched and dejected I threw in the towel. I tucked my tail and turned it towards where we had come from with the sour taste of failure in my mouth. Was it the right call? I knew it was possible, but it certainly wasn’t practical. Is this just me getting old and soft or is my gut saving me from biting off more than I can chew? I’ve never liked the feeling of doubt and uncertainly and I was drenched in it as much as I was the rain that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute.

Back at camp we sulked in our tents, hoping for a break in the weather than never came.








And that was it. This limited window of opportunity was over for me. My one chance to hunt a caribou for the year had come and gone and I had failed. The sun had set on my hopes, or had it?



To be continued…