A fantastic caribou hunt with a surprise ending
Ihad a look back at last year and big game applications opened up on Feb. 27, 2023, for the moose and caribou license draw, so the time the draw will be up and running is coming quickly.
I’ll be applying for a moose license in Area 34, as usual for quite a while, but it wasn’t always the case. I was once a dedicated hardcore caribou hunter.
BACKCOUNTRY CARIBOU HUNTING
For the first decade of this 21st century, I was part of a group hunting caribou on the Cape Shore.
Caribou have fallen on very rough times, not just here in Newfoundland and Labrador, but globally. I was reading about serious problems in Alaska just a few days ago.
But I’m not going to write about that tonight. Tonight I’m going to reminisce and tell you about an incredible hunt I was a part of. From 2000 though 2010, I had many. I think it might have been my finest decade of backcountry hunting.
THIRTY KILOMETRES A DAY
The story really begins in the late 1990s, when my buddy Rob Richards and I were venturing further and further from civilization in search of ducks and geese.
I would park my truck along the roadway between North Harbour and Branch, and then Rob and I would head west by compass into uncharted territory, at least for us. We felt like real explorers.
We found ducks and geese. We hunted on foot all the way back to the St. Mary’s Sugar Loaf and beyond. We explored around the headwaters of the Branch and Little Barachois Rivers. We did much walking, up to 30 kilometres a day on challenging terrain.
That’s around the time I traded in knee rubbers for proper hiking boots. My feet had suffered enough by age 40.
THE INEVITABLE
We also found caribou, lots of them –– and whopping big ones. Rob and I spent just as much time watching and observing the caribou as we did hunting ducks. The inevitable was becoming clear.
We were sitting on a hill glassing over the country and having a lunch break.
I said to Rob, “Why don’t we apply for a caribou license and give this a go?”
Rob responds with “Yes b’y,” in a tone that actually means yes, for sure. So, the following February, we were applying for a caribou license on the Cape Shore, the beginning of what was a 10-year sabbatical from Area 34, Bay de Verde moose hunting.
LEARNING CURVE
So let me tell you about a hunt. There were a lot of them, and I’ll tell of others later, but this one I will never, ever forget.
There’s a surprise ending that I wrote about many years ago. Maybe some of you remember — we will see.
It wasn’t the biggest caribou we ever shot, or the longest shot, or anything like that, but it was one of the hardest days I ever experienced in the country, a very long day.
I think this was around 2002, maybe our third season of caribou hunting. It was before we discovered the registered ATV trail that went into a moose hunting cabin on the Little Barachois River. It was before I bought my 2004 Arctic Cat. We were using an old Honda Big Red belonging to Robert to haul out our quarters of meat. After 2004, we would drive in just past the moose hunting cabin and hunt on foot from the trailhead, and on more capable four-wheelers. That cut back on a lot of walking. We still had much to figure out about many backcountry hunting things in 2002.
EARLY MORNING TREK
The day began with a drive in my 1991 Chevy S10, Rob, Rick and I, with the trike stowed in the back of the truck. We reached our destination and parked by the side of the Cape Shore Highway well before daylight.
The plan was to be back to the first line of ridges before daylight. And so it went, walking in the dark with a flashlight, while being careful not to bust an ankle.
Daylight broke over the waters of St. Mary’s Bay while we sat and enjoyed a tea bun on the first line of high ridges that run parallel to the seashore, but a few kilometres back in the country.
We didn’t see any caribou — at least not one of the big stags we were looking for — but no surprise, we didn’t expect to. We hardly located any decent-sized groups or big stags until we got in past the Marker Hill, so christened by Rob and I a few years before.
We erected a cairn of rocks on its summit to aid our navigation and keep us on track to a fantastic duck gulley. Past here is where we would see the critter we sought.
SPOTTING THE STAG
And we did, from the Marker Hill, off in the distance stood a lovely stag amidst a group of 12 or more lesser beasts. That was the one we wanted and we certainly didn’t mind walking a few more kilometres to get him.
We figured we had the time before dark to get the mission accomplished, sort of. Remember, we were a long way from the truck and had to walk out for the trike and drive in for the retrieval. It was no small task, not for the faint of heart by any means. It was rough country for a trike.
It took us about an hour to get within range of the caribou. The last half-kilometre or so had to be covered in stealth, keeping bushes, rocks, ridges, and the like between us and keen eyes.
The final yards were crawled, and Rob had his rifle supported on his pack for a clear prone shot.
The 30-06 broke the silence with a sharp crack that echoed through the hills. The big stag jolted from the shock of impact, ran just a few yards and fell.
Now the work against time would begin.
BEATING THE CLOCK?
We decided that Rob would leave Rick and I to clean up the caribou and Rob would walk out himself and drive his trike in.
It didn’t take long to field dress the critter so all Rick and I could do was wait for Rob to return. We knew it would be a while. We had no cell phone reception so all we could do was watch out for him, making a game of spotting him first.
Finally, we saw him on the trike, kilometers away, a tiny figure heading our way in a vast open space.
I calculated that there was no way to make it out before dark. But that was OK. We would make it past the ridges and have a decent trail to follow through the darkening hours.
We loaded up the caribou on the trike and began the journey out. Robert couldn’t ride much faster than we could walk, so along we went, soaking in the ambiance of the fading day. All was well in the world, at least for now.
SHOT TRUCK
We arrived at my truck and loaded up the carcass and the bike. It was about an hour past daylight but all was still well. I turned the ignition key and the high mileage but trusty V6 sputtered to life.
Then I smelled antifreeze and shut it down. All was not quite so well. With a flashlight, I discovered that my truck had been shot in the radiator and was leaking very badly. This was not good, and still we had no cell coverage.
Yes somebody had shot my truck multiple times in the grill with a .22 rifle, right through the Chevy symbol. I guess the culprit was a Ford guy.
We needed some water in that radiator to get us back to the highway, where there was cell coverage, just a few kilometres. We filled all our boots with water and topped up the rad.
LONG TRIP HOME
After just a few top-ups, we made it to a cabin with lights on. We pulled in the driveway and shut down the engine. Whew, things were looking up. The people were nice and invited us in.
Finally, we had a signal. I informed Goldie that I would be late — in fact, very late.
Then I called my buddy and neighbour, June Hutchings, and explained the situation to him. June can fix any mechanical thing or situation.
In no time, June and his brother Gerald were on their way to tow us home with a dolly.
And that’s how we went home, sitting in my S10 as it was towed in the middle of the night. The trike was still in the back with the caribou tied to the rack. I wish I had taken photos.
Over the next few days, June and I fixed the truck. I was ready for another adventure. I still to this day have no idea who shot my truck. If you happen to know, please contact me.