MOOSE DROOL

The moment I had been waiting for came when the bull glanced back over his shoulder. In one motion I drew, hit my anchor, held low on his chest, and released the arrow.

Archery hunting in September is a magical time to be in the woods, the vibrant colors of fall are spectacular on a canvas of vivid green and earthy browns. The wild sounds of rutting bull elk and moose echo through the canyons on cold frosty mornings. The first of September found me on a trail to a spring frequented by bull moose. With the wind in my face I stalked along the trail, pausing every few steps to listen and test the morning thermals. The trail led to a wallow, and fresh sign oozed from the mud. I froze in my tracks as the strong musty oder of the rutting bull filled my senses. The silence was deafening, and tension filled the air as I slipped an arrow on the string. Suddenly the breeze shifted and hit the back of my neck, the bedded bull , bolted from the shadows of the quaking aspen, and only stopped to glance back as he crossed the ridge 100 yards away. I sat down as adrenaline overtook me. It was going to be a great hunt.

For the rest of September my focus turned to archery hunting elk and deer. As September slipped into October, it was a great time to be in the woods. The leaves were falling off the aspens, and there was a cool, crisp feel to the air. The moose rut was in full swing, and the deep grunts of the bull moose, and the moans of the cows, broke the morning silence.

October 10th dawned and the conditions were prime for a good hunt. It was overcast and slightly snowing. Daybreak found me overlooking a canyon where I had located some fresh rubs, and scent pits. I knew there was a big bull in the area, so I gave the sweetest cow wines I could muster. I thought I head a distant grunt, so I slipped down into the timbered canyon.

Using the wind, I stalked up the bottom of the canyon. A branch snapped and I looked to my right as a bull moved up the ridge away from me, grunting as he crested the top. The bull was the most majestic animal that I'd ever seen. I felt as though someone had hit me in the pit of my stomach, and wondered if I'd blown my chance. After giving the bull some time to settle down, I circled around the ridge to get the wind right. I gave a coaxing wine "Errrn, Errrn," and heard the bulls low grunting sounds in the distance, "Oough, Oough." The rut crazed bull approached with caution only stopping to kick a six-foot aspens butt, it didn't stand a chance. I knelt behind a small spruce tree, slipped an arrow onto the string, and tried to disappear. At fifteen yards he froze, searching with eyes and ears, all senses trying to zero in on my location.

The six foot spruce tree gave me little comfort, as the 1500 lbs bull started walking at an angle just above me. My heart was pounding as the tips of the monarchs antlers appeared in front of me. The flight or flight theory was put to the test, and adrenalin oozed from my pores, as I tried to stay focused. The wind was perfect, and at eight paces the bull stopped, and quartering slightly, glared in my direction, drool dripping from his mouth. The moment I had been waiting for came, when he glanced back over his shoulder. All the time and effort that I had put into this hunt was coming down to a split second. In one motion I drew, hit my anchor, centered my pin on his chest, and released to arrow. He let out a groan as the white crested arrow disappeared against his black vitals. He turned, stumbling sideways before disappearing into the forest. I gave the bull some time and then started tracking him to where he expired.

It was an emotional time for me, I had put in a lot of time and effort, had hunted hard, had blown chances, and wondered if it would ever happen. I snapped a few hero photos, then got to work field dressing the bull, quartering and boning the meat. Then I loaded the pack pack with boneless meat. The 100 lbs of boneless meat was a good feeling with fresh legs. By the time I had reached the creek bed leading to camp on the forth trip, my knees aked, my back was killing me, and I was scratched up from several face plants. Still strangely enough, That feeling of satisfaction and exhilaration of a successful hunt, are my best memories.

2006 ADAK ALASKA CARIBOU HUNT

On the far end of the Aleutian islands, some 1300 miles west of Anchorage Alaska, lies the 30 square mile island of Adak, the last outpost of civilization this side of Siberia. The steep grass covered mountains go from sea level to 3200 feet straight up and down with no flat valley's.



During the cold war it was a naval base that supported our military who spied on the Russians
from the far end of America. Now the Bering Straight Fishery is the mainstay of the economy and about 100 people eke out a tough living in the harsh environment. Adak is now mostly a wind blown ghost town, lost-to-time but with a undeniable whisper of history. The people who live there call it the "Birth place of the winds." The military planted 30 caribou calves for a food source and recreation in 1958. The Naval base finally shut down in 1996 and with no predators on the island the caribou herd grew from 700 to 3,000 animals. With the population explosion came overgrazing and erosion. Sportsman started hunting the herd in 2002 and several near world record bulls were harvested .



In 2006 my son Kelly and my two son-in-laws Shane and Tom and myself planned a hunt to the island and this is a story of our adventure.
This was a do-it-yourself hunt, so we started gearing up for our trip in 2005. Purchasing licences, tags, and maps of the island, and getting our airline connections well in advance. The planning of a hunt has always been something I have enjoyed.
With high expectations we started our long trek from Salt lake City to Adak Alaska, a journey that spans three time zones, and ends closer to Russia than to Anchorage.




After spending the night in Anchorage we boarded Alaska airlines for our 1300 mile flight to Adak. As our airplane touched down on the old naval air strip, a few of the friendly locals greeted us and helped settle us into our housing in preparation for our trip around the island. We rented an old beater truck that was as rusty and weathered as the rest of the town. Then we went down to the local grocery store and purchased a few items for the hunt. We found out the cost of living on the far end of America was outrageous.

The next morning we went down to the docks and woke up Dan, our crusty old skipper who had quite the hang over from the night before. He was a good natured seaman that we dubbed "Captain Dan ." Despite the hang over he seemed to be in good spirits, considering the boats batteries were almost dead and the engine would not turn over. Several hours later and a lot of coaxing she finally fired up. Stowing our hunting gear, we headed south in our boat the "Northern Venture." Climbing onto the top deck we settled in for a long ride as we pulled out of Kuluk Bay. In the chill on the outside deck, the throb of the engines rumbled a dull noise that smothered the small talk, a vacancy I filled with dream caribou, with double shovels, bez points, and back scratchers, none of course are small.

Our ride was a 32 foot fishing boat with "Captain Dan" at the controls. We would soon learn to trust him with our lives as we headed into the storm tossed sea. It was obvious the seasoned veteran had a lot of confidence and could read the water like no other. The sea we were on is where they filmed the "Deadliest Catch," and was a little nerve racking at times, as rip tides, and under currents tossed the boat around like a cork.

I actually savored the ride around the island to our drop camp, the boat cutting a wake through 4 foot swells of emerald green water that originated from hundred thousand year-old glaciers.
The Aleutians Island Wilderness is a majestic part of the world. Creek mouths slide into bays that begged to be fished. Low lush green hills with rounded shoulders, and grassy ridges, scream to be hunted.

After a 25 mile loop around the island, chugging along at the blistering speed of 5 miles an hour we finally arrived at Beyer Bay, etched into the shoreline on the south side of the Island, and our home for the next 5 days. The Bay gave us protection from the elements and a view of the island that was breathtaking.

The most dangerous part of our trip was when we loaded our gear from the "Northern Venture," into a small boat and shuttled it to shore. We found an optimal place to setup our camp on a grassy flat, a stones throw away from the sea, and just above the high tide line. It felt good to stand on solid ground and I savored the fact that we were finally there, but a few hundred pounds of camping gear lay scattered on the ground, demanding attention. The chore of setting up camp consumed the remaining daylight hours. Camp consisted of two sleeping tent, an outside kitchen, a shower, and a privy. I'm no spring chicken so it was nice to have a comfortable camp to come back to after a hard day of hunting.

The open steep landscape would be the chess board where our challenging hunt would be played out, and our stalking skills put to the test. Our strategy was to hike from high point to high point and Glass for caribou, then plan a stalk, or hike to the next vantage point. Kelly and I partnered up for the first day's hunt and headed west on a hike through some steep unforgiving country. After several hours we spotted our first caribou, a group of three, with a young bull that begged to be shot. We passed on the opportunity as visions of wall hangers were still in our heads. We hunted hard for the rest of the day and glassed several small groups of caribou, but still no large bulls to be seen. We hunted hard for two more days and it became obvious the large bulls had been harvested in that area of the island. I was disappointed but to me hunting is more than just harvesting an animal. For me the success of the hunt is measured by the overall experience, the process of the hunt, and spending quality time with family and friends.

The last day found us all together and as luck would have it we came upon a young bull feeding in a small valley. He was in a good position for a stalk so Tom decided to give him a try with his bow, and after a long sneak he had closed the gap to under 100 yards. As he tried to slip in closer, the bull sensing something wrong, moved up the hill and out of archery range.

Every do-it-yourself trip I've been on whether an animal is harvested or not is packed full of memories. Some stand out in my mind more than others. This particular trip was like a vacation, adventure all wrapped into one. There was beauty all around. Every time we would stop and glass we could hear the ocean roaring in the background. This was one of life's journey's that will always hold special memories that I got to share with the boys. I think we discovered as much about ourselves as we did about places favored by caribou.

2004 Newfoundland Trip

THE GIFT

For 25 years, my passion has been archery hunting elk and deer. However during that time I've always had a fascination with caribou and dreamt about one day hunting them. My dream became a reality when my kids surprised me with a guided hunt for my 50Th birthday.

My research for a spot and stalk hunt led me to the province of Newfoundland, Canada. Kelly and I scheduled our hunt for the second week of October and the peak of the rut.
Knowing that I had to be in top physical condition, I exercised and shot my bow every other day for the entire year. Fear of failure was my motivation. I focused on game-like practice, shooting winter video leagues and summer 3D tournaments.

Our journey began when we flew out of Salt Lake City, Six flights, one slightly strained groin from sprinting through Chicago's O'Hare, and 15 hours later, Kelly and I arrived in Gander, Newfoundland where Sipujij Bowhunting camp manager Gerard Joe welcomed us. We settled in for the float plane ride to the lodge, at which time we flew over the most amazing country that I had ever seen. There were barrens, strips of spruce forest, and lakes as far as the eye could see. Groups of caribou dotted the landscape. We were pumped.

Our camp was on a timbered ridge overlooking Dolland's pond, and to our relief, our bows, which had been missing amid all the flights and connections, were flown into camp that evening. After a few practice shots, we were ready.

Newfoundland is nicknamed "The Rock", but don't let that fool you. The land is covered with an eight-inch sponge of Forbes, lichen, and brush that would grab your ankle and cover knee breaking bog holes. Every step was an adventure. Seemingly, the only safe place to walk was in camp.

Our hunt was located in one of the last true wilderness areas, perfect for spot and stalk hunting. Each day we would get up before dawn to a huge breakfast. A typical day would consist of hiking from high point to high point glassing for caribou stags, and either executing a stalk or hiking to the next vantage point.

Nasty weather made it tough on us for the first three days. The rain and fog didn't seem to faze our guide Andy Joe though. He had been walking eight to ten miles every day for the previous two weeks. Andy Joe was short and stout and seemed like he could hike forever. I considered putting an arrow in his leg to slow him down, but figured it would just tick him off. Kidding aside, he has a reputation as one of the best archery guides in Newfoundland. The man could hunt, and always seemed to know what the roaming caribou were going to do, putting us in range on several stags.

The first two days were filled with thrilling stalks on small bands of caribou. I think Andy thought that we could use the practice. Even though the area hadn't been rifle hunted for fifteen years, the caribou were afraid of us, but at the same time curious. It is amazing how calm animals can be when they haven't been rifle hunted. I told Andy that my goal was to put my tag on a Pope and Young stag. He said that if I could shoot straight, it shouldn't be a problem.

The third day of the hunt, we woke to overcast skies, and more rain and fog. Andy said that we would push deeper into the area where he had spotted a trophy stag the previous week. After hiking several miles, we spotted a doe and a large stag in the distance. Andy wanted a closer look, so we closed the gap to under 400 yards. As soon as I put the glasses on him I knew he was the one. Andy smiled and said "let's go get him, eh." Woodland caribou are wanderers. I'm not sure if they even know where the are going most of the time. We switched into sneak mode as we took advantage of the terrain and made a big circle to get ahead of them for an ambush.

As they crossed through a brushy draw at 40 yards, the stag, sensing something was wrong, acted nervous. I knocked an arrow and drew on him, but passed on the walking shot. they faded into the fog, as they disappeared over the ridge. Andy, sensing my disappointment said,"Be patient, we have all day." We trailed from a distance; the pair would vanish then reappear in the mist. Finally, they started to settle down and we closed the gap to 100 yards. Andy whispered, This time we will get him, eh?" The stag was a magnificent animal with a long white mane and double shovels that went almost to his nose. He had exceptional bez length, and matching back scratchers. His top were a little sparse, which is typical of woodland caribou.

After years of anticipation, the moment of truth was finally here. Two hours of stalking and trudging through ankle grabbing bogs brought me to crunch time. With the wind in our face, we crawled on our hands knees the last 20 yards. I ranged the stag at 60 yards an whispered to Andy, "Too far." We were well hidden behind a stunted spruce. Andy whispered to me, "Get ready." He held his ax, which he carried everywhere, horizontal above his head and rocked it back and forth and started to snort. The stag spun around by the challenge, and started walking stiff legged toward us, snorting and grunting as he closed the gap to under 50 yards. Tension filled the air as he stopped and glared in our direction, and then glanced back at his doe. As he started to turn back, Andy hissed, "Take him."

I drew my bow and centered the 40-yard pin on his vitals as Andy let out one last grunt. The angry stag froze in his tracks as the arrow zipped through the air and hit home with a smack. When he spun and ran, he carried my arrow centered in his lungs. I grabbed Andy and lifted him off the ground. "I got him, eh?" I couldn't resist teasing his Canadian accent.

I later stood over the stag and marveled at the magnificent animal. There is something special about spot and stalk archery hunting. More skill. More risk. More challenge. More reward. The hunting conditions had physically and mentally put us to the test. The old saying, "That which will not kill you will only make you stronger" is true. This hunt taught me humility and Patience as no other hunt had before.

Andy made short work of the field dressing. We loaded our backpacks with boneless meat and were back in camp by mid-afternoon. We had spotted a group of caribou with a good stag on our way back to camp. Kelly wanted to give him a closer look, and after a short rest, I grabbed the video camera and we headed out. The stag and his harem of does were bedded on the crest of a ridge in a perfect spot for a stalk. He was a keeper, so we circled around, and with a good cross wind, topped the ridge behind an outcrop of rock in prefect position. The stag was up and I ranged him at 52 yards. As Kelly came to full draw, I turned the video camera on and the stag came into focus just as he released the lethal shot. It was a memory I will never forget.

Upon our return to the cabin, I reflected on the hunt. In our window, a dream catcher that hung for good luck caught my eye. My dream was now a reality.

The thrill of the hunt led us to the "Rock" on the hunt of a life time. As the float plane lifted off the lake, I couldn't seem to get the smile from my face. The sun was finally shining, and our pilot flew us low over the tundra. Kelly and I had one last look at the caribou trails weaving through the landscape. This was tough country, tough people, a place locked in time.

This story is dedicated to my kids who made it all possible.