An Inuit Lesson
A Simple Caribou Hunt Becomes A Journey Into A Proud Past
CLOSING IN
It was after a short shore lunch that David spotted the bull caribou. The animal was at least two miles away, and it was sheer luck the bull had come up in the glasses because now he had disappeared again behind one of the interminable creases in this landscape. When he reappeared he had a friend with him, another good-sized bull.

David and I immediately launched into a plan. We would proceed as far as possible by water, then use a ridgeline to conceal us as we stalked the beasts.

By the time we traveled and again located the animals, nearly an hour had passed. David believed the bulls were headed for an isthmus in the lake, so we hurried to the crossing, intent on an ambush. David?s sharp eye soon noted that we weren?t alone in appreciating such a spot. Precisely where we planned to ambush the caribou, a pile of moss-covered rocks the size of a beaver house stood guard. The rock pile, David explained, was used as a crib, or storage locker for dead caribou, deterring wolves, yet allowing the Inuit to return in winter and chop off chunks of frozen meat.

We waited near this site, and I was extremely excited about the possibility of killing a caribou in such a traditional place. The caribou, on the other hand, weren?t cooperating. More than an hour had passed since the last time we had seen the animals, and they were long overdue. We agreed to sneak to the top of a nearby rise to try to locate the animals, but before we could get there we spotted the bulls bedded only a couple of hundred yards away. Their numbers had grown to three. Once they got up they were sure to head for the nearby crossing.
Another hour passed as we lay in wait, but the caribou never showed. When we looked for them in their beds, they were gone, but they reappeared on a hillside a quarter mile away. We had to move fast. With all the speed we could muster, we made our way to the same ridge the bulls fed upon. They were working our way. As fate would have it, the first two bulls to approach took sudden turns and fled uphill onto an unapproachable ridge. If the third followed, all hope of taking these animals would be lost.

The gods smiled. The third bull continued in our direction, but just as he approached a suitable range, the lead bull spotted us from his position on the ridge. It was now or never, and I would have one move that didn?t include ranging my range finder. I guessed the bull at 35 yards and let an arrow fly that struck him low in the chest, a perfect heart shot. He ran a small half circle and went down.
PERFECT TRIP
Three days later I capped a day of running up and down small mountains, sucking through mud, hiding in rocks, battling a temporary plague of black flies and spooking several good herds of caribou by shooting another good bull. This one had an even prettier cape than the first, and I planned to perhaps combine the rack of one with the cape of another for a great wall mount.

David and I had finished our trip by wearing ourselves out catching and releasing lake trout, and we had the pleasure of locating several more ancient encampments, including one that yielded a primitive soapstone oil lamp that will be entrusted to a museum. I learned that loons are the most promiscuous of animals and that caribou have noses in their feet that help them follow the herd. I cannot wait to return to Quebec to learn more.
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