Quest for a Caribou
Another hunting story, and some reflection.
A rider dismounted from outside. We could hear from our bunks, feed buckets rattling, being dashed onto the ground- horses pawing the dirt and muddy feet stomping up onto the deck. We knew our comrades had returned safely in the middle of the night.
When we had turned in for bed, it was already 11 and Clayton1, our hunter, and I had not seen even a glimpse of them returning off in the distance. We were worried in the usual way. The dangerous and unpredictable are a constant thing we flirt with in the wild; they could’ve easily been mauled by a bear or stranded by their horses, or Zachary could’ve finally shot his client, tired of his dealing with his bullshit. Though, just as easily and without need for worry they could’ve bunkered down for the night at another cabin, three hours away.
Though finally they had returned, coming staggering through the doorway. The rest replays in my mind like some fever dream. I was listening to the sounds of them shuffling around. These hulking weary men, looked as if they had come straight from hell as a sole orange lantern lit their figures- ragged and blood splattered. Each step sounded like an awful trouble as they bumped their way around the cabin through the chairs and the lone table at the center of the room. Zachary kicked the water bucket and exclaimed, “What the hell! They didn’t leave us in any drinking water!”
That was my fault.
These gentlemen then took to chugging cans of beer as nearest substitute- they were severely dehydrated. Despite their forlorn condition, once the other hunter rose from his bunk, they were happy to sit down and retell the tale of where they had just been…
In essence- they originally rode into a valley known as Rainy Pass and spotted a lone grizzly bear in a distant blueberry patch, a worthy trophy for Zachary’s hunter. After bushwhacking several hundred yards and came onto that same patch, they loss sight of the bear and presumed it to have spooked off somehow during their stalk. Zachary’s hunter from this effort alone was already out of breath- when they spotted a massive herd of Caribou pouring from over the next mountain and walking ridge line.
“I see one that might be a shooter, do you want to go up there?”
“Sure-” He consented.
Now, Zachary had been complaining about his hunter all week to Clayton and I. He had yet to shoot an animal and was understandably anxious about it, fretting and telling Zachary that, “you aren’t getting a tip if I don’t shoot an animal!” So, one way of interpreting what happened next, was that the adventure was out of spite- as they climbed 2,000 vertical feet up sharp and crumbling rocks, racing against dying daylight. His hunter was horribly out of shape, and suffered through the entire ordeal. At one point, only halfway up the slope, he broke down and refused to take another step higher.
“Come on! They [the herd] are just over the next rise!”
(They weren’t.)
The two of them had gone as high as one possibly could in the landscape and broke over just as the sun was bleeding crimson across the peaks. Behind one boulder in their way, the tops of antlers were swaying. Zachary readied his hunter, and without a chance to set up or prone, the caribou darted from out of the cover, and he shot at only 7 yards or less.
Immediately, they took to skinning and processing, wetting their knives as the sun set. It was another three-hour ride back to the cabin. They filled both their backpacks- his hunter carried probably 80 lbs in his pack and the rest of his portion he was kicking down the mountain. Zachary’s load probably came out to 120 lbs and he was able to accommodate all of it on his back. The going was slow, and treacherous, completely in the pitch black. The hunter’s meat sack did not really roll as neatly as expected, rather going SLOP SLOP before coming to a sudden halt on the rocks with each kick. For another 1000 feet down they labored before the hunter gave up entirely, and Zachary was forced to pick up the load- an entire caribou he bore down the mountain. Knees buckling, he strained with all his might. It’s monstrous what the human body is capable of. He made it to where the horses were tied, before leaving the meat and riding the three hours back. We were to come back for it the next day…
And so rather understandably, they were tired. What the hell happened without me? I thought, comfortably tucked in my sleeping bag, still having not made my presence known. Clayton and I had an incredibly boring day, glassing from the top of a hill and listening to a WW2 podcast our hunter happily provided. I was genuinely pissed thinking on what I had missed out on. I could’ve pushed myself to the limit! I could’ve been the cameraman- and in fact packing out I could’ve been a great asset! I could’ve even had a hero’s return of coming back in the pitch black to drink all of our beer… Though, maybe I’m thankful I was spared the sleepless night.
The next day Zachary and I retraced their steps in the pouring rain, trotting quickly on our horses to try and make quicker time. The mountains loomed around us, crowned in fog. Soon we reached where he had left the meat and standing from right there, I looked up to where they had descended from. It dawned on me the magnitude of what they had done- what a great feat it is to climb those mountains! And what even greater a feat it is to encourage a sixty-year-old out-of-shape surgeon from the flat country to climb them with you, in order to shoot exotic big game at a range that you could’ve just as easily stuck a spear from.
In that moment, walking back cold and drenched, the job felt unreal. Mountains surrounded us that most people would never see in their whole lives- spectacular yet anonymous crags! So many have gawked at Denali on a road trip; a comparative handful have climbed Everest and even a few have visited Manpupuner- but have you ever been to the back bowl of Canyon Creek, or seen high Beaver Crash Valley from Rainy Pass?
Here we were in the middle of nowhere, retrieving the remains of some dead animal shot the day before, like it was a video game quest I swear. What profession gets to live out such a fantasy? Maybe being a firefighter, a policeman, or a soldier, or even a tow-truck driver if you squint- but not a cashier, not an HR manager, not a TikTok influencer. What we do out there is so unique that it doesn’t even translate to the real world. Zachary’s hardship at the top of the mountain, has no real consequences when the season is over (other than he’ll have bad knees for the rest of his life). Lives are not (usually) at risk, nations aren’t upset, a methhead in a trailer park doesn’t have a vendetta against you because you impounded his car. Despite all the adventures had, life will resume when you get back to town.
If you understand, then simply this is hunting- a sport/hobby/lifestyle which has nothing to do with killing an animal as many believe, but rather it’s an experience. It’s a fantasy apart from the modern world that emulates a certain way of life that was forgotten in the long ago. The beauty of it often is just how unique each experience is and the moments that could never be replicated, with just you and your friends as audience to some of the most gorgeous country on Earth, while shooting guns, drinking, and riding horses…
Yes, just a hunting story this week… I haven’t posted in over five months and that is for a multitude of reasons that I’ll eventually have to explain, number one of which was hunting season. Though, indeed I am hoping to pick my writing back up this winter and I thought the best way to start was with something simple and rather light-hearted. I could publish more hunting stories but I’d prefer not to- what I wrote above isn’t necessarily much different than what you’d see in a major magazine, though if the demand was there, I would fill it. I plan to be writing about homeless people, relationships, and finishing my fiction story: The Four Men Brave, in the coming weeks.
Danke,
ABSURDISMUS