A Beating for My Sins
“It is adventure and it is medicine to a man’s spirt… for man is by nature an adventurous animal, and to deny him adventure is like denying him his manhood,” Stephanie Gwynn, 1924.
Flying to Alaska this year, after the highs and lows of last year, has me wondering if I am adventurous, or just crazy. Last year, my good friend Dave and I were beaten into submission by the remnants of multiple Pacific typhoons. Our moose camp was less than one hundred miles from the Bering Sea and when multiple Pacific typhoons died on the Alaskan west coast, the rain they brought was a slow unending beating. It was like fine sandpaper rubbed on your skin for an hour. The injury incurred was not life threatening, but it hurt.
The DIY drop camp moose hunt in the Innoko National Wildlife Refuge of Alaska was scheduled for ten days. We were scheduled to be extracted by float plane on the eleventh morning. That did not happen. Since we were inserted by float plane, we were weight limited. The weight limit was one-hundred pounds per man. That included all our hunting gear, tents, food, rifles, ammunition, literally everything. So, when day eleven passed and we did not get picked up the food became scarce. By day fifteen when we did get picked up, we were legitimately hungry. That night two moose hunters floated down the river into our camp. They killed two moose. We ate like kings and two mornings later, we were finally flown out.
To make matters worse, I was supposed to be on a mountain goat hunt three days after the scheduled end of the moose hunt. So, on day seventeen, when we finally got extracted from the wilderness, I was four days late for the mountain goat hunt. My mountain goat guide, Steve Johnson of Ultimate Alaskan Adventures, still wanted to do the ten-day mountain goat hunt even though we only had six days. I am happy I agreed because we killed a true giant mountain goat. But the truth is that I was wrecked. The ten-day moose hunt that went seventeen days and the lack of food made me weak. I am amazed I was able to climb the mountains to even hunt mountain goats, much less kill a giant, and help pack him back out.
That was last year. Now I find myself, just eleven months later, flying to Alaska to hunt again. This time, I am also hunting the Innoko National Wildlife Refuge, but not the rivers, the mountains. My good friend, Sergeant Major (Retired) Shel Nevels and I will be hunting the Beaver Mountains of the Innoko for caribou, black bear, wolverine, and wolf. It is a bucket list hunt for the both of us and we prepared like our lives depended on it. We got into excellent shape. We packed and repacked. We weighed all our gear and re-weighed all our gear. We confirmed our rifles and loads out to five hundred yards. I have never felt more prepared for an adventure hunt in my life. Now, as we are flying back into the remoteness of Alaska to be dropped off - no guide, no outfitter, just us – I catch myself wondering if I am slightly insane.
The trip from Kentucky to Anchorage went according to plan. The shopping in Anchorage for the supplies we could not bring on the commercial flight was seamless. We got all our gear weighed and repacked for the next leg of the journey, Anchorage to McGrath. Then a fitful night’s sleep was broken by grey dawn, followed by breakfast. A cab dropped us and all our gear at Alaska Air Transit where we were weighed in again and waited on the next, always smaller plane, to take us to our next destination.
The flight to McGrath from Anchorage was beautiful, river valleys, mountains, and glaciers filled our view as we flew north by northwest. Arriving at the Hotel McGrath we were greeted by the ever smiling and positive Miss Jenny Baumgartner, who is the owner operator. She got us our room and access to the few things I had mailed up in advance. She also told us that the outfitters and pilots were not in town yet, so we were early and had time to relax. Being retired Soldiers, we went to the tavern. It still amazes me that in a town called McGrath, the tavern is called McGuire’s. As we bucked up to the bar, I started looking for my initials I carved into the bar on my first trip to McGrath. That year I thought it was an honor to carve your initials in the bar. I asked the bartender, “What does it take to carve your initials in the bar?” The young native bartender said, “A knife.” Well, I had a knife.
The pilots arrived that night and we met them the next morning over breakfast. They were ready to fly if we were. So, we hauled all our gear out onto the front porch of the Hotel McGrath and weighed everything again – on their scale. I knew the pilot from previous trips, and he is very serious about weight limitations. We would each be allowed only one hundred pounds. That hundred pounds is literally everything: food, bullets, tent, first-aid kit, you name it, and it is in that one hundred pounds. Earlier in my Alaskan hunting trips I was highly critical of the weight limit, because I weigh about 175lbs. I have seen some 250-pound men get on the same float plane before me with their one hundred pounds. However, during my mountain goat hunt my guide, who had been hunting for years in Alaska, lost a friend, a pilot, and it was due to overloading the plane and weather. He said that a significant portion of bush planes that go down is related to loading or overloading the plane. I am no longer critical of a pilot’s conservative choices.
We were twenty pounds under the weight limit at our final weigh in. In my experience, there are two things you cannot have enough of in remote locations – whiskey and coffee. You can go without food for weeks and with a good repair kit, you can fix about anything. But morale suffers greatly when there’s not enough whiskey or coffee. So, we hustled to the general store and resupplied. Back at the scales, we made an honest two hundred pounds. The sun was coming out and the wind was light. In a place where the weather can kill you, this was a blessing, because we were ready to fly. All our gear, food, weapons, and life support equipment were loaded. The pilot gave us a short safety briefing in case the plane went down. Then we were airborne.
The heart races and the mind brakes against the speed, as you take off and the plane rises off the river. The anticipation of adventure and the hunt fills your chest with lust, while your mind pulls back and says, “Be cool, take your time, make prudent decisions, this place of beauty will kill you.” The duality is inescapable, but you must let your heart win the fight with your mind, when the weather is beautiful, and you are flying in a bush plane over Alaska.
Less than two hours passed, and the riverine systems gave way to the Beaver Mountains and in short order the pilot was banking over Tolstoi Lake, our home for the next week. The plane glided across the crystal-clear lake and the pilot expertly stopped with one pontoon on a beaver dam to avoid the rocks. I jumped off the pontoon and stuck the landing without getting wet. Then held fast the line to keep the plane on its perch, while Shel and the pilot unloaded our trappings. Then it happened, I let go. Once again that inescapable lust for adventure and wild places washed over me. The plane lifted off and we were alone in a vast wilderness. Well, we were alone with grizzly bears, black bears, wolves, moose, caribou, and wolverines.
Rifles loaded and our legs under us, we climbed up the mountain. You cannot hunt on the day you are dropped off in Alaska, but in a country with a healthy population of apex predators we were taking our long guns on the hike up the mountain to find a suitable camp location. We certainly could not camp on the lakeshore, there was entirely too much evidence of bears and wolves patrolling the shore for a meal. As we climbed, my legs remembered the feel of tundra underfoot. The strange unsure footing of the tundra collapses under each step and you feel almost as if you’re walking in deep snow or maybe on a thick foam mattress.
“UP TOP,” Shel exclaimed.
“What?” as I took a knee and raised my rifle.
“Caribou!”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.”
I lowered my rifle and raised my binoculars. There they were, seven cows and a young bull, headed south along the ridge a few hundred vertical feet and over one thousand yards away. We watched them leave, our hearts bolstered by the nearly immediate good luck of seeing what we came here to hunt. We each had caribou and black bear tags. In Alaska, your tag can be downgraded, meaning if you bought a moose tag you could shoot anything smaller, say a black bear or wolverine, and put your moose tag on it. This meant that Shel and I could hunt caribou, black bears, and wolverines. Wolves are an interesting subject here. In Alaska, unlike the lower forty-eight, wolves are not viewed with such reverence, respect, and love for their place on the landscape. In fact, if you are a legal hunter, you do not even need a tag to kill a wolf and there is no bag limit. So, while I was here to hunt caribou and would love to take a wolverine, if a black bear or wolf made themselves a pest or threat, I would not hesitate.
We exchanged wide smiles and then realized we were standing on a small, quarter acre, bench on the mountain side. As we stomped the tundra to check for invisible rocks that would ruin a tent footprint, I noticed my boots turning purple. The blueberries were in tremendous supply and I thought how fortunate that was for us. Keeping the bears fed and happy, means they will leave us alone. This volume of blueberries would have them grazing like cattle to fatten up before their necessary hibernation, which was not far off. It also meant, that God forbid, we get stranded without caribou meat, we will have some subsistence.
The view from camp.
The bench proved worthy of a camp. Three hours later, we had our gear hauled up the two hundred yards and one hundred and fifty vertical feet from the lakeshore to our campsite. The distance would make hauling water to camp a chore but would give us a buffer from predators stalking the lakeshore for one of their favorite meals, beaver. Shel sat triumphantly in his ultralight chair drinking coffee and enjoying the afternoon, his first in Alaska. I slung my rifle over my back, grabbed my fishing pole and made for the lake. “Shit that’s a great idea, wait up,” Shel said over my shoulder.
If there is anyone out there who wants to catch truly spectacular grayling, well get someone to fly you into Tolstoi Lake. The lake is in the Beaver Mountains in the Innoko National Wildlife Refuge. The first cast produced a two-pound grayling that fought way above its weight class. I was heartened by the fishing for more than just fun. The hungry plentiful fish meant we would not go hungry if we got stranded. I was sure their flesh would pair well with the blueberries. A simple white Panther Martin spinner, tied to six-pound fluorocarbon leader, on twelve-pound braid, launched by a spinning rod produced so many grayling I lost count, as the afternoon sun melted behind the mountains.
Biggest grayling of the trip.
“Shel you up?” I raised my voice to penetrate the walls of my tent over and through the walls of his.
“Yep.”
“I need a cup of coffee. I never sleep good in grizz country the first night.”
“Same here brother.”
The warming rays of the sun were still an hour or better from lighting up the lake valley, but the grey light was enough to get moving. Hot strong coffee tastes magically better in the mountains. It is one of the miracles of adventure in the wild. You simply cannot replicate the feeling or taste of that first sip after a night’s sleep on the ground in the wild. We both immediately started coming back to life after a fitful night. We were blessed with good weather and spoke in low tones about our plans for the day as Mother Nature was silent. If you have never heard silence in the wild, go to northern Alaska and sit outside in the morning. The silence is deafening.
It could have been worse if we shared a tent, something I do not recommend. Yes, it saves weight to take only one tent, but not much. Here is the tent rule according to Colonel Mike:
1. A two-man tent is a one-man tent and as such a four-man tent is a two-man tent.
2. If you use just one tent, it will rain every day to insure you are stuck inside a tent to drive each other crazy.
3. If you use just one tent, your hunting buddy will snore terribly, even if they don’t normally.
4. If you use just one tent, your hunting buddy will toss and turn just as you’re falling asleep.
5. If you use just one tent, it will break in such a way as it’s irreparable and now you have no tent.
Home Sweet Home
We took a very pragmatic approach to our first morning up the mountain. It was still terrible. I believe God invented the mountainside willow thickets in Alaska to make sure that lesser men fail. Our plan was to take a circuitous route up the mountain avoiding as much willow as possible. It almost worked, but we got mired and what should have taken an hour took two. Worse yet, in my sweating and whispered cussing, I pulled my sunglasses off and a willow snapped back and caught me in my open eye. The pain was severe, but I was not crippled. When we got above tree line, I broke out my first-aid kit and flushed the eye. I did not need to be evacuated and I could still see to shoot, but the pain was something special. In the coming days, I would have to use my hands to manually pull my eye open every morning. Then rub it hard to break up the scar tissue, before washing the puss from it. The mountain and its beard of willow do not care what your Crossfit ranking is or if you can run twenty miles a day. Toughness, grit, and determination are mental. I was hurt, but I could keep hunting.
The first day was an exploration more than anything. We hiked the top of the mountains and got the lay of the land. By midday, we had found a cut through a mountain pass that had multiple ancient caribou trails in it. It also had a ledge that we could put our backs into and keep the wind off us while we glassed. The far side of the pass was seven-hundred yards, and this represented the best choke point we could find within a day’s hike of camp.
The barren ground caribou we were hunting were residents, but they still had the wanderlust of caribou. They roamed the Beaver Mountains, an area of about fifty-square miles. We could effectively hunt about ten percent of their range. Our best hope was to spend the day on the highest ground we could find and glass for them. Then, when we spotted them, we would cut them off, and make our shot. The hike back to camp was no easier. The willows extracted their toll. On the last ridge above camp, I stopped to glass it. I hung our white trash bag in the tallest spruce close to camp. It was still only six feet tall. There was no way to hang our food out of the reach of the grizzly and black bears that roamed these parts. If a bear found our camp and decided to wreck it, the empty Mountain House foil and food wrappers would be first. So, the bag would be ripped down. I glassed it. It blew easily in the wind where I left it. We climbed down and arrived safely at home for the night. A hot dinner and one bourbon put me into a deep slumber.
“Shel you up.”
“Yep, how is your eye?”
“Hurts like hell. The wound was stuck to the inside of the eye lid when I woke up. I had to rub it to break it free, so I could open the dam thing. My eye is watering so much you can’t tell I’m @!#$ing crying from the pain.” Shel just laughed. It is a Soldier thing and it is hard to understand if you are not a Soldier. We all, “play through the pain,” and we all laugh at each other when it happens.
I exited the tent and fired up the stove. A couple Tylenol washed down with the hot coffee felt amazing. As I laid there in the predawn grey light, I decided we should take an extra hour or two going up the mountain to cut and mark a trail. It was something my guide did prior to my mountain goat hunt in Alaska. The trail he cut made the climb through the seemingly impenetrable forest a reasonable, yet still utterly exhausting all day trip to get above tree line and set the base camp in the Chugach Range of Alaska. I remember thinking before I passed out that night in the tent at basecamp, “Thank God he cut that trail.”
“Shel, what do you say to some landscaping today?”
“What do you have in mind brother?”
“We should cut a trail.”
“A trail, really?”
“Yep, if we have to climb this mountain every day for the next week twice a day, plus another four trips every time we kill a caribou, the extra two hours spent this morning will be worth it.”
There was a slight pause as Shel considered it. It the simple way Soldiers converse, he simply answered, “Agreed.”
We spent the morning cutting a trail up the mountain and marking it with nylon surveying tape. We also marked the entry, exit, and all significant turns on our GPS. This was one of our best moves of the trip. It shortened every other trip up and down the mountain by half the time it took the first day. It also almost eliminated the possibility of me taking out my other eye with a willow branch.
When we were done “landscaping”, the thick life sucking willow finally gave way to the tundra on the ridges above. Shel took a break to rest. I took a knee to give thanks and pray. We were surrounded by impossible thick forest on the way up as we cut and marked the trail. It was full of bear sign, yet we did not bump a bear – grizzly or black. We were in Alaska and had yet to have any bad weather. My eye hurt, itched, and was watering constantly, but I could see and I could hunt. I stood and softly announced my idea for the day…
“What if we split up?”
“Okay, what are you thinking?”
“I’ll pivot off you brother. It’s your call?”
“I was going to sit and watch those ancient trails, then maybe explore to the south.”
“Sounds good, I’ll climb the next ridge to the north and will glass south. I will be able to see for 5K and will see you head back this way at the end of the day or when you shoot your bull.”
“I like the sound of that.”
With that we split up. Shel headed east to the spot we were the previous day. I climbed the ridge to the north. I arrived at my spot first, having found a bench that kept the actual crest of the ridge behind me, protecting me from the wind, yet allowed me to glass for over three miles south. As I watched Shel disappear over the bench to the east, I set up a little meager camp for the day. Taking out the supplies I needed to be comfortable and a snack.
It is an unspoken benefit of hunting big country. You work so hard to climb to vantage points and glass. No one calls it resting, but you put on extra layers and sit very still not exerting any more energy than a bird watcher at a city park. The warmth of my puffy down coat was sinking in when I felt a chill down the back of my neck. Not so much a chill, as my sixth sense telling me to turn around. That is when I saw him.
The mountain top behind me was all scree and loose rock. Maybe I heard him roll a rock or maybe I have a real sixth sense. Either way a giant black bear had stopped dead in his tracks and looked in my direction. I was reclined into the tundra, so I simply rolled onto my left side and looked up. He was three hundred twenty-two yards away. I lowered my binoculars and kept watch. He was certainly an old boar. A real trophy to anyone hunting bears, but I was here for caribou. I have killed a pile of black bears in the Rockies, Canada, and Alaska. I did not want to spend a day of my caribou hunt skinning, butchering, and hauling a bear down the mountain. If he were to show up after I killed a caribou, then he would be in trouble. Today, I would let him walk away.
Yet, he stood there quietly. I was sure he did not see me. Their vision is poor to begin with and I was camouflaged and reclined into this bench, almost submerged into the tundra. The south wind carried my scent up the mountain behind me and that was certainly what alerted him to my presence. I kept casually checking his position. The third time I looked back over my shoulder, he was heading directly toward me. He moved slowly and picked his way at first, until he reached the tundra, then he began to run my way.
I heard myself say “Shit!” Only the wind and the mountain were listening.
I stood up as fast as I could, as much to see him, as I wanted him to see me. He ran into a small grove of spruce on the bench above me. He was not cautiously picking his way, he was running. He had my wind. He was coming right to me. That was bad news. Damn bad news. The terrain was such that I lost him in the relief above me. For a moment I was at a loss. If he wanted to get to me, he could do it by coming around the edge of the bench, east or west and then he would be on top of me.
This time I yelled, “Fuck!” at the top of my lungs.
I quit my position. I made sure my scope was on the lowest power. I held my rifle at the low ready and began stalking toward where I last saw the bear. I did not want to fill my bear tag today, but I was certainly not going to let this bruin fill his human tag either. Tense moments ensued as I stopped at what I believed was fifty yards from where I saw him enter the small stand of spruce. I took a knee and waited. Then I waited some more. Then suddenly, the wind swirled hard. He bolted from cover at a double-quick trot away from me. I kept a keen eye on him as he disappeared over the horizon.
You simply never know with bears. Like humans they all have personalities. I have had people say to me, “Oh black bears are harmless.” My response is usually something like, “Would you be scared of a 100lb angry pitbull?” They respond, “Yes I would.” Well, a small black bear is 200lbs and they could eat a 100lb pitbull if they chose to, so you bet your life and I’ll bet mine.”
My first big bear had a notch cut out his right ear and scars across his forehead and brow. He was certainly a fighter. Most of the bears I have run into want nothing to do with humans and almost seem docile, running away as soon as they smelled me. This bear started my way and pressed the issue. My educated guess is that he was simply curious but lost his nerve when he entered the spruce. Nevertheless, bears this time of year are feeding heavily, because they must have enough fat to sustain them through their long hibernation. If they do not have enough fat, they will wake early when there is still snow on the ground and nothing to eat or worse yet, they will simply starve to death in their den during hibernation.
I have witnessed drought years in the Rockies when the black bears were still feeding aggressively late in the fall and early winter when they should have been hibernating. It was September in Alaska and that is when they are making their last big push, putting on the feedbag almost twenty-four hours a day. A hungry bear is not something to dismiss, not by a country mile. This is what I believe: if a grizzly comes after you, it believes you are a threat and intends to eliminate the threat; if a black bear comes after you, it intends to eat you.
Relieved, but unable to relax, I returned to my reclined position in the tundra and glassed for hours. Later in the day I saw Shel go on a long hike. I hoped and prayed he was cutting off some traveling caribou, but I never heard a shot ring out. Realizing, the wind on top of the mountain was such that I may not have heard a shot ring out, I quit my position early and waited at the top of the trail in case Shel had a bull down and needed my help.
An hour before dark, I saw him coming my way. Upon arriving, he disclosed that he saw a bull moose at long range across the valley, but no caribou. I relayed the bear story and Shel was happy to hear it, telling me that he would have shot it. Still a little on edge from the morning encounter, I asked Shel to cover me with his pistol as I made further improvements to the trail with my pack saw on the climb down to camp. Once again, we glassed the white trash bag full of our food trash in a spruce south of camp. It remained in the tree unharmed, so we proceeded into camp alert and tired, but happy.
I woke to the sound of bacon frying or at least that is what I thought I heard in the weary moments before I opened my eyes. Fully, awake I realized it was the rain pelting my tent with severe velocity. I checked my watch. It was after midnight. There was no sleeping in this tempest, not even with earplugs.
Nine hours later it passed, and I called over to Shel’s tent, “You good brother?” He replied, “Yep.” We were both exhausted from lack of sleep, but after a couple cups of courage we were headed up the mountain.
We decided to hunt together, but with a twist. We would go to the spot we both really liked from the first day and ground all our heavy equipment. Then we would take turns hiking over distant ridges we could see, no more than two hours round trip. The other hunter would stay and cover the mountain pass with the good caribou trails in it and guard the gear. When we got to our spot, Shel said, “Damn these DIY Alaska hunts are not for the weak.” We had a good laugh, before Shel took off over the ridge to the north. I took first watch on the gear and mountain pass. In between glassing the pass and the mountains beyond I pulled maintenance on my rifle and pistol. Shel returned with the intelligence he gathered, more well used caribou trails, but no game spotted. I was anxious to roll out. I climbed both small peaks to the southeast It was beautiful country, but there was not game.
The most interesting thing we spied all day were a pair of ravens enjoying a game of airborne tag. A few more short hikes in all directions produced similar results, plenty of well used caribou trails, but no caribou. We had to make a move for home as the sun started to set. Near the ridge above our camp, I could no longer hear Shel behind me. He stopped to put on his rain gear. Then I saw it, a mean storm was rolling right up behind us, so I did the same. We stopped to gather our thoughts in the rain before climbing down.
“Plenty of trails, I don’t think we should move camp.”
“No and the outfitter is supposed to fly in that other group of hunters on the other side of the lake soon.”
“If we hear them shoot, we will know the caribou are on the east side of the lake.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, so we stay put?”
“Yep.”
And with that, we climbed to where we could glass our meager mountainside camp. The white trash bag remained tied into the tallest spruce on the hillside. It allowed us to relax a bit as we hiked down to camp. As we hiked down, we were accompanied by a blowing cold rainstorm that made hearing anything impossible. I gave a quick thought to hypothermia and was thankful to have such high-quality gear. As we leveled out on the bench above camp the storm abated. We grounded our gear, collapsed into our ultralight chairs, and engaged in the centuries old hunting camp ritual of telling stories. I broke out the bourbon and that was our appetizer. Then while we still had calm skies, we boiled the water for our freeze-dried meals. Dinner complete we collapsed into our respective tents.
“What the hell!”
Shel replied, “I know! It’s worse than last night.”
“Sonofabitch!”
I was lying on top of my sleeping bag, still with one boot on when this new storm woke me. Between the day’s exertion and yesterday’s sleepless night, I fell asleep like falling off a cliff. Now, I was shocked awake by wind so hard that it blew the windward section of my tent down on to my face. All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. Initially, it was disbelief that we were in such a powerful storm, yet again. Then it was disbelief that our hunt was going to be shortened or ruined by weather. Finally, it was disbelief that my tent was holding up to the beating.
I laid there thinking it would stop. Hours passed by. It did not stop. Then my tent took on the hazy grey that meant the sun was up. Still the storm persisted. I tried to read, but even with earplugs in the sound was brutal. I prayed and counted my blessings. The tent was holding. I could only hope my sanity was as stout. Incredibly, the storm persisted for the entire day. It let up just long enough, that twice I was able to boil water, for coffee once and a freeze-dried meal. The wind slacked off near dark, but it rained all night. I sincerely do not remember when the rain stopped, but it was overnight, the second night. We had spent well over thirty-six hours in our tents. The light of day gently woke me out of a deep peaceful slumber. After the beating we had received, the still silence of the morning gave me a joyful feeling.
I was once jailed overnight. It was a mistake. I was released the next morning and the case was thrown out of court. But I will never, ever forget the sound of the heavy jail door locking behind me or the feeling of when it opened the next morning. As I unzipped the inside tent wall and then the rain fly, I had a flashback to walking out of that jail cell. The morning was clear and cool. I could easily see all the way to the north end of the lake, the ridge above our camp, and the peaks across the lake to the east. I started the water boiling for coffee and as I was wearing my rain pants, I sat in my drenched chair overlooking the lake.
Subconsciously, I raised my binoculars to inspect the lake valley. I spied a large white spot at the north end of the lake I did not remember being there before. Then it moved. I hit the deck and crawled back to my tent for my rifle, staying below the edge of the bench, so that whatever that white spot was, it could not see me.
In an urgent whisper, “Shel… Shel… get up.”
Sensing my urgency, “What is it? You okay?”
“Get your rifle and get out here.”
“What the hell is it?”
“I dunno yet.”
I crawled to the edge of the bench and peered over. Using my RF binoculars, I looked hard at the white spot. Yes, I was not seeing things after being stuck in a tent for a day and a half. It moved again. Then it turned and I knew, it was a white wolf.
Shel, opening his tent and in a whisper, “What the hell is it?”
“It’s a white wolf, up wind of us, 671 yards. When it gets our wind it’s gonna’ be gone. Get out here.”
Shel, was getting his last boot on, “Are you sure you’re not seeing things?”
“Yes, it turned and is coming right at us. It has to smell this camp. It should be running away.”
“What are you gonna’ do?”
“If it keeps coming, it’s going to get shot. Get ready to back me up. If I miss, it will certainly be gone in a flash.”
Then we watched in disbelief as the wolf kept coming right to our camp along the lakeshore. The wolf disappeared in a line of willows that protruded from the lakeshore perpendicular to the body of the lake and went up the mountain. I felt sure he smelled us and would vanish. There had been so few game animals on this trip. We just lost a day due to storms. The entirety of the trip felt like a failure up until this moment. We finally had a shot. A few minutes passed and I was fraught with questions asked silently in my own mind.
Should I have shot when it was on the far side of the willows?
My last range reading was 271 yards before it disappeared.
Did I squander the opportunity?
Would it keep coming even though it had to smell us?
Why would a wolf continue to come our way?
It seemed like forever.
It was terribly hard to remain still and keep patient.
I was astonished when he appeared on the near side of the willows closer to our camp.
“There he is,” I whispered to Shel.
I made ready.
The wolf turned broadside.
I took the shot.
It disappeared.
We climbed down the mountain and found a male wolf in his prime, exactly where he stood when I took the shot.
The business end of an apex predator
Wolves are so plentiful in Alaska, that you do not need a tag and there is no bag limit. It is hard to ponder such a thing, but it is not unlike our coyote population in the lower 48. Yet, Alaska is not like the lower 48, not in any way. The Alaskan wolf population is just another stark example of that fact.
As I stood over the wolf and gave thanks, I thought about the amount of wolf and bear sign around the lake. Then I thought about the lack of caribou and moose. The fact that we have seen only 7 caribou in a herd that was reported to be hundreds told me that things had gotten out of balance in this area. Too many predators, equals too little prey. Then I realized that it explained the bold nature of the black bear earlier in the hunt and why this bold wolf continued to come toward our camp, even though he surely smelled us. The predators are too many. The prey was too few. Were Shel and I being considered for a meal?
We pulled the wolf up onto a large rock to lay and went back to camp to finish breakfast and grab the things we would need to take care of the wolf. After we had the wolf taken care of and situated back at camp, we decided to hunt an entirely different mountain. It was a mountain we had glassed but had not set foot on. This mountain had no name. It was a long way from camp, half again further than any other high ground we set foot on so far. Upon arrival, I set up glassing northwest and Shel southeast. We could see the open tundra plains for miles. If a caribou was in the area, we would see him. The afternoon was bright and clear, but no caribou. With light fading we had to hike home. We arrived home later than ever. On the way home, in the twilight, we talked loudly. A good tactic in grizzly country to announce your arrival and allow peaceful bears to be on their way. We decided we would not make the trip to the nameless mountain again. After a quick hot meal and a drink, we were comatose in our tents.
The sizzling sound of wind whipped raindrops pelting my rainfly woke me again in the predawn light. I laid awake thinking, “Our hunt is coming to a close and this weather seems like punishment for a crime not committed.” There are reasons to go out in the cold rain in Alaska, some good reasons, and some not good reasons. Hypothermia is real and it kills people. Yes, we have good gear and could take our chances if necessary, but prudence, wisdom, and discipline reminded us to stay warm and dry in our tents and reserve our strength to hunt another day. The storm beats on us, yet we endure. Then the tempest slackens to a calm drizzle and by 9:00am it stops altogether.
By this point of the hunt, we have fallen into a rhythm of coffee, breakfast, pre-hunt checks and then we climb the mountain. We decide to hunt together for at least the morning on the bench where I was approached by the black bear early in the hunt. This bench has commanding views of the mountain top ridge that connects the three peaks above our camp to the east. The hike up was uneventful, and we settle in and glass for caribou.
Hours pass by with no game and nothing to talk about. Then we see a storm rolling in from the east. We put the covers on our packs and hunker down to endure. The cold rain lasts maybe fifteen minutes, then the sun breaks through and plasters the mountain top tundra in brilliant gold light. The rust, gold, white, and green of the tundra explodes in the light and it is hard to fathom, much less explain what we are seeing. Then it gets better. A rainbow emerges and we can see nearly the entire arc of it. By the time the sun warms us, another storm rolls through. The same thing happens again. This time when the rainbow emerges, we can see the end of the rainbow distinctly below us two hundred and forty yards on the tundra. Shel says, “Well damn, there ain’t no gold pot.” I laugh out loud, because that is exactly what I was looking for, in fact when Shel said that I was ranging the end of the rainbow thinking about going down there to check.
Just then a gyrfalcon dive bombed Shel and the next ten minutes were an otherworldly show of nature’s beauty. The tundra below us exploded in vibrant colors when the sun hit it. Then the sun’s rays through the mist produced a rainbow that framed the sky above. While a mile distant, dark clouds bore down on us. The beautiful falcon took a distinct interest in Shel and continued to swoop down and then glide back up over his head. Finally, the gyrfalcon landed in a five-foot-tall spruce about forty yards away.
“What do think his business is with me?” asked Shel.
“Well brother that red stocking cap of yours appears to be his target and I believe he wants to eat it.” We laugh heartily, but it has a hint of sarcasm, as the next front is almost upon us.
The consecutive line of fronts broken with brilliant sunlight ended. We were left with the gray sky and calmer winds for the last hour of glassing. Disappointed and with light fading, we climbed down the mountain. The evening camp rhythm is the same. We did not talk much, aware that tomorrow is our last scheduled day of hunting. While our freeze-dried meals were steeping, we had a bourbon and reflected a bit on the day. Then we realized it was getting cold and fast. Unfortunately, we lost track of time somehow and our meals were almost cold and a little “al dente.” I made a note to self, when a cold wind is blowing put your hot meal under your parka while it rehydrates.
When hunts are tough, you can do two things (1) get upset and make camp miserable or (2) stay upbeat and be thankful for the small things that are going right. I am always in the latter category. We had a very calm night, no storms, and no bears. As we efficiently made our way through our morning routine, it started to drizzle, and the wind picked up. It was not enough for us stay in camp, but it meant we would have to find another glassing spot up top to get out of the wind and light rain. That is when Shel said he wanted to abandon the caribou idea and go north, down the valley to look for a bear or wolf. The lake below our camp emptied out into a series of smaller lakes through slow boggy areas and waterfalls, until it became a small stream that rambled north across the plains out of the Beaver Mountains.
The plan all along, had been to hunt up high for multiple reasons. First, that is where the outfitter said we would find caribou. Second, that is the only place we had seen them. Finally, and maybe of greater importance, if we were successful, climbing down to camp with packs full of caribou or bear is much easier than climbing up to camp loaded down. This new idea was a change in plans, which I’m reluctant to do unless there is intelligence to suggest a change is needed. I thought, “today could be the day the caribou finally roam back across our ridge above camp to the east.” Calmly I pondered Shel’s proposal. I settled on a simple fact. This hunt was as much his as it was mine. If he wanted to climb down the mountain and check the small lakes and bogs that stepped their way to the plains below, so be it.
Nothing is easy in Alaska. We glassed what we believed was a clear route down the mountain. Our line followed the slow waterfalls that dumped out of Tolstoi Lake and formed the bogs, marshes, and ponds until it finally emptied out onto the plains to the south. We were immediately fighting knee deep water hidden in tall grass and willows that seemed to reach out and try to strangle us. We tried to move with our heads up and on a swivel to see game before it saw us. Always reminding ourselves as we moved through the tight terrain, that we were the hunters, not the hunted. In a land full of apex predators, it is easy to forget that fact. About an hour into the trip Shel found a bull moose shed. It was quite old and served its purpose by adding mineral back to the environment. Rodents had dined on it over the years getting their minerals by gnawing on it. It was very heavy, and we decided to leave it lay.
Finally emerging on a beaver dam and out of the complex tangle of willows, we crossed and found a wonderful glassing spot. It was none too soon, because the wind started to pick up and angry clouds were building on the horizon. We could see for over one thousand yards south by south west, across three different beaver ponds and into the stunted timber on the southern mountainside. The best part of the spot turned out to be a small depression in the steep pond bank that hid us from the biting north wind. Shel decided to take a walk in the cold blowing drizzle, while I guarded the packs and glassed. I saw nothing but Shel randomly appearing in and out of the willows. Evening was coming on quickly by the time Shel returned. We had a long walk back up the valley, so we set off. On the way back to camp, Shel found a caribou bull dead head. It was another bright spot in an otherwise hopeless day.
We made it back to camp before dark and enjoyed a bourbon and a freeze-dried meal. The last official day of our hunt ended with a cold wind and constant drizzle, as we retired to our tents.
As the light crept through the walls of my tent the rain simultaneously drummed me awake. This was a terrible turn of events, or so we thought. This was our extraction day. This weather appeared to deny any hope of that. Yet, when we called the outfitter on the satellite phone he said, “The weather report looks good. It should clear and the wind should allow us to get into the valley later today. Pack up and be waiting on the lake shore. We should be there in a few hours.” The wind let up a bit. The sun was intermittent. We were hopeful that we would get out. So, we packed up our camp and hiked it down to the lakeshore. After sitting on the lakeshore for a few hours, the weather worsened and so did our hopes of getting out. Then we heard outfitter's plane and thought maybe, just maybe. He came in and circled, but then flew away.
It is a very low feeling, seeing the float plane that is supposed to fly you out, fly away. It is hard to explain the juxtaposition of feelings you have. If the weather were good, you would want to stay in such a beautiful place. When the weather is bad, all you want to do is leave, but you cannot. With no other options we packed back up the mountain and set camp back up – in the rain. Shel called the outfitter an hour later and he said it was too dangerous to try and land on the lake in those winds. Then he said, "go kill a caribou" because now we had an extra day of hunting. He meant it as a positive thing, but we had tried so hard already and had only seen caribou the first morning as they ran across the ridge. Hunting caribou sounded anything but positive.
After we got camp set back up we took a break inside our tents to rest. Then the wind suddenly stopped and after that the rain too. Suddenly, we were treated to the best afternoon we have had in these mountains. As we emerged from our tents laughing at the absurdity of this day. I said, “Man I’m going fishing.” Shel responded, “Roger that, I’m right behind you.” We caught so many grayling we lost count, before our stomachs told us it was dinner time. Back up at camp we made a hot meal and relaxed with the last of the bourbon.
Sitting in our ultralight pack chairs on the bench overlooking the lake, bourbon in hand on a calm afternoon it seemed like a strange porch on the front of God’s house. We talked and finished what little bourbon we had left, while randomly glassing the mountainsides that framed the north end and headwaters of the lake. In the distance I saw a bear, a big black boar.
“Wow, that’s a big boar.”
“Where?”
“First peak to the east above camp, glass down the scree slope to the first line of willows, and you’ll see him grazing on blueberries in the meadow just to the north… can’t miss ‘em.”
“I’m going!”
“What?”
“I’m going after him,” Shel said and with that he had his rifle in hand and was leaving.
“Whoa brother. Do you at least have your knife and a headlamp?”
“Good call, I need more than just my rifle.”
As Shel was double checking his small kit, I said, “I will watch the bear from here and keep an eye on you. If you shoot the bear wait five minutes and then fire another shot. If that happens, I’ll follow with both pack frames and the kill kit.”
“Thanks, I’m gone.”
“Good luck!”
Shel had about ninety minutes until it was full dark. We could not count on another day to skin and butcher his bear. If he killed it, we had to do all the work in the dark and get the bear down to the lake shore for extraction the next day. Regardless of the tight timeline I was hoping and praying Shel got the boar. As I glassed the bear, I took range readings. Shel had just over nine hundred yards to get to the bear. That meant he had to climb about six hundred yards to get into range. I smiled ear to ear thinking nothing but positive things for Shel.
I lost Shel in the willows four hundred yards above camp. I was not worried that I could not see Shel. A good hunter, and Shel is a good hunter, would be using cover to approach the bear unseen. I could see the bear and he continued to mow down the blueberries like an angus mows down fescue. Then I heard the shot. I just happened to be looking at the bear through my binoculars when the shot rang out. The light was fading, but I was sure I saw the bear sit down and then roll down the hill at the report of the rifle.
An internal conversation started between me and my better judgement, that percolated into me talking to myself.
“Way to go Shel!”
“Watch the time and listen, five minutes to the second shot.”
“Damn five minutes is forever.”
“Six minutes and no shot, dammit.”
“Nine minutes and no shot, it’s getting awful dark.”
“Twenty minutes and it is pitch black.”
“Why the hell didn’t I go with him?”
“This was not smart.”
“Calm down man, he’s a Sergeant Major, combat vet badass, quit worrying.”
“Man, I’d love another bourbon.”
“I’ll make some coffee.”
“Shit an hour has gone by and I cannot even see his headlamp.”
“What am I going to tell his wife if he’s hurt or worse?”
“An hour and a half has gone by and I still cannot even see his headlamp.”
“Thank God there’s no wind, at least I’ll hear another shot if he needs help.”
About that time, I realized the best I could do was stay put and act as a lighthouse to show the way for his return. My headlamp has a blinking function. I turned it on and pointed it in the general direction I had last seen Shel. Another half hour went by and my level of apprehension and worry grew exponentially. Then I saw a tiny little white light over a mile away at the headwaters of the lake or I thought I did. I picked up my binoculars and glassed through the ink black night. Another internal conversation started that ended up with me talking to myself.
“Shit Shel, please be Shel.”
“Nothing, dammit you imagined it Mike.”
“Relax he will be fine.”
“Fuck this sucks, come on Shel it has been almost two hours.”
“Oh was that a light?” I picked up my binoculars again.
“Praise Jesus. There he is!”
I kept flashing my headlamp in his direction. As I watched the little white light grow bigger, he made his way back to camp. Progress was slow as he followed the lakeshore south, until he was just below camp. Then he started to climb. It was at this point that a wave of relief washed over me, and I hit my knees and thanked God he was okay.
Maybe I was being overly dramatic, I don’t know, but it was one hell of a day. We were told to pack up our camp in the rain and move it to the lakeshore for extraction. Then we did not get extracted and had to pack our camp back up the mountain in the rain and set it up again. Then the weather broke and we had a good time fishing. Then Shel went after a bear and I thought he was hurt or worse.
Shel made it back to camp exhausted and the best I could hand him was a cup of coffee.
“Man, that was tough.”
“Brother you had me worried, what happened.”
“I got to a good rest and in range of the bear and I’m sure I hit him.”
“Yep, I was watching, and I think I saw him roll downhill.”
“Right, yep me too.”
“So, I went to look and it got dark, so I didn’t fire the second shot. I marked the location and figured we would look in the morning. Looking for a wounded bear in the dark ain’t smart.”
“Good call. What happened with getting back to camp.”
“Those fuckin’ willows are disorienting as hell. Man, I tried like hell to get down the scree fields in the dark and then through the willows. I finally gave up and climbed down to the lakeshore. I knew if I just went downhill, I’d hit the lake, then all I had to do was move south and hit camp.”
“That was smart brother. I guess since you were walking north, I was looking at the back of your head and couldn’t see your headlamp until you turned south heading back down the lake. I was getting a little worried. Hate to be a mother hen, but I was already preparing what I was gonna’ say to your wife.”
“Well let’s not get carried away.”
We both laughed hard and finished our coffee. Laughing is a macho way to relieve the stress. The fairer half of our species would have probably cried. We knew we had to get some sleep, because we had to be up at dawn to climb up the mountain, find the bear, skin, butcher, and pack it down to the lakeshore. In addition to packing up our camp again and getting it down to the lakeshore for extraction.
It is always painful to walk away from a blood trail in the dark. Yet it is prudent to leave your quarry to die quietly without being pushed and subsequently lost. The pain felt is psychological certainly and it manifests itself physically in lost sleep. Sleeping after walking away from a blood trail is terribly hard. Well, this night it was impossible. The storm that hit shortly after we retired to our tents was nothing short of spectacular. I could not sleep but found myself thanking God that Shel made it back before this thing hit. Sometime after midnight the wind was so strong it literally folded my tent in half, and it collapsed on me. To my utter surprise and amazement, it sprang right back to life in its original form. Shel was not so lucky. One of his tent poles snapped. But being resourceful and resilient, he had it repaired in minutes from inside the tent, quite a feat in that storm.
The sleepless night mercifully passed. The storm did not pass. The gray light of day was the only change as our tents were whipped by the wind and pelted by the rain. I yelled through my tent walls and the storm to Shel, “What’s your plan brother?” He returned, “I’m putting on my boots right now.” I returned, “Slow down, I’m gonna need a few minutes.” It was not long before we were both standing on the bench where our meager camp sat perched on the mountainside in gale force winds and rain. There was nothing to say, we had to go. So, we went.
The chances of finding any evidence of the blood trail after an all-night rainstorm, was slim. Nevertheless, Shel knew where he had taken the shot and I saw the bear fall to his rump and then appear to roll downhill. So, we both had landmarks to help us figure out where to begin the search. We climbed together to the spot Shel took the shot and stopped to discuss the plan. The wind and rain were merciless. We were screaming at each other to communicate. This storm was so bad there was literally no way we were going to get out. Even the U.S. Air Force could not get a plane in there to extract us on this day. So, we had time.
You might think a four-hundred-pound animal would be easy to find. You would be wrong. We hiked non-stop for almost three hours. Splitting up and checking every ravine, every willow thicket, every small scree field, and any dark spot in any crack that might be the jet black coat of the bear. We met back up multiple times to discuss direction, distance, and strategy of where the bear may have gone. Each time we had to lean in close and yell in each other’s ears. We were starting to get wet and the only way we could stay warm, even in our excellent rain gear, was to keep moving.
Finally, the sleepless night, no coffee, and no breakfast caught up with us. Shel was standing like a statue where he thought the bear died, pensive in thought and getting whipped by the wind and rain. I was climbing up to meet him, secretly hoping he would call of the search, but ready to risk hypothermia if he wanted to continue. It was his bear and his decision to call off the search. We were getting dangerously cold and wet. Still a hundred yards below Shel and climbing I looked up and we made eye contact. I stood still and shrugged. He made the military hand signal for “cease fire.” The search was over. We had to climb back to camp by different routes due to ravines, willow thickets, and scree fields. There was not much to discuss anyway and screaming at each other had a way of making me feel extra useless on this day. Back at camp there was still nothing to say, so we crawled into our tents. We spent the rest of the day confined to our tents, which thank the Good Lord, were warm and dry.
The wind and rain gave us a beating for a sin or transgression I am not sure we earned. I begged forgiveness more than once. Small mountain tents are light, and the good ones are reliable, but when you are confined in one for over a day with wind and rain beating it, it is a mild form of torture. At about 8:30pm there was short break and I hustled outside and boiled water so we could have a hot meal. The hot meal hit the spot and improved morale greatly. But at the same time, I took stock of the fact that it was the last freeze-dried meal I had. I did not even ask Shel how his rations were holding out. We brought extra, but we were inserted early and overdue for extraction. The food was gone. I prayed for the Lord's mercy and fell into a deep sleep.
I woke in a stupor. There had been no booze and nothing to cause it other than exhaustion. Yet, I was terribly hung over. I am not sure when the storm mercifully blew away overnight, but it did. It took an extra ounce of courage to put on my clothes and get moving as the storm and the mountain had extracted an extra pound of flesh each the previous day. I finally pushed my way out of the tent fly to see a beautiful sight. Lake Tolstoi, the valley, and the mountains that were obscured by clouds and rain were all now visible and resplendent.
I thought, “Alaska, you’re just like a good looking young woman, hellfire one minute and quiet resplendent beauty the next.”
I giggled out loud and Shel herd me, “What’s so fucking funny?”
I lied, “Well I’m out of food, except for a few breakfast bars, but dammit we still have coffee.”
Shel responded, “We damn there is some good news.”
After coffee, we put in a call to the outfitter, who said he expected us to be out before lunch. He was sending a plane soon. We packed up camp and made a small base on the large beaver dam down below on the lakeshore.
We were both hungry. The expenditure of energy in the tundra just to walk is extremely high. Add in all the rigors of hunting and life in this terrain and climate and you are going to lose weight. We had lost weight certainly. Now, pending extraction and almost out of food, it seemed that further weight loss was a certainty. We spent the morning quietly waiting. I walked the lakeshore, prayed and quietly sung a hymn or two. Shel smoked a cigar he kept for celebration, no use waiting to smoke it now. We had gone in a day early and were now on the third morning late getting out. We packed two extra days of food and made it stretch, but this was the morning of the fourth extra day. No worries, we were Soldiers. We have been hungry before. A growling stomach just adds to the uncomfortable stress of waiting. The plane never showed, so we called the outfitter. They explained they were taking new hunters into a location south of us and would pick us up on the way back. We are not complainers, but dam the outfitter’s priorities seemed upside down.
Without a word of protest Shel broke out his fishing rod and I followed his lead. By 1:00pm caught a number of grayling. We kept one each, fileted them, quartered the filets into cubes, so they would fit in the ultralight titanium cup. Their flesh was surprisingly firm and white when boiled. Once the pot was drained, we added the Cajun spice Shel brought for caribou loins. It was a good meal. After we ate the fish, we paced the lakeshore browsing the blueberries. Fishing and gathering berries was a wonderful occupation while we waited.
The lake surface had been calm all morning save the protests of grayling that were fighting on the end of our lines. Now, the lake surface was rippled by a steady wind. The weather was slowly deteriorating. Shel moved off the lakeshore to a large rock, sat pensively, and fired his cigar back up. I walked the shore and watched the sky. The weather was still good enough I thought. We still have a chance to leave. Honestly, now that we enjoyed some fish and blueberries, I was not upset that we would be forced to stay another night. I just did not want to haul our entire camp back up that dam caribouless mountain and set it up again. Especially, since a light drizzle just started falling.
We kept the faith, but it was hard now that the consistent wind also included a light rain. I went back to pacing the lakeshore and singing hymns as Shel chewed what was left of his cigar. Then like an angel the old white and red single engine float plane appeared over the north ridge. We were stunned and stood still as it circled. Then it disappeared. At first, I could still hear the engine. I thought he was turning to come back. Then I could not even hear the engine. I shook my head and smiled. Then I hardened my heart, shouldered my pack, grabbed a duffle, and started climbing back up the mountain.
“Mike wait!” exclaimed Shel as he stood on his rock, spitting out the remnants of the cigar.
I stopped, “What? A bear? What is it?”
“The plane, it’s back.”
“Huh? Really?”
“Yep, I hear it.”
My hearing is terrible and I trust Shel implicitly, so I did as I was told. Then I heard it. The plane circled again. It was lower in the sky. Two more big circles and the pilot was in the valley. One more circle and he was on the lake. I made it back to the beaver dam and dropped my load as I caught the line the pilot threw me. I held fast and smiled as wide as the day I got married. In a flash of teamwork, we loaded the plane.
Once we were airborne, we had a long conversation about the weather and the hunting. The pilot wanted to hear the story of the wolf hunt. Then there was a long pause.
Then the pilot spoke, “Boys I’m real sorry.”
I cut him short, “It’s okay.”
“No it ain’t. I tried five times, but couldn’t safely get over the ridge in those winds. Twice I saw you on the lakeshore with all your gear, knowing you would have to unpack and make camp again. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“We are Soldiers, so we are used to being disappointed.”
Laughing all the way around.
“Well, I’m telling you boys, it is just as disappointing when I turn this plane around and leave you.”
The normally reserved and cool Shel chimed in at this point over the plane’s headsets, “It’s nothing a beer and a sandwich can’t cure.”
Just like that we laughed and let the laughter hang.
The flight back was uneventful. As we flew over the wilds of Alaska, I was once again filled with a conflicted feeling. We were safe. We were going back to a warm bed. We were going back to unlimited food, bourbon, beer, and coffee. Yet, we were leaving the wilderness. The adventure was over. Shortly after landing, we stowed our gear, bought a sandwich, and headed over to the bar.
The young Eskimo barkeep said, “Nasty trip again ‘eh?”
I suppose he recognized me from the previous year’s hunt where we were nine days late getting out and worse off.
Before I could answer he said, “You got bad luck with ‘da storms ‘eh?”
As he poured two shots of bourbon we did not ask for.
I did not answer him.
I just smiled and he smiled back.
Then I looked at Shel as I raised my glass to make a toast, “If I come back next year we are going by boat!”
Epilog –
Upon our return we ate, drank, and then retired to our small accommodations. There we cleaned gear, cleaned ourselves, and slept. The next morning, at breakfast in the small dining room of the Hotel McGrath we could hear four men at a table not too far away boasting. They were telling new hunters who had not yet departed about how they braved the terrible weather for four days and were rescued on day five. They extolled their strength and vigor to survive when their tents failed, and they were cold and wet. Shel and I sat mute until they lied about how many times they left their camp to go hunting. Then we both looked at each other wide eyed, then without planning it we both turned our heads and looked at their table.
One of the more braggadocious men saw us looking at them with contempt and asked, “Y’all getting ready to go out on a hunt? It’s been brutal out there.”
Shel responded, “No we just got back. We were the hunters across the valley from your camp.”
To this, the loud arrogant man looked at his plate and shut up, while his three compatriots all looked up at us.
One said, “We were out four full days in that mess and got out on the fifth day. How long were y’all out?”
Shel responded, “We got out on the eleventh day. We saw y’all fly in and could glass you from our camp.”
The loud one then asked, “Did y’all even see any game?”
I spoke and said, “Yep we saw nine caribou, one small bull, two black bears, and I shot a white wolf.”
There was a long pause before one of them who had been silent said, “Wow, that is more than we saw.”
Shel just smiled.
I said nothing as they were grabbing their coats and leaving.
When Shel and I were done with our meal and stepped out onto the street of mud he said, a little too loud, “You gotta leave your damn camp to see game you sonsabitches.”
We had not noticed they were across the street sorting something out. They certainly heard us and turned to look but said nothing. Shel realized what he had done and just smiled back at them.
We knew more about these hunters than they probably knew of us. The outfitter shared with us their plight on the satellite phone every time we called to check in. I suppose he believed that if they truly screwed up, we could hike around the lake and save them from themselves. They had gear failure, after gear failure in the storms. Due to the gear failures, they felt they could not hunt. So, they stayed in camp. On their third day of their seven-day hunt, they were calling for extraction.
These men were not weak or cowardly. They were unprepared. The storms that beat us, as if we owed them money, also beat these men. We were prepared. They were not. It is that simple. Shel and I saw them trying to repack their gear on the airfield the next day while we were all waiting for a plane back to Anchorage. They were fumbling with boxes from Cabela’s. We surmise that they bought their gear from a big box store and had it shipped to McGrath in advance. They tested nothing. They failed to properly prepare. It ended their hunt. Most of their gear was ruined and found its way into the airfield dumpster.
This anecdote, while funny in a macabre kind of way, is shared here as a teaching point. While you can save some weight and potentially transportation cost, by purchasing new gear and having it shipped directly to Alaska, versus your home and then carried as baggage on airlines to Alaska. I think that is a bad, potentially a tragic plan. These guys had not tested their gear. They certainly had not seam sealed their big box tents. They had not upgraded the weak guy-lines and tent pegs that came with their tents. Both of their tents failed in the first three days, rips, leaks, and pole breaks all around. They are very lucky no one got hurt or developed hypothermia. Cold and wet makes cowards of us all. Cold and wet in Alaska kills people.
Above and beyond the stupidity of their plan and the danger they put themselves in to save money, in the end, they wasted their money, because their ruined gear went into the airfield dumpster.
In other essays and in my first book, Amazon.com: The Hunt of a Lifetime: The Practical Guide to Planning and Executing Your Dream Hunt eBook: Abell, Colonel Michael: Kindle Store, I’ve extolled the virtues of being prepared. There are quite a few chapters in my book on fundamental lessons I’ve learned the hard way. I hate to see folks put themselves in a position where their hunt is ruined because they were unprepared or “bit off more than they could chew.” These men did both. If you are planning an adventure hunt, you may want to buy my book or just check out one of my other adventure essays on this website for free. I am not an expert, but I am certainly a practitioner and my hard-earned lessons are meant to help others.
Recipe –
Ingredients:
____ A willing soul, a stout heart, good legs, feet, and hips – priceless
____ A good hunting partner – double priceless
____ Time Off – up to three weeks, start to finish, including travel, weather dependent
____ Alaska non-resident annual hunting and 14-day sport fishing license $235 *this was a 7 day hunt, but the 14 day license is only $30 more and if you get stranded it is worth it.
____ Alaska non-resident caribou permit $650
____ Alaska non-resident black bear permit $450
____ Hotels in Anchorage $400
____ McGrath B&B; room and meals $700 (everything is flown in, thus everything is expensive)
____ If you don’t have proper gear already for a hunt like this buy the very best gear you can; Alaska will test it and you’ll need it; plus it will last a long time. Unknown cost
____ Round trip plane tickets Kentucky to Anchorage $600
____ Round trip plane tickets from Anchorage to McGrath including a “cargo block” for 300lbs of gear $900
____ Per person outfitter costs $3,500; includes flights in and out of the bush, plus any additional flights to move caribou meat and antlers back to McGrath
____ Satellite phone rental $110
____ Nine days of food, fuel and provisions $225
____ Rifle and ammunition; you should already have it; .270 and larger calibers with good bullets will do just fine for caribou and black bears
____ Fishing gear; you should have it. Lightweight spinning tackle with inline spinners work
____ Processing of your caribou/bear meat $250-$350
____ Transport of your caribou meat, cape, and antlers back home $850
____ All the little expendable items you will need like fuel and Thermacell pads $200
Total Cost of this adventure: $9,170
Directions:
Shel and I did not have any bear or wolf trouble that we know of. We made smart and conservative decisions after the pilot dropped us off. You must have the basic skills of a woodsman to attempt something like this, if you are not capable, I don’t recommend you try. Work on it and do it only when you are ready. Alaska is beautiful, but it can be brutal and ruthless. A single slip off the rocks or into deep cold water could be the end of you. It does not have to be a grizzly bear or plane crash.
Okay, let us discuss cost. You can save money on hotels in Anchorage and cut some corners, certainly. But the fact is, adventure hunts are expensive and there is no getting around it. You’ll pay the outfitter over an 18-24 month period. So, it won’t seem like it’s that expensive, but when you add it all up – it is. When people ask me about doing hunts like this and say something like, “$3,500 for an outfitter to just fly you in and drop you off.” Well, it is not that simple. This outfitter plans to fly in and get the first caribou for you and take it back to McGrath for processing, which allows you to keep hunting hard and not worry about your meat being pilfered by a bear or wolf while you are out hunting the second caribou bull. So, there are at least two round trips planned for the outfitter’s cost. On this hunt, the outfitter made six trips to get us. Granted he was in the air for other reasons twice.
Keep in mind, the outfitters are working in dangerous remote country. They must have to best equipment they can afford, that is expertly maintained, for your safety and theirs. In Alaska, guides and outfitters must be licensed. Their licenses are on the line when they make decisions, so be prepared for them to make very safe and conservative decisions. All in, all done, you should expect to spend 100% more than you pay the outfitter, even to DIY hunt Alaska. So, if the outfitter charges $5,000, plan to spend $10,000.
You should buy your food, fuel, and other items you cannot take on a commercial plane from home to Alaska in Anchorage. There is no guarantee that what you will need will be available in little remote towns like McGrath. Even if they have it at the local general store, it will be very expensive. That means you will need at least one day in Anchorage to shop and repack, prior to taking the flight to McGrath. You must also be very cognizant of the weight of your gear and provisions when leaving Anchorage to McGrath and McGrath to the bush. Remember, the planes only get smaller.
There is a science to it and if you are a first timer the only way to get it right is to check, recheck, and check again. I highly recommend weighing your essential hunting, camping, and survival gear. Then whatever the difference is – that is what you have left for food and provisions. This is a delicate balance, because being stuck in the bush due to weather is a reality. That means more food is better, but at what cost of leaving gear behind? I have been stuck in the bush on two of my last four Alaska hunts, both were DIY drop camp by float plane.
A simple example should help here: 100 pound limit – 70lbs gear = 30lbs available for food and provisions.
Next, let us discuss travel planning. It is long and messy because it is weather dependent. Here is what it looks like all at once: home airport > Anchorage > McGrath > Bush flight to hunting area > and back.
Seems simple right? Wrong. You must plan for weather after Anchorage, which means adding days to the plan. So, here is what a daily plan might look like if everything goes well:
Day 1 – Travel to Anchorage
Day 2 – Anchorage day to shop and repack
Day 3 – Fly to McGrath
Day 4 – Day in McGrath to make final arrangements and prepare
Day 5 – Fly into the bush…weather dependent
Days 6 through 12 – Hunt
Day 13 – Fly back to McGrath…weather dependent
Day 14 - Fly back to McGrath…weather dependent or day in McGrath if you got out on the 13th
Day 15 – Planned day in McGrath to arrange for transport of your meat home and repack gear
Day 16 – Fly back to Anchorage; overnight in Anchorage and repack for the commercial plane
Day 17 – Fly home
There are more ways to do it. Some people send all their gear and provisions to McGrath via FedEx or a similar service. The Hotel McGrath will store each package for a small fee. But then you really need to add a second day in McGrath, just in case something does not get there, and you have to figure it out. When the weather gets bad like it did for us a 7-day trip can turn into 9, 10, or 11 quick. Your travel plan must be just as well thought out and flexible as your hunting plan.
Finally, let us talk about the article you just read. It is a hunting story. I did not talk about tips, tactics and techniques for caribou hunting for a couple reasons (1) I am a novice at caribou hunting, even though I would consider myself nearly an expert at big game hunting and (2) hunts like this are far more involved and complex than hunting – they’re adventures.
If you are a first-time caribou or DIY drop camp Alaska hunter here are some lessons learned:
1. Pay your deposit early and stay in communication with the outfitter.
2. Talk to all the references the outfitter provides you with. Soak up all their lessons learned on hunting, food, provisions, meat care, etc.
3. Get the very best gear you can afford; you’ll need it, and it should last you.
4. Drop camps are cheaper than guided hunts, but they are less successful.
5. Caribou are regional critters and predators have an effect. The caribou may move out of your effective range then entire week you are hunting. A second license like black bear is a good option.
6. Consider bringing a larger tent in case you get stuck in it. We brought two tents, one for each of us and it was a blessing. Also, the bugs can be horrendous so a tent with an integrated bug net is a plus.
7. Thermocell devices can also be used as boot warmer/dryers. Simply take the bug repellent patch out of them, turn them on and put them in your boot. When you wake up to pee, put it in the other boot. It works quite well, but you will need additional fuel cells above and beyond what you use for repelling the skeeters.
8. Mountain House type freeze dried meals are a great choice for many reasons: (1) you can carry more of them because they weight very little (2) they’re already complete with spices etc. (3) you can bring your favorites by testing (4) they’re cost effective (5) they’re easier to prepare and (6) they’re easier to clean up.
9. Do not bring food that hardens when it gets cold. Your teeth will thank you.
10. Talk to your outfitter about this, but you might consider buying a moose tag on a caribou hunt if the seasons line up. Alaska allows you to downgrade your tags, meaning a more expensive tag can be used on a lesser animal. So, with a moose tag you could kill a caribou, black bear, or wolverine and tag it. Of course, you could also kill a moose. This is all dependent on how your outfitter sees it and will support it. Nevertheless, it is legal in Alaska.
11. If you leave the airfield 1 pound light, you are a fool. Being overloaded can kill you, but that’s the pilot’s problem. The weight limit they give you has a buffer built in, so make the most of your limit. Extra food and coffee are primary, then bourbon.
12. Do not bring too much clothing. A single very tough reliable well-made set of layered clothing is all you need, yes one complete 5 or 7 layer set, depending on what works for you. You are better served using the weight savings for provisions. Bring a sewing kit and some “shoe-goo” to fix what you are wearing. Then just add the appropriate number of socks and underwear. This is a place to save weight.
13. Bring 2 or 3 bug nets for your head and neck. The bugs are interesting. Sometimes they are so thick it is miserable. Other times they are absent on the landscape. If the bugs are there, head nets are a life saver. They get caught on everything when you’re walking through the brush. If they rip, they’re worthless. So, bring extra, they weigh less than one sock. Bug spray works a little bit, but you would need about a can a day if the weather is warm, so that can be a weight issue. Going later in the year means less bugs, so there is another reason to go late, but it will be colder. There are always tradeoffs.
14. Bring a small gun maintenance kit with some gun oil – rain takes a toll on metal.
15. Baby wipes are backwoods gold.
16. Seam seal your tent and rainfly.
17. Spray your rainfly with a water repellent that dries and lasts.
18. Consider bringing one extra-large tarp and pitching it over your tent.
19. You cannot bring enough 550 cord/paracord.
20. Fires can be hard to start or impossible to start out on the tundra. There simply isn’t any fuel. If you had to start a fire, you might have to walk a few miles to gather what little dead spruce or driftwood you can find, plan accordingly.
21. A large-mouthed plastic bottle makes a great latrine in a tent. Especially a tent you’re trapped in overnight by a tempest.
22. Solar chargers are worthless in Alaska.
23. The Garmin inReach device is a life saver to keep friends and family informed; especially when things do not go according to plan, but it is NOT a replacement for a satellite phone.
24. A good solid battery back-up, like the one from Dark Energy is a must to repower your devices.
25. Consider bringing the biggest most comfortable camp chair you can afford by cost and weight.
26. Always get the bigger sleeping bag; the size that fits you is too tight.
27. A few contractor bags per person are valuable. I have used them to waterproof gear when regular waterproof bags ripped or failed. I have also used them as impromptu waders by putting my feet in them and duct taping them around my thighs. I have also used them to waterproof meat and sink into a lake to preserve it.
28. Finally, pace yourself. Alaska will kick your ass one way or the other – it does not need any help from you.
If you enjoyed the story and found the recipe at the end useful, you should check out my book, “The Hunt of a Lifetime: The Practical Guide to Planning and Executing Your Dream Hunt.”
You can purchase it on Amazon at this link - Get the Book.
