One for the Books
At first glance, I thought it was a rock. The light tan lump blended perfectly into the rolling hills of the ridge. Upon further inspection I noticed the pulsing white puffs of breath. “Aha!” I thought. Each breath was its own cloud hanging momentarily in the sun-kissed morning. He was motionless and was taking-in the sun on the highest of the mountain’s ridges.
I was close. I dropped my pack and jacked a shell into the chamber. I tippy toed over the ridge, dipping down and out of sight. From here I would be able to get behind a few rolling hills that would get me even closer.
The sun had painted the valley brilliantly that morning and It was so bright that at times I had to cover my eyes from the glare. I had seen three other caribou before sunrise and all of them were high on the mountain. After several miles of hiking and glassing down in the valley I decided that I too would go up high.
My notoriously restless nature in the field has paid dividends in the past. Those in my tight hunting circle know me as a hiker-hunter. More than anyone I know, I am less likely to sit on a hillside behind a pair of binocs. Tree stand? Forget about it. If I don’t see something, I move. If I do see something, I move-in for a closer look. Often times on these forays I’ll spot another animal on the way. Pete and I are never afraid to put boots on the ground in pursuit of an animal. In fact we talked about the concept of boots on the ground in camp on this very trip. "It's our whole campaign." said Pete.
Since we hunt seven miles back in a non motorized hunting area we have our work cut out for us. With the good graces of solid health and fitness we are both equal to the task and with the sobering realization that we won't be able to do this forever we both have made these hunts a priority; Carpe Diem!
Gaining the mountain-top on this day was a generous vertical gain and it was glorious and it made me happy. What a surprise to know that-on this day, the mountain was coveting a jewel up high in its crown. I wouldn’t have guessed that I would be putting the final-sneaks on a nice caribou at the top of a mountain.
“The sneaks” is a uniquely Harrison term that means stalking an animal. Final-sneaks is the conclusive ending to the sneaks and represents the definitive moment in a hunt. It’s the moment that decides the fate of the whole thing. It’s the moment when the hunter, through stealth and cunning manages to close the gap and gain position for a shot. Success means meat-for-the-freezer. Fuck-it-up and it’s back to the drawing board along with a healthy dose of self-doubt served up with a side of self-loathing.
Meanwhile, as I was riding this peculiar fence of hunting fate, my brother Pete, located several miles from me had been patiently glassing from a lower hillside. His modus operandi differs from my own at least a little. For one, he is more patient. Earlier with my binoculars I could see him lying on the tundra studying the opposite side of the valley with his spotting scope. All I could hope for was that he was having as brilliant of a time as I was. As it turns out he was.
Slowly and as quietly as I could I inched my way closer to the bull caribou in the troughs of the rolling hills. Closer and closer-still I moved. I had to have been within 50 yards now. Painfully slow, I raised up for a look. No caribou. I stood up all the way. Nothing. I looked over the ridge. Nada..... Shit.
I peered over the edge of the mountain expecting to see him scurrying away. Again...nothing. Where did he go?
I hiked up the ridge further all the while questioning my sanity until suddenly I caught a glimpse of four different caribou. They were moving down from a pass into the valley below. They were on-the-move and my only hope for them was that they would show up in camp later in the day. Eventually I came to terms with the fact that my summit bull was gone.
BOOM! The shot rang out across the valley and I knew that it must have been Pete. I picked my way down the ridge occasionally glassing for him. Finally I spotted him several miles across the valley. He had draped a couple of game bags over the bushes and they stood out in contrast to the rusty colored benches. I passed through camp to pick up a couple of beers to share as I made my way over to him. I was excited to see him and to see what had transpired. I picked my way across the tundra benches. As I approached him it was his smile that I saw first before the rack or animal itself. As it turned out this would be one for the books.
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| Pete Harrison |
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Luckily after screwing-up the final sneaks yet again the very next day on a different caribou, I too was eventually smiled upon by the hunting gods with a non-screw up.
