Combat Hunting

                      “Combat Hunting”

     “Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, I was feeling just as faded as my jeans“. I always have a song in my head. Today I was rollin with some Bobby McGee. We had just crested a hill on the Parks Highway. “ Hey bubba, look out your window”. I timed it just right. Hurricane Gulch passed under the truck at fifty miles per hour.

     “Whoa!” Corey was impressed. The massive gorge cutting deep into the Talkeetna mountains is a breath-taker.  A quick glance is all I get as the driver.  Corey, sitting in the back seat was deftly negotiating his in-flight movie, the scenery, the snacks and his journal, not necessarily in that order. We had spoken before we left about using our powers of observation on this trip. He had brought his journal so he could write a story and draw pictures. He reached over to grab his blue spiral notebook.

     “Windshield wipers slappin time, holdin Bobbies hand in mine, we played every song that driver knew”. I was belting it out in my best Janis voice and tapping the steering wheel for all it was worth. By the time we reached the Igloo though, Janice was doing a number on my vocal chords so I shut her down although she still sang to me in my heart.

     We took a pit stop in Cantwell before turning down the Denali Highway. The Nelchina Caribou permit was burning a hole in my pocket. We were set. Apparently the herd had flourished despite the heavy snowfall south of the Alaska range last winter. There were more caribou than expected. This had prompted the issuance of almost 2500 additional permits.

     A recent ADF&G Press release said that the long term sustainability of the Nelchina herd depends heavily on keeping the herd within its population objective.

     Maintaining the health of the population: good. Increasing an already choked hunting area with thousands more hunters and their four wheelers: bad.

     Since the season opened on a Friday I hoped to get a head start. Most people have to work right? After pulling some strings at my work, we were able to leave on Thursday afternoon. The truck was packed with everything we would need. Corey was excited to be using new hiking boots and a .22 his Papaw had given him.

     After only a few miles down the Denali Highway I noticed that the traffic seemed heavier than usual. We passed a small covey of Winnebagos camped just off the road. A big crackling fire was lighting up the faces of the small crowd gathered around, all sitting in camp chairs. The lords of the motor home were holding court, laughing, eating. Across the road, a few hundred yards down was another camp. A couple of young guys were off loading a fourwheeler from a trailer. “Wow, there’s a lot of people this year”.

“Yeah. Are they all hunting?” Corey asked.

“Probably so”.

     Eventually we settled on a camp for ourselves. There was a good half mile between us and the next camp. From here we would have a good view on both sides of the road. In the morning, with a good early start, we would go for a hike and hopefully see something.

     We arranged the back of the truck with our sleeping gear and put in for the night.

     By seven A.M. we had crossed the road and had started hiking up the hillside. We were ready.

“ Hey dad there’s some poop.“. Sure enough, in the trail there it was, although it looked more like moose poop to me.

“ Corey look at this.”  The discoveries were rolling in. I noticed some bones nearby. Obviously dead for a year or more the bones were worn down to a chalky white, the backbone and one femur were mingling with an assortment of other unidentifiable bones near the base of an old stunted black spruce. Corey, pack board and rifle in hand came over to check it out.

     Putting the two together, he matter of factly exclaimed “Pooped and died”. His calm declaration made perfect sense to him. His inexhaustible sense of curiosity was a perfect match for the wilderness. Although he was excited about the prospect of hunting caribou, it was the ptarmigan and ground squirrels he was really after. “ Can we shoot ground squirrels?” he had asked.

“ Sure as long as we eat them.”

“Okay…..they ate them on Brother Where Art Thou”. Good point.

     Slowly we made our way up the hillside picking our way around the bushes. I scoped each new vantage point for caribou. Corey was keeping a keen eye out for Punxsutawney Phil. Together we make a pretty good team.

     Once we gained the ridge we noticed a nearby hill that would probably offer a great view.  We reached the knoll and took off our packs. The 360 degree view allowed us to scout the entire area.  “Look what I found dad”. Corey was holding a black tubular case. I knew exactly what is was.

     “Nice find Corey, that’s bear-spray”.

     “Awesome”. Corey was having a great hike. Already, we had hiked over a mile from the road and about 500 vertical feet all without a single complaint.

     “Maybe we should put some on us to keep away the bears”. I tested him.

     “Very funny dad”.

     It wasn’t long before we discovered a couple of four wheelers high on a distant ridge to our west. Then to our east we quickly found another group.  Three hunters were donning blaze orange camo.

     I was a little crushed. A far cry from the ideals of my own hunting expectations; I was disappointed. It was as if we were hunting somewhere in the Midwest. Blaze orange, really? I guess I should have known. I was hoping to beat the crowd, to get in and out before the brunt of hunting pressure materialized. I was wrong.

     Far below, a couple of giant white motor homes snaked along the Denali Highway kicking up a plumes of dust.

     With no caribou to be spotted, we picked our way back down and around, back to the road.

     It wasn’t to be on this day.