THE NEW UNGAVA
BY T.J. SCHWANKY
THE NEW UNGAVA
BY T.J. SCHWANKY
Airplane rides are a time for anticipation and for reflection and hunting the migratory caribou of Quebec and Labrador allows for plenty of both. No matter where you live in this vast world, your trip will likely find you on at least four separate aircraft and more likely six or eight. It is just plain a long way to the remote regions of the Ungava that the Quebec/Labrador Caribou call home.
And
it was no different on my first trip to Quebec to hunt with Jack Hume
Adventures. In a little over twenty-four hours, I would find myself on an Air
Canada Boeing 767 to Montreal, a Convair 580 to Shefferville and a Twin Otter
floatplane to my final destination, Martha Lake.
Jack is one of the oldest and most respected outfitters in Quebec and it quickly became apparent why. Everything was arranged from the moment you landed at Montreal until the time you were returned there for the trip home. The hunt itself is only part of an outfitter’s responsibility. He must make sure that all the connections are in place to get you to camp and back home again.
One is not prepared for the scale that the larger Quebec Outfitters operate on. Jack Hume Adventures has over 350 hunters come through their camps in the course of a year. Most of the outfitters that I know in Western Canada and the USA complain when they have to handle more than 40 clients. Jack's operation is a model of efficiency run by a dedicated group of family members.
I never felt, however, that there were 349 other hunters to take care of. The personal attention made you feel as if you were the only hunter they had that season. Jack at one time used to handle over 700 hunters a year.
He realized he had to cut back to maintain this type of service.
I booked my hunt for the last week of August but the caribou hunting remains consistent throughout the six-week season. I elected to hunt at one of Jack's outpost camps. It is more reasonable than the main camps where you are fully guided and have all your meals provided for you. I liked the freedom of the outpost camp as well. I was not on a schedule and could hunt from dusk till dawn if I so desired.
Outpost camps are located in the heart of caribou country and can handle six hunters at a time. There is a camp caretaker at each camp to keep things operating and help you with your caribou hunting. His main purpose is not to act as a guide but these caretakers take great pride in making sure guests get a chance at their quarry.
The Quebec/Labrador Caribou is a highly migratory animal.
Hunters may see nothing for days only to be surrounded by thousands the next.
There are five major herds and outfitters are constantly moving camps and
hunters to keep up with the ever-changing migration routes.
In the early seventies and eighties hunters were guaranteed of 100% success on quality trophy bulls. However, heavy hunting pressure and increased numbers of outfitters have caused caribou to abandon traditional routes and establish new paths. There are just as many caribou now, if not more. It is just that the animals are not as predictable as they once were. The Quebec government estimates the caribou population at over 1,000,000.
Hunting is still excellent but the large migrating herds are not as common as they once were. Hunters will usually see between 40 and 80 caribou per day. You are allowed to harvest two caribou of either sex and Jack Hume Adventures averages 1.86 caribou per hunter.
The number of trophy animals has decreased as well, but there is still a good opportunity to harvest a better than average bull. Even a good average caribou makes an impressive trophy and there are loads of those. Some outfitters will have you believe that since you are hunting migratory animals, the chance of taking a trophy is as good in one area as the other.
I am not totally convinced of that fact and was a large part of the reason for booking with Jack Hume. In the 20th edition Boone and Crockett Big Game Awards, 10 of the top 20 Quebec/Labrador Caribou came from Jack's camps. I am a dedicated trophy hunter and wanted to hunt the area that offered the best chance for an
outstanding animal.Caribou are often touted as a stupid animal and undoubtedly they do react different than whitetails in northern Minnesota. But they are not as easy to shoot as your neighbour's cow either. Caribou have a different set of survival skills than southern ungulates. An elk in Colorado sees man as his greatest predator and reacts accordingly. A caribou is more concerned about wolves, bears and other toothy critters.
My first experience with caribou at Martha Lake reinforced this. It was the first day of my hunt and camp caretaker Lionel McKinnon suggested that I hunt a high ridge to east. The group that had been in before me had harvested several bulls there and seen many more.
I was amazed at the amount of trees surrounding the lake, with the high ridges being the only open areas suitable for long-distance spotting. Since these animals are migratory and may appear at any moment, one is best to spend time glassing the open areas.
I had made the twenty-minute hike up to the ridge and spent several hours glassing when I spotted a lone bull in the scrub spruce near a small lake. He was not a caribou that I was interested in shooting but I did want to get a closer look. He was running around in circles like he had just lost his best friend. It made stalking him somewhat interesting, as you never knew where he would appear next.
As I approached the lake I detected a movement to my left. Somewhere along the way I had turned from pursuer to pursued. The young bull was doing his best to get my wind and identify me as friend or foe. I kept working around him, only some thirty yards distant, not wanting to give him my scent. After taking
several photos the bull finally got down wind, snorted and was gone.Stupid? I don't think so. He had just learned that smell was his best defence and wasn't going to spook with a positive olfactory identification. My first encounter left me hungry for more. Even this very young bull sported most impressive headgear. It was easy to see how hunters get excited and shoot the first caribou they see.
Day two found me hunting the same ridge but in much different climactic conditions. It was just above freezing, the wind was howling and razor sharp ice pellets stung my face. This unfortunately was to be the script the weather followed for the remainder of my hunt.
I hunted nearly twelve hours that day without sighting a single caribou. Had it not been for quality clothing and Gore-Tex rain wear, there was no way I could have stayed out that long. My spirits waned somewhat. Here I was thousands of miles from home, cold, wet and only the sighting of one small bull to show for my efforts.
I have hunted long enough to know that things can change in a hurry but it was still disheartening. I recalled the stories I had read about the Ungava and the huge herds of white-maned caribou. Then Jack's words echoed in my mind. "Things have changed".
This truly was a different Ungava from the stories I had read in the seventies. Lionel could see the disappointment in my face at supper that night, although I tried to look unconcerned. "Tomorrow" he said, "we'll head up to Big Bull Ridge".
Day three dawned with the same cold wet greeting that day two had left us with. But I was once again excited. Big Bull Ridge, just the name got one's blood flowing. Call it karma, intuition, premonition or what have you, but I knew today was the day.
Lionel expertly piloted the boat around the shallow reefs and humps in the lake until we were at the foot of Big Bull Ridge. "It's a long hike up there. We better take the pack boards with us to get your caribou back" Lionel quipped.
And a long hike it was. Nearly forty-five minutes straight up through bogs and across swamps. Lionel had urged me to wear rubber boots but I was glad I hadn't. An old basketball injury had left my ankle extremely weak and I needed the support offered by the Rocky Corn Stalkers. This was the first real test for the boots and they kept my feet dry and ankles well supported.
Lionel was a small man in his forties that looked in no better shape than the average Monday night football couch potato. Boy was I wrong. I had been climbing sheep mountains all year in Alberta and it was I could do to keep up. I kept trying to hook a bootlace so I would have an excuse to stop.
When we finally reached the top of the ridge, an all too familiar scenario was beginning to play out. There was not a caribou in sight. Lionel told me that there was usually one slow week during the season but that the caribou could appear at any time. We had been in radio contact with surrounding camps and they were all seeing caribou. Surely they had to move our direction.
While contemplating our dilemma, two cows casually walked out in the open, two hundred yards to the south. Lionel studied them carefully and explained how he had observed two distinct types of caribou in his twelve years of working with Jack. The first were a mousy brown and had very little mane. The others were much larger bodied with long flowing white manes. Strangely both seemed to sport similar headgear.
The second type were the prettiest for the wall according to Lionel. He was sure they would show up any day. The two groups before me had scored on nice caribou but the were of the less attractive type, again according to Lionel. I decided to get downhill from the cows and see if there were any other unseen caribou. Lionel headed for a ridge to the north.
There was nothing with the two cows, so I scanned the surrounding landscape with the 8-power Ziess binoculars. There was a lake about another mile to the east and suddenly through the binoculars I picked up the distinctive form of a caribou. A bull.
A big one at that. Lionel was right, this bull was much different from the one I had seen on day one of the hunt. He was larger bodied and much more spectacular with long white mane. I decided right there that I wanted that bull.
I
ran back up the hill to get Lionel and formulate a plan. He was also watching a
bull but not nearly of the class of the one I had seen. We made our way toward
the lake. The bull had disappeared and after several minutes of glassing neither
of us could locate him. But I wanted him, the memory of the long sweeping
antlers still etched firmly in my mind.
Suddenly I saw him again. He was at the north end of the lake making his was in our direction. There was now a cow with him. She spied us and quickly bolted to the heavy cover up the valley. Strangely the bull continued on his course but at a much quickened pace. There was no time to get much closer. It would require a downhill shot of over 300 yards.
Lionel was sceptical about my ability to make the shot but I indicated that if I could get to a nearby tree for support, there was a good chance that I could hit the bull. We quickly slipped to the tree and waited. The bull had been out of sight for some time. If he kept on his original course, he would pass through a small opening in the trees and allow for a quick shot.
I slipped a 140-grain shell in to the .264 Winchester magnum. I had harvested many big game animals before but the pressure was really on. This was the only good bull I had seen in three days and there was a critical audience watching me shoot. The bull appeared.
He paused in the opening as I settled the 6-power Leupold scope on his vitals. At the report of the rifle he humped but did not go down. I quickly worked the bolt and fired a second round. This time he fell immediately. I watched for a couple of minutes and then took my first breath, content that he was down for good.
Lionel came running over
offering hearty congratulations and still shaking his head about the distance of
the shot. When I later found out that he did most of his hunting with a shotgun
and slugs, it was little wonder at his amaz
ement.
We took our time taking pictures, caping out the head and boning the meat. In all our excitement, we had forgotten the small matter of the three-mile pack over three 1700-foot ridges back to the boat. Some how that seemed irrelevant. I had done what I came to do, harvest a trophy Quebec/Labrador Caribou.
We were beat when we finally reached the boat, having packed all the meat, antlers, cape and about twenty pounds of gear that we had taken with us. Even Lionel admitted that he was tired. That was the first and last time I heard that confession all week. It was the hardest pack he could remember in his four years at Martha Lake.
About half way back to camp, Lionel slowed the Johnson Outboard and told me to get my gun ready. Then I saw what all the excitement was about. There was a massive caribou bedded right on the shoreline. I had not planned on shooting another caribou unless he was considerably larger than my first. This one was. He had tremendous, bezes, tops and one long, wide shovel. I could tell by Lionel's excitement that this was truly an outstanding animal.
Lionel beached the boat and I hit the shore running. The bull had moved from his original position and was nowhere in sight. Disappointed I scanned the heavy cover but there was no sign. Lionel expressed his dismay and indicated there was little hope in finding him. As we made our way back to the boat, there was the bull as big as life, only thirty yards away.
I brought the scope to my eye and tried to find his chest. At the close range it was little more than a labyrinth of hair in the scope. Finally I found what I thought was the shoulder and squeezed the still warm trigger. Hair exploded. Lionel hollered
"You missed" as the bull ran for the lake apparently unscathed.
Confident in my shot, I chased the bull and arrived on the shore just in time to watch him plunge into the icy cold water. He swam about fifty yards out and finally succumbed to the double lung hit. Lionel arrived just in time to see the bull's head sink slowly out of sight.
"Jack's going to be proud" was all he could say.
We dragged the bull back to shore and completed the task of field dressing him. Both still tired from the long pack, we elected to head back to camp for lunch and something hot to drink. The bull was not going anywhere now. We would return in a couple hours to cape and quarter him.
That evening the clouds actually broke for a couple of hours and I sat out on the rocks admiring my two trophies. It is amazing how fast things can turn around. The day before I was wondering if I would ever shoot a caribou and now I had both tags filled. Both magnificent specimens.
I
had not bothered to purchase a bear tag, so I spent the remainder of my days at
Martha Lake fishing for abundant lake trout and wondering the tundra. I never
did see another bull to top my biggest and only one that was bigger than the
other. Too quickly the hunt drew to an end and the Twin Otter arrived with a new
group of hunters, filled with anticipation.
The flight back to Montreal was shared with hunters from several other camps. Some had seen thousands of caribou and others had seen only a few. But no one expressed the least bit of regret. Each had their trophy, their memories and a satisfaction that comes with a successful hunt. The feeling was unanimous. We would return.