"Unbelievable" I whispered to T.J.. 

From our position, hunched in front of a rock outcrop a hundred feet above Banana Bay, the view was breathtaking. We could see caribou moving for as far as the naked eye could see. The tundra appeared to be alive. Thousands of animals were funneling into the vale below us. Some headed inland, lining up nose to tail and trailing out for two miles. The others choose to ford the bay in an unbroken procession, swimming four and six abreast. They would reach the far shore only to climb a treacherously steep bank, shake off a star burst of water and continue on their migration, seemingly undaunted by anything. This is what I had come to the north to be a part of. This hunt was built from years of dreams and aspirations.

Two days prior to this, we had left our comfortable home base, nestled in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, for Mackay Lake Lodge in the Northwest Territories. The trip included a short stop in Yellowknife, where hunters full of fervor eagerly piled their dearest possessions and themselves into a Twin Otter to complete the final leg of our trip. The 50 minute flight to the lodge was our first introduction to the tundra, the barren grounds of the north.

Deep scars were etched in the land from decades of migrating caribou. Fiery red vegetation stood stark against the white of freshly fallen snow and gave the tundra a beauty unmatched at any other time of the year. It was mid September in the Territories and from the herds of caribou I could see from the plane's window, obviously a good time to be there. My anticipation soared as we stepped onto the dock at the lodge and were greeted by lodge owner's Gary and Bertha Jaeb and several satisfied hunters talking about big caribou, and lots of them.

I felt a bit in a fog, having a hard time believing that a desire pitted so deep in my heart was being realized. Forever I had longed to walk on the tundra, fill my belly full of low bush cranberries and test my wits and stamina against the caribou, the life blood of the barren grounds.

Months earlier when this trip became a reality, T.J. and I began formulating our goals. This was to be a special hunt (my first guided hunt) with high but attainable goals. Trophy bulls became part of our daily thoughts. T.J. planned to hunt caribou for the first time with his black powder rifle and knew that surpassing the Longhunter Society record book minimum of 275 would be easy, but it was the number one spot that he desired. From his experience the previous year at Mackay Lake, he honestly thought he had a chance of dethroning the 378 5/8 bull that held the honor.

I on the other hand was preoccupied with the minimum for the Boone and Crockett record book, as I intended to hunt with a high powered rifle. Originally the caribou of the Northwest Territories were classified with the barren-ground caribou of Alaska. In time it became evident that those from the Territories were much smaller bodied and attained less antler mass, making it difficult for them to meet the 400 minimum score. This prompted the formation of a separate category for these critters, now known as central-barren ground caribou. Minimums were established at 345. And this was to be my goal. I wanted to take a bull that made the Boone and Crockett book.

We had both secured two tags for the hunt. T.J. was obsessed with double shovels and "big tops" as he put it. I was fascinated by lots of points, especially on the shovels and bez, and hoped to find something out of the ordinary. Armed with such well defined hopes and desires, we embarked on a hunt made in heaven.

Our hunt began with a bit of a twist. With a camera crew in tow we spent our first four days shooting an episode for T.J.'s television show, Gone Fishing With Bob and T.J.. Although this was work for T.J., it was fun for me. I could explore, get to know the lake and the land, and test the fishing hot spots. I could also watch the caribou and spend time developing and fine tuning my ability to judge antler size prior to any real hunting pressure.

Fishing is truly an added bonus at a place like Mackay Lake. Lake trout are plentiful and grayling are big and lavishly colored. We caught lots of trout in the six to 15 pound range but believe me there are some monsters finning in those waters (I have seen the pictures to prove it).

It was during our initial fishing adventures that we came across the large herd of caribou at Banana Bay I alluded to earlier. While we were shooting the television show, we both carried our rifles, just incase. As we gazed onto the marvel of nature before us, T.J. explained to me about "gagger" caribou. They are bulls with antlers so big that you gag when you spot one. I wondered what it would be like to see one. Hundreds of bulls wandered amongst the cows and calves, many easily surpassing the Boone and Crockett minimum. We casually scrutinized them, but let them pass, knowing we had lots of time and if there was this many nice bulls, there would have to be some crankers out there. We would bide our time and plan our strategy.

Then it happened, I gagged! Directly below us in a hummock ridden swamp bordering a stand of stunted spruce trees, a bull of grand dimensions emerged. He was flanked by trophy bulls and yet they seemed like dwarfs beside him. My heart pounded and my mouth dried. I marveled at his grandeur. 

Prior to our arrival we had agreed that I would have first choice of a caribou and I chose this one. T.J. took off at a brisk clip and called back, "follow me".

This is a repeatable error that I continue to make in my life and this time was to be no different. I picked up my rifle and was off behind my husband who never leads me astray! It was not a surprise that we covered about two miles, at a pace most serious runners would envy, over gnarled tundra, deep water and low, dense willows that I am still sure housed a tundra grizzly. We worked hard to get in front of the big bull and into a position for a clear look and shot. He was every bit as good as we had thought. T.J. was adamant that he would go well over 400 and as I was auspicious enough to have first choice, I extended my bipod and waited for the big bull to crest the hill. Ten caribou hesitated at the top. He was buried within the middle of the group and had his hind quarters facing me. I risked hitting another animal if I fired. I waited. More caribou joined in and the throng moved on. Off we ran again, but within a short distance it became unmistakably obvious that the herd was too large and there was no chance of harvesting the bull. He continued on in the sea of antlers.

I shivered as a bead of sweat found its way down my back. These animals were incredible. Never once did the beasts break out of a walk and yet they almost beat us to the point of interception. With a walking speed of four miles per hour, they can easily cover over 40 miles per day. That's a lot more than these legs of mine can carry me. And if that isn't enough, they can swim at nearly two miles per hour, propelling themselves with their broad, round hooves. They are true athletes.

It became apparent that this was going to be a much more challenging hunt than I had envisioned. Hunting a single animal grouped in such large numbers proved to be rather difficult and would take some very mindful planning on our behalf. We would have to hunt in such a way as to slow the caribou down and string them out, so as to get individual caribou passing us. Something worthy of serious consideration.

Numerous bulls came into camp that day, all worthy of vigorous "oohs" and "ahhs", but one in particular caught my eye. His antlers were littered with points. There were points coming off of points. His main beams were weighty, his back scratchers lengthy and his tops ample. He was exceptional and remained branded in my mind so that all others could be compared to him. Jim Howe, the skilled hunter, sported a wide grin of pride while showing off the handsome rack.

At noon on the fourth day of our stay at Mackay Lake, the far off drone of the Twin Otter summoned our camera crew to the air strip above the camp. It was time for them to leave and us to begin our pursuit of a clear mind and a demanding hunt. During the previous few days I had become pervade with anticipation. I just wanted to be out on the tundra in search of caribou. It was like starting the first chapter of a really good book that you just can't put down once you start reading it.

The first day and a half were spent on the west side of the lake with our guide Dan Jaeb, the 21 year old son of Gary and Bertha. One of the keys to the success of our hunt would lay in the accomplished hands of Dan. He would use his northern know-how to help organize the day, speak with the other guides to determine where the caribou were traveling, assist us with the logistics of positioning and judging any animals spotted. His familiarity with the land and the water were valuable commodities.

Things had changed since we arrived. The pace of the migration seemed to have abated. There were now smaller herds of caribou spread out on the tundra and this certainly made hunting conditions more favorable. It was less likely to have large bunches of caribou stacked up 20 deep. If we used the wind correctly and sat statue still, there were times we could literally reach out and touch the dense, hollow hair of a grazing caribou. Decent bulls passed our way and T.J. put one in his sights, but none were quite right. In the distance a large flock of brown and white speckled ptarmigan flushed to avoid being trodden on by caribou. Above ravens circled and squawked. I have heard it said that if many ravens are seen flying together, then caribou are also there. Two bulls tickled antlers and a third thrashed a willow as if to prepare for the coming rut.

Central barren-ground caribou rut in October, and the bulls are in their prime, weighing about 300 pounds and displaying shiny coats and polished antlers. They will often battle for breeding status until the rut comes to an end. This coincides with the completion of the migration and their arrival at the forested wintering grounds to the south.

I woke Saturday morning to a brilliant sunrise and a strong gut feeling. I'm not much for believing in these sensations but this was different. It was absolutely over powering. At breakfast a fellow hunter suggested I would take my first caribou at 4:18 in the afternoon. We left camp with our guides Gary Jaeb and Noel, and part way into the morning spotted a lone, white wolf just off the shoreline. T.J. indicated that this was always a sign of good luck and that today would be the day. O.K., O.K.. So there seemed to be a lot of premonitions arising. Maybe there was something to all of this.

At exactly 4:20 pm that afternoon (I just had to look at my watch) I squeezed the trigger on my 30-06 and harvested my first central barren-ground caribou. Gary had taken us up the Snake River where we beached the boat and walked inland to spot for caribou. A small herd was drifting in our direction, so Gary suggested we wait until the bulls came closer and we could judge them more accurately. T.J. inspected each bull carefully through his spotting scope and the rest of us through our binoculars. The closer they came the more excited we got. This group harbored a big bull.

Hunched low, I covered ground to get into position for a shot. The bull momentarily dropped out of sight and then came back into view, only 125 yards away. He hesitated and lifted his nose to test the wind but had no chance of detecting us, as it was full in our faces. The wide spread of his rack perfectly framed the long, double shovels. As he turned his head back north again, I made the decision. The long top points took my breath away and I tightened up on the trigger.

I continued to lay still after he dropped. There were more bulls coming and T.J. wanted a look at them. I almost crawled out of my skin waiting to get to him. He had gone down in a grassy patch and only the top points of one antler were visible. I tried desperately to hold my binoculars still to look at him but it was no use. Finally the last of the herd passed and I slipped down the steep incline.

He was absolutely magnificent! In fact it seemed that his antlers were growing as I gawked. This was the trophy I had come for. Hardy pats and kind congratulations were offered by my fellow companions. The 22 inch plus top points wound themselves around the back of my shoulders as I tipped the bull's head up for pictures. He was green scored that evening at 379 3\8. The smile in the pictures says it all.

The ensuing day held equal prosperity, but on T.J.'s behalf. Again I found myself running, half crouched, through the hummocks. Caribou were coming. T.J. made it to the end of the ridge first and dropped down beside a dirt knoll, while Noel and I waited higher on a side hill. We could no longer see T.J., only the caribou trailing by him. I watched and wondered which he would pick. There was an assortment of bulls all worthy of serious consideration.

The muzzleloader boomed and a cloud of black powder smoke rose in the air currants. A bull on the far shore wheeled and staggered. The bull was farther away than T.J. had originally thought, and at almost 200 yards, the bullet struck slightly low. T.J. retreated back to our position to allow the bull time to bed down and let the adrenaline settle a little.

While we stood discussing our next move, caribou started coming over the hill, right toward us. T.J. instinctively dropped, ready to judge and shoot if necessary. He blurted, "there's a 400 bull", and in mid stride the caribou fell as the second puff of pungent black smoke permeated the air. Everything was happening so fast! T.J. had two colossal bulls on the ground within 10 minutes of each other and there was a pretty good chance that the second was the new black powder, world record, central barren-ground caribou.

This bull had it all, perfectly matched double shovels the length of his nose, bez blessed with a myriad of prickly points and heavy, palmated top points. He depicted the perfect specimen. A small piece of velvet tipped his left shovel, trapped there forever by the shovel resting tight on his nose.

Further admiration would have to be put on hold as we had another job at hand. T.J.'s first bull had bedded and needed to be dealt with. After an aggressive, calculated stock, T.J. fired two more rounds and ceased the bull's escape. This bull had the sweeping, long tops that T.J. so desired. I can't say that I have ever seen it before or will ever see it again but my hunting partner was completely speechless (not that I am complaining!). No doubt he was trying to fathom what had just transpired, what he had just accomplished. A hunter needs those few minutes to grip the remorse of a lost life but also the fulfillment of a fair chase and clean kill.

The remainder of the day was consumed with taking several rolls of photos, succeeded by the task of collecting the meat and antlers and packing them across the tundra to the boat. A welcome fatigue cloak me as I sat on the bench of the aluminum boat. It had felt good to walk in the open under the sun blazed skies of the Territories; to carry the heavy pack full of memories and stories.

T.J.'s bull was the talk of the camp and for sound reasons. Not only were his antlers a masterful creation but he gross scored over 400 and is, unofficially the new world record for The Longhunter Society. He was also the biggest bull taken in camp during our stay.

I was still carrying my second tag in my fanny pack. Several opportunities for record class bulls presented themselves but never the mirror image of the creature in my head. I admired a red fox's hunting prowess one day as it stalked a flock of ptarmigan. I saw Dan hit a wolverine running flat out at 100 yards on a day he was hunting with us and Gary was guiding. I yearned to fulfill my goals.

With the air temperatures rapidly dropping and the impending feel of winter upon us, we moved to the east side of the lake where bands of caribou were seen moving north. Atop a hill, about three miles from the main lodge, we rested as small bunches of caribou came and went. Suddenly, a huge bull crested a distant ridge and descended to the lake below. My binoculars fixed on his antlers. I nudged T.J.. "Lets get to a better spot where we can get a long look at this guy."

Through the glasses I could see one huge, velvet covered shovel, impressive bez, double main beams and points everywhere. It was definitely the caribou I had traveled so many miles to find. I bided my time and finally had a clear shot at the bull as he walked away, quartering at 120 yards. The bullet hit its mark and the caribou bolted. He pounded hard for 30 yards and fell. This animal was the complete opposite of my first bull. While lacking the long main beams and tremendous width, he more than made up for it with over 40 points. He had real character.

The last days of our journey were spent experiencing the north. We portaged an inflatable boat up one of the numerous rivers to a spot where few humans had been. We hiked up hills and gazed out onto miles of endless tundra. Sandwiches and coffee were consumed while tucked behind rocks, out of the bite of the northern winds. The Inukshuks stood tall over the land offering guidance to the tundra traveler. At night we walked out to their open arms and let the northern lights dance around us. The reds and greens arched across the black heavens and caressed our hungry eyes. We felt shrouded in a timeless peace.

What began as a dream had become a reality of unspeakable magic and inner fulfillment. The north had captured our imagination and left caribou tracks across our hearts.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

For hunters searching for trophy, central barren-ground caribou and true northern adventure, you need look no further than True North Safaris. Mackay Lake Lodge is the most comfortable hunting camp in the north, and this area dominates the record books. During our stay, number two and number eight Pope and Young bulls were taken, T.J. took the possible new world record for black powder and the majority of hunters took Boone and Crockett animals.

For more information, contact:

True North Safaris, Dept. BGA, 3919 School Draw, Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, X1A 2J7, 403-873-8533, Fax 403-920-4834