The Cessna 209 roared back to life and Dave and I watched it taxi down the tundra “runway” and turn back into the wind. We had been dropped over 400 miles from the closest civilization, two hundred miles above the arctic circle. As the pilot whizzed past us a mere 50 feet away, the sounds of his engine echoed off the canyon walls. Dave and I turned to each other and shrugged. Our Alaska caribou adventure had just begun.

Caribou have become one of my favorite species of big game to hunt.  I was lucky enough to be stationed in Fairbanks during one of my Air Force tours, and it gave me the chance to become familiar with one of the most remote places on earth— the Brooks Range of Alaska. Rich in geological and Native American history this mountain range is home to thousands of caribou, sheep, grizzly, and moose. Dave and I were returning to this mountain range to float a 110 mile section of river, that would eventually drop us within 40 miles of the Arctic Ocean. It was August, the start of arctic fall.

Caribou in this area aren’t the largest of the species, but an average bull will still be over 300 pounds. I was testing out two rifles on this trip– a CVA Scout V2 in 35 Whelen, and the new CVA Accura Mountain Rifle. Range tests had proven them both as true tack drivers. The Remington 200 gr ammo turned out to shoot honest 1″ groups at 100 yards. Out of the various rifles I own, the Scout is the only one to take a box of factory ammo and place the first 3 shots into an inch group right out of the blocks. The 25″ Bergara barrel and CVA trigger design definitely were engineered for accuracy.   Setting down the rifle, and moving on to the muzzleoader, I found a winning load for the Accura that rivaled the scout. Although pelletized powder seems to be all the rage lately, I have a fondness for loose powder.  Hodgdon 777 has yet to fail me, and in this case, 115 gr of it propelled the 338 gr Powerbelt Platinum down range with exceptional accuracy.  After sighting in at 100 yards, I moved to 200, placing two shots within an inch of one another.

Just days later I stood on the bank of that river, airing up the raft.  I eyeballed my rifles on top of the pile of gear.  And wondered when the first opportunity would present itself.

As it turned out, our trip was during the warmest week of the fall. A hungry crop of black flies and mosquitoes had the caribou pinned up against the Arctic Ocean. After 6 days of travel, we had yet to lay eyes on a caribou.  But Alaska has a way of surprising you. Just when you feel emotionally and physically beat, it has the ability of turning right around and making it all worthwhile.  In our case, the morning of day 6 was a game changer. From our vantage point on a rocky perch along the riverbank, I finally spotted a target.

Scanning the river bottom with my Vortex binoculars, a dark shape protruding from a willow bush caught my eye. “As I guided Dave and his binos to the exact spot amongst several square miles of willow covered river bottom, I casually asked: “Dave, does that look like a caribou to you? “.  I was trying to hide my excitement, just in case my suspicions turned out to be nothing but a log or rock.  Before he could answer, the mystery was solved as the creature lifted its head and took a step.  It took all of two seconds to identify it as a nice bull, and probably about two more seconds for us to stuff our gear in the packs and head towards the raft.

Caribou are wandering nomads, often covering 10-15 miles or more in a single day. This animal was casually moving from left to right, about 600 yards across the river. A caribou walking on tundra moves as fast as a human can run, with 100x the endurance. Our only hope was to assume he was too busy eating the willow bush to get much distance on us. After marking his location, we rowed the raft across the river to begin our stalk.  Immediately, we were able to see the tops of his antlers in the distance, and we closed the gap to 200 yards quickly. Caribou aren’t as wary as a whitetail but they are anything but stupid.

Using the wind for both scent and sound reduction, and a large willow to obscure his view, we crept within 60 yards. To our luck, the animal had bed down, likely digesting a belly full of arctic greens. At this point Dave and I had separated about 30 feet, each getting a slightly different view, looking for an opening to which one of us could slip a bullet.  Dave found an opening first and carefully took a shot. The still healthy animal sprang to its feet and with a startled look, hesitated enough for me to get the hammer back on the Scout, and take aim at the broadside animal, now much more visible.  The act of pulling the hammer back has always gets me excited. I still remember my first buck, and how it felt when I pulled the hammer back on that old 94 Winchester. In this case, I knew I couldn’t let that hammer stay back for long. And so, with a light squeeze the scout barked and sent the bullet squarely behind the shoulder of the now frantic animal. It sprinted with impressive acceleration about 60 yards and turned to face the unknown assassin. Now reloaded, I placed a second shot, next to the first, dropping the animal onto the rocky river bed.

Dave and I breathed a sigh of relief. All the miles of driving, flying, raft dragging, and hiking and suddenly culminated in the last 15 minutes. As we approached the fallen beast, it’s double shovels and tall tines propped it’s head off the rocks slightly. Caribou antlers are the fastest growing antlers of all the deer species, and the brown velvet encasing this rack was soft as fleece and still damp from the morning dew. I wrapped my fingers around the thick base and picked his head up.  He wasn’t an old bull, but his antlers were much better than average in this area.  At this point in the trip we would have been happy with much less of an animal, and the fact that our first opportunity was with a caribou of this caliber had us humbled.

As a hunter, I believe it’s necessary to understand and appreciate the importance of luck.   You can never predict where caribou will be, or when they might show up. All the skill in the world is useless if Mother Nature doesn’t throw you a bone. In this case, we stood there on the bank of that river in complete satisfaction, and reverence of our good fortune.  In the back of my mind I was reminded of the old adage “I’d rather be lucky than good.” In this case it might have been a bit of both –but I’d bet my Scout that skill wasn’t a 50/50 share.

By: Dan Mortensen, CVA Prostaff