Video
Jake's takeoff with rack secured to struts. Video by Jamee.
Day One
So whose great idea was it to walk an overloaded raft up a raging river for a couple days of camping, and maybe a successful hunt? Oh yeah, mine.
© 2014 Zane Jacobson
I wanted to hunt a caribou in Alaska. We started the hunt in late September 2015. My friend Mike and I were dropped off at a small strip by 40 Mile Air in a Cessna 206 for three nights. We landed on a small, narrow, challenging airstrip with tall trees that hugged the available landing space and lots of potholes that made you tighten your safety belt before going in. Luckily we had a skilled pilot who used this strip frequently in the summer.
I first came to Tok Alaska, in April 2014 on a flight ferrying a SuperCub from Minnesota to Anchorage, and I saw droves of caribou marching across rivers and uninhabited lands. Alaska is unique; it is both populated with big cities and has many places that few have had the chance to see. This is one of the places that is off the beaten path which keeps the land wild and untamed.
Mike, my partner in crime in this adventure, has spent many years working for 40 Mile. Now he is less involved but he still has the chance to fly the hunting season at the end of the summer. He flies to many strips just like this one as well as different lakes that no one else dares go to because of the skill and experience it takes to get in and out alive. I know him as a coworker and had heard of his great escape and convinced myself that at the end of the season, when he had time to play, there would still be large game around.
As I arrived moose season had just ended and Mike told me "all the caribou had gone to Canada..." I was sad. This possibility had crossed my mind, the caribou do move quickly and snow was moving ever closer. Luckily I was re-inspired when a coworker of his said the caribou were still around, and "still around" meant there was still a chance! I started "youtubing" ways to skin and quarter caribou and repacked my bags.
I talked with AK Fish and Game about the location of the caribou and they confirmed the suspicions referencing their tracking devices. I have experienced deer hunting in Southeast Alaska, but big game seemed a little more intimidating. Youtube was helpful at putting some of my worries at ease. I did not want to waste any meat if I had a successful hunt. The 206 flew us around a loop of the area so we could get the lay of the land, to see where we were going to trek and of course look for some caribou to boost our confidence. We would be left in the middle of a valley-- the area we would walk was relatively flat in elevation, but there were some tall mountains towering over us on both sides. We planned to follow the meandering river up to the zone we were allowed to hunt in. This all looked pretty straight forward.
Mike and I were left at the small airstrip with what we carried. We brought all our camping gear (stove, dry food, knives, guns, an extra set of warm cloths, mesh bags for meat storage) plus a pack-raft to haul our caribou back down the river. This all ended up being more than I wanted to carry in one go. We both agreed it would be good to cut across the tundra to save time walking the riverbed. The tundra was filled with tussock, big clumps of grass that were like stepping stones in the river. They are awful for your ankles, and made it slow going for all the weight we were caring. Step on the tussock sideways and your foot just slid off, unless of course you found a way to stay on the very top and middle of it. I tried to walk only stepping on the tops of the clumps, but it was slow going anyway we tried. Walking up a raging river seemed a lot easier and we had a raft. So we back tracked to the airstrip put on our hip waders, blew up the raft then put all our gear in it. In the shallow parts of the river we tugged the raft against the current, but the parts of the river that were too deep to walk the shoreline we would jump aboard and paddle across.
Walking the river towing the raft was preferrable to negotiating the ankle-rolling tussocks.
We could not legally hunt the day we were dropped off, so we took our time walking up the river. At one point, as we were taking in the scene, we heard crashing in the forest and silently watched as at least ten caribou crossed the river upstream of us. Huge, majestic creatures they were, just trudging ahead, not paying us any attention. Just seeing them made me realize the trip was worth it, being out in the middle of nowhere, no planes, no cars, no sounds except for the wind, the water and the movement of animals. It was peaceful, it was simple and calm; good to get away from the regular buzz of the daily routine. Whether or not we had a successful hunt we made it out here to enjoy this. The wind was light, the sky was covered with high gray clouds, and it was not raining and as long as we kept moving we were not too cold.
At a confluence of the Fortymile River we settled on a campground. It was a big uneven gravel bar, washed over many times by flooding river water, but we would be out of the trees and on dry ground. All the tussock, in and around the trees, was either a swamp or damp from the moss that clung to the ankle breaking clusters of grass. It was in a good location as our hunt would start just around the corner. We were exhausted from fighting up a river to this spot, and had just enough energy to leave all our stuff and walk upstream to scout for our hunt tomorrow. We were in bear country, so to not be caught off guard and to be ever vigilant, rifles always stayed with us. We found the overlook that we would set up on to wait for sighting of the migrating caribou.
When we got back to camp the sun was just setting behind the mountains. We acted quickly to gather firewood and set up a tent in a flat space while we still had light enough to see. What we did not expect to hear was the low rumble of a small plane. Jake, Mike's coworker and good friend, had decided to join us for the hunt tomorrow, and we were thrilled to have him. He had already scouted the area prior to putting the bushwheels of his Super Cub down on the gravel strip. He took a different approach to finding a camping spot for the night than walking up this river... He landed with big tires and great skills I hope someday I too will possess. It was not an easy gravel strip to land on, definitely not something I have ever tried. Jake has a lot of experience and time in this area and knows his plane really well. Good company was kept that night under the stars as we keep our toes warm by the fire and filled our bellies with mountain house. Tomorrow would be a whole different challenge.
Walking the river towing the raft was preferrable to negotiating the ankle-rolling tussocks.
Day Two
In the morning we got up, slowly. It had not snowed, but there was a chill in the air confined by frost over the tops of our tents, and high layer of clouds which helped keep some of the warmth in. Jake had come to hunt a moose, on his resident's tag, and brought his big gun for the job. And it just so happened that a large bull showed up for breakfast that morning, but after his appearance on the other side of the river he disappeared. So we pulled on our hip waders and tugged our empty raft to our lookout up the river, with high hopes, to fill it with meat.
It was quiet, and after a while we spotted three bulls, across the river moving ever so slowly downstream from us, and it looked promising that they would head in a favorable direction. Then I spotted a few caribou coming out of the woods upriver from us (much farther away), then there were more following behind. It was like watching ants marching along the road; you put a stick in front of them and they keep marching on. The caribou did not seemed to be hindered by much; down a mountain to cross the river and head right back up another.
The three bulls we had spotted earlier got closer to where they would cross the river and walk through some trees to an open area, which we would use to get a clear shot. As they crossed we took the opportunity to sneak down to the cover of the trees, and waited. They were getting closer, now one hundred and fifty feet away. I used a tree as a stand and waited until they were not bunched up and in clear range. I was nervous with excitement. If I did this right I would only need one shot, but the placement was crucial to saving as much meat as possible while also sparing the creature unnecessary pain. When I had it in my sight I waited few more seconds until the bulls were not paired up and then I took my shot. The bull stood still, staggered a little and then went down. The other two bulls hung around for a while, not scared by the noise or the fate of their buddy, just curious, and as we approached to check out if the caribou was really dead, they fled. I was asked before I shot if I would be happy with the size of the animal, I said yes, and I was not disappointed. In fact I was delighted!
Now to the work: skinning and quartering. I was glad Jake showed up. It was a great weight off my back to have him around, with all his experience and knowledge from his past hunts. We went to skinning and quartering it while Mike left to look for his own caribou. Skinning felt strange as I took off the first layer. Then I followed the muscles to cut the meat off the bones. Bending over the caribou and cutting and lifting the weight took a toll on my body. It weighed more than the Sitka Blacktail I had hunted in Southeast Alaska. As Jake and I were just getting half the quarters off we heard a shot ring out and I thought about how much work we would have to finish before we started on the next caribou. It was a weird transformation as we turned the caribou into nothing but guts, bones and a large pile of meat. I knew that the birds would pick off all they could, bears and wolves would feast on the rest. The animal would not be wasted. I needed to keep in mind, even though my body was becoming stiff to not complain. This was the reason for coming out here in the first place, and it was a great success and of course a lot of work.
Leaving my caribou in bags I went to help Mike start his. I instructed him on what I had learned and we had barely finished skinning when we heard Jake's gun go off farther downstream. He came back shortly after his shot to help Mike and I finish cleaning the meat and told us his harrowing tale.
Jake was still looking for moose when he came across a caribou not fifty feet away, and not wanting to miss this opportunity he used his moose gun to shoot the caribou. The caribou then staggered around a little and started moving towards the river. There was a large set of rapids about one hundred yards downstream from where the caribou fell that moved the animal quickly down the river. Jake was just about to run into the water to stop his caribou from being gone forever, when it slowed down and came to rest not fifty yards away from where his plane was parked. Man did he luck out!
The three of us finished quartering Mike's caribou and Jake ran off to start his. Mike and I were left to haul the meat down to the river's edge to put in the raft. One quarter at a time was enough weight for me. Once his caribou was all taken out I went upriver to retrieve mine. Mike met me with the raft to where my caribou meat bags awaited their ride to base camp. We were bloody, cold, tired, and sore but we couldn't stop moving yet.
Mike would walk the bank as I paddled the raft down the river. My weight was too much for the shallow parts and we both had to pull and tug on the raft to keep it going at times. All was uneventful until I came into contact with a low lying branch in the middle of the river. I thought I could maneuver myself around it, when instead I was lashed off backwards into the cold water. The meat raft escaped the swing of the branch, but did not stop floating down stream. My worst fear at this part of the journey was for all the meat to end up swept away in the swift currents. I got up quickly and ran after the raft, but weighted down by my water filled waders there was little I could do to catch up to the raft. Luckily it snagged in another tree branch long enough for us to catch up and walk it the rest of the way to camp.
Mike pleaded with me to make a fire and get warm, but we were so close to camp that it seemed silly to stop, so I pushed on. I had adrenalin to keep me going and knew we would make a fire and I could change into dry clothes once at camp. The temperature had been dropping all day, evident by the solid ice forming along the river's edge taunting me with its frosty grip. Thirty minutes later we were back at camp. Just in time as the sun was falling behind the mountain as I striped down into my sleeping bag and settled next to a warm fire. I had lost the feeling in my toes and eventually my legs became tingly, and then I started shivering.
Jake was busy cleaning up his caribou not a hundred feet away. We were lucky on this trip. It was a great adventure all in all, even with the unforeseen circumstances. Once I got warmed up and put on the only other dry things I brought, we all hung our meat in tree branches away from the camp. None of us had energy to do much else besides sit by the fire and eat a little food.
Day Three
The morning was slow. Jake was kind enough to take a load of our meat in his SuperCub to the small strip where the Cessna 206 would meet us later. This made the float back a lot easier with just our weight. There was a colder light breeze across the land as we meandered down the river under the overcast gray sky, We were both pleased by the outcome, and our freezers and our family and friend’s freezers will be stoked with delicious caribou for the winter. As we waited on the strip for the Cessna 206 to take us back to the land of people we drank tea and told stories. Life in the land of the great North is pretty adventurous and I am glad our plan was flexible enough to adapt to the random variables so we could ever be prepared for what lay ahead. Until the next adventure.
