|
"THE GIFT"
By Dave Albiston-2004'
THE STAG spun around at the challenge of my guide, A'nTile (Andy) Joe's
grunting snort. Walking stiff legged toward us, snorting and blowing, he
closed the gap to under 50 yards. Tension filled the air as the rut-crazed
stag stopped and glared in our direction. 'Take him!' hissed Andy.
Beyond a doubt, I live in the best location that an avid archery hunter
could ever hope for. The Idaho Falls, Idaho area is like a big game smorgasbord.
Within a 50 mile radius you can literally hunt every North American big game
animal. The bow hunting frenzy for me normally starts in September. For
twenty five years, my passion has been archery hunting elk and mule deer.
Like most hunters, I have always had a fascination with caribou, and dreamed
about one day hunting them, but could never afford the trip. For my 50th
birthday, my kids surprised me with a guided hunt.
Research led me to the Province of Newfoundland, Canada for woodland caribou.
Looking for a spot and stalk archery hunt, I found woodland caribou to be
a perfect fit, lacking the mass migration of their northern cousins.
After researching for months, my son Kelly and I decided on a father and son,
spot and stalk archery hunt with Sipujij Bowhunting Lodge. The camp is located
in a remote wilderness area accessible only by float plane.
My inquiries led me to their bowhunting only operation formed as a partnership,
where the guides are all family and partners. They are Miíkmaq aboriginals
that have been hunting and trapping most of their lives. They all have a
vested interest in the camps success, and are hard working and good natured.
Their ancestors were hunter-gatherers who used birch-bark canoes and snowshoes
for travel, to trap beaver, and hunt caribou and moose in the 16th century.
Woodland caribou rut during the month of October. Dominate stags
gather as many does as they can keep under control. Much like elk, they are
very vocal when rutting, with warning grunts, snorts, and posturing. When
there is a confrontation, the herd stag may engage in battle for breeding
rights. We scheduled our hunt the second week of October, which put us in
the peak of the rut.
Knowing that I had to be in top physical condition, I exercised and shot
my bow every other day for the entire year. My motivation was fear of failure.
I focused on game-like practice, shooting winter video leagues and summer
3D tournaments. I spent ten days hunting elk and deer in September
and was able to arrow a mule deer buck. When October finally arrived, my confidence
level was at an all time high.
The anticipation of the hunt was an exciting time. For several months
we planned our trip and put our equipment lists together. I was looking
forward to spending some quality time with my 26 year old son. Our journey
began the morning of October 9, 2004, when we flew out of Salt Lake City
International Airport. Six flights, one slightly strained groin from sprinting
through Chicago airport, and 15 hours later we touched down in Gander, Newfoundland.
Camp manager, Gerard Joe was there to welcome us. As luck would have it our
bows and sleeping bags had not caught up to us yet. We waited several
hours for the next flight and still no bows. Still having a two hour
drive to meet up with our float plane I started to get anxious. Gerard said
not to worry, that our bows would catch up with us that evening. Getting
on that float plane without my bow made me more than a little nervous, but
I soon forgot about that when the pilot with a French accent mentioned that
his plane was 27 years old. I glanced at the ceiling and noticed duct
tape holding it together. Visions of float plane scattered across the tundra
flashed through my mind.
As soon as we were in the air, all was forgotten. We flew over the
most amazing country that I have ever seen, lakes for as far as the eye could
see, separated by strips of spruce forest and open barrens. Several groups
of caribou with respectable stags dotted the landscape. We were pumped.
Our camp was on a timbered ridge overlooking Dollandís Pond (Lake),
and the view was postcard material. To our relief, our bows were flown
in that evening and after a few practice shots, we were ready for our Monday
morning hunt.
Newfoundland is nicknamed the "Rock", but don't let that fool you; there
is very little solid ground. The landscape is covered with an eight inch
sponge of forbs and lichens, and low tuccamore that would grab your ankle,
and cover knee breaking bog holes. Every step was an adventure, and the only
safe place to walk was in camp.
Our hunt was located in one of the last true wilderness areas, perfect
for spot and stalk hunting and consisted of ponds, low ridges, flat barrens,
bogs, streams, and pockets of spruce forests. Each day we would get
up before dawn, and our cook would prepare a huge breakfast. A typical
day would consist of hiking from high point to high point glassing for caribou
stags, and either executing a stalk or hiking to the next vantage point.
The nasty weather made it tough on us, rain and patchy fog for the first
three days. It didn't seem to faze our guide; he had been walking 8
to 10 miles every day for the previous two weeks. Andy Joe was short and
stout and seemed like he could hike forever. Kelly and I joked about Andy's
ego, covering a lot of ground in a short amount of time seemed to be part
of his strategy. At times I wasn't sure if we were hunting, or if he was trying
to walk us to death. I considered putting an arrow in his leg to slow him
down but figured it would just tick him off. Kidding aside, he has a reputation
as one of the best archery guides in Newfoundland. The man could hunt,
and always seemed to know what the roaming caribou were going to do, putting
us in bow range on several stags.
The first two days were filled with thrilling stalks on small bands of
caribou. I think Andy thought that we could use the practice. Even though
the area hadn't been rifle hunted for fifteen years, the caribou were afraid
of us, but at the same time curious. It is amazing how calm animals can
be when they haven't been rifle hunted. I told Andy that my goal was
to put my tag on a Pope and Young stag. He said that if I could shoot straight
it shouldnít be a problem.
On Wednesday, we woke to overcast skies, more rain, and fog. Andy said
that we would push deeper into the area where he had spotted a trophy stag
the previous week. After hiking several miles, we spotted a doe and
large stag in the distance. We glassed him and Andy said that it looked
like a Pope and Young stag. They were moving slowly across an open barren.
Andy smiled and said, "Let's go get him, eh." Woodland caribou are wanderers.
I'm not sure if they even know where they are going most of the time. We
switched into sneak mode as we took advantage of the terrain and made a big
circle, to get ahead of them for an ambush.
As they crossed through a brushy draw at 40 yards, the stag, sensing something
was wrong, acted nervous. I knocked an arrow and drew on him, but passed
on the walking shot. (The camp has a two strike rule. Wound two animals
and you are finished. Good rule.) They faded into the
fog, as they disappeared over the ridge. Andy, sensing my disappointment
said, "Be patient, we have all day." We trailed from a distance; the
pair would vanish and then reappear in the mist. Finally, they started
to settle down and we closed the gap to 100 yards. Andy whispered,
"This time we will get him, eh?" The stag was a magnificent animal with a
long white mane, and double shovels that went almost to his nose. He had exceptional
bez length, and matching back scratchers. His tops were a little sparse,
which is typical of woodland caribou.
After a year of anticipation, the moment of truth was finally here. Two
hours of stalking for position, trudging through ankle grabbing bogs, it
all came together, with the wind in our face, we crawled on our hands and
knees the last twenty yards. I ranged the stag at 60 yards, and whispered
to Andy, "Too far." We were well hidden behind a stunted spruce.
Andy whispered to me, "Get ready." He held his axe, which he carried
everywhere, horizontal above his head and rocked it back and forth and started
to snort. The stag spun around by the challenge, and started walking
stiff legged toward us, snorting and grunting as he closed the gap to under
50 yards. Tension filled the air as he stopped and glared in our direction,
then glanced back at his doe. As he started to turn back, Andy hissed,
"Take him!"
I drew my bow and centered the 40 yard pin on his vitals, Andy let out
one last grunt. The angry stag froze in his tracks as the arrow zipped
through the air and hit home with a smack. When he spun and ran, he
carried my arrow centered in his lungs. I grabbed Andy and lifted him
off the ground. "I got him, eh!" I couldnít resist teasing his Canadian
accent.
I later stood over the stag and marveled at the magnificent animal. There
is something special about spot and stalk archery hunting. More skill.
More Risk. More challenge. More reward. It just feels better than
sitting by a trail, hoping something walk by. The hunting conditions had
physically and mentally put us to the test. The old saying, "That which
does not kill you will only make you stronger" is true. This hunt taught me
humility and patience as no other hunt had before.
Andy made short work of the field dressing. We loaded our backpacks
with boneless meat and were back in camp by mid-afternoon. We had spotted
a group of caribou with a good stag on our way back. Kelly wanted to
give him a closer look, and after a short rest, I grabbed the video camera
and we headed out. The stag and his harem of does were bedded on the crest
of a ridge in a perfect spot for a stalk. He was a keeper so we circled
around, and with a good cross wind, topped the ridge behind an outcrop of
rock in perfect position. The stag was up and I ranged him at fifty two yards.
As Kelly came to full draw, I turned the video camera on and the stag came
into focus just as he released the lethal shot. A memory I will never
forget.
The thrill of the hunt had led us to the "Rock", on a hunt of a life time.
Kelly and I had both connected that day, and hopefully we will be able to
share future hunts together. As the float plane lifted off the lake,
I couldn't seem to get the smile off my face. The sun was finally shinning,
and our pilot flew us low over the tundra. Kelly and I had one last
look at the threads of caribou trails weaving through the landscape.
This was tough country, tough people, a place locked in time, and I can't
wait to return.
I would like to thank my Family for giving me the opportunity to experience
this hunt, that until now I could only dream about. This story is dedicated
to my kids who made this all possible.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
DAVE'S GEAR:
BOW:
MATHEWS Q2 XL
ARROWS:
CARBON EXPRESS
BROAD HEADS: SLICK TRICK 100
CAMO:
DAY- ONE PREDATOR
RAIN GEAR:
RIVERS WEST ATS
BINOCULARS: SWAROVSKI
EL 10X42
RANGE FINDER: LEICA 800
RELEASE:
CARTER LOKJAW 2000
|
"Click on Images for
larger view"
|
