Caribou in the snow

Caribou moving in the snow

I'll never forget my first caribou bull with a bow, in that remote snow-covered land of northern Quebec.
photo Dave Richey ©2012

One of the most fascinating things about northern Quebec is how many lakes and rivers there are, and how few people inhabit the region. Some Montaignais Indians and a small group of Inuit from the sub-Arctic coast, and that's it for thousands of square miles of bush country.

My first Quebec-Labrador caribou hunt took place in 1971, and it left much to be desired. I saw two caribou, dropped the only bull with one shot, and that was it.

My next hunt was in 1974, and it was far different than my first outing. It was on the George River, north of Schefferville, Quebec, and near the Torngat Mountains. My Montaignais Indian guide, Peter Wanish, spoke very little pidgin English, a bit of French, but we managed to communicate with hand signals and a few spoken words.

Sign language proved useful between my guide and I

As all hunters can do, we learned to communicate.

We headed upstream through a series of rapids above Wedge Hills Lodge, and the sky was the color of soft putty. A cold wind blew out of the north, and we came to an area where the mighty river narrowed. My compound bow was ready, and we took up a position 10 feet uphill from the river bank as we kneeled behind some low-growing trees. We were near the edge of the tree-line, and our meager cover would have to do.

The weather turned colder, and then it began to snow. An hour later there was 12 inches of snow on the ground, and my Bushnell spotting scope was trained on the opposite shore a quarter-mile away. It wasn't needed.

Wanish muttered a guttural "Caribou!" and lifted his finger just off his lap and pointed. Caribou were filtering down toward the river, and stood there looking across. We didn't move, and the caribou stood at the waters edge, and more caribou began to pile up behind them.

The snow gained in intensity, and much of the time the animals could not be seen. And then, a stray gust of wind would flatten out the snow, and through the gauze-like haze of huge snow flakes, we would see them increasing in numbers on the opposite shore. I lifted my Bushnell  binoculars, and when next the snow cleared, there was a steady string of 'bou filtering down through the few trees off the hillside, and the animals just kept coming.

The heavy snow caused thousands of caribou to cross near us. This was an age-old migration route, and trails had been cut deep in the shorelines where generations of Quebec-Labrador caribou had traveled.

Now, after many such caribou hunts, and having taken 28 big ‘bou with double-shovels, I'm convinced that only three things make caribou move: Cold temperatures, heavy snow fall and because the animals decide they want to do so. Cold and snow is what hunters can depend on if the weather cooperates. Migration routs like this can be a hit or miss situation in this country in August and September, if the animals decide to move. It is with eagerness and a madly beating heart when they do.

His whispered warning: “Get ready, they’re coming. No move.”

We watched the animals pile up on the opposite side of the river, and then Wanish grunted again. "Caribou. In water. Swimming!"

He looked at me, signaled for me to get up on one knee and get ready for a close shot. He motioned me to stay behind our skimpy shoreline cover.

I looked across the river, and at least 1,000 caribou were in the river, swimming our way. Their heads were sweeping our shoreline with their eyes, their antlers interlocking with those of other bulls, and on they came as we remained motionless. We were where the animals wanted to go.

They would disappear from sight through the thick snow, and then we'd see them again. The current was swift but the caribou are strong swimmers, and their hollow hair serves as insulation and they seem to bob like a cork on the water.

I singled out a bull with a good rack and a white mane and waited

Once they were within 100 yards of us, they became more visible. A big white-main bull with long main beams, good mass on top, good bez tines and a double shovel was clearly the largest one that would make landfall near us. The other caribou was allowed to swim ashore and leave.

My attention remained riveted on that bull, and as he reached shallow water, he lurched slowly up near shore. Dozens of caribou had already walked past us, and we were just downwind of them. They climbed the hill behind us and disappeared.

The bull stepped ashore, stood on the sand and rocks, shook himself like a Labrador retriever shaking himself off after retrieving a duck, turned broadside to me, and I came to a full draw. Aiming, I had to wait for a cow to pass in front of me, and then made a smooth release on the bull.

The arrow disappeared behind the near-side front shoulder, and the animal stood there for several moments, and started up the hill and fell. From shot placement to death took less than five seconds. It didn't bother the other 'bou, and they just passed by his position on either side, and for 15 minutes it was a steady parade of caribou walking past.

That bull was mounted but his rack was never scored, and years later, I had another bull scored that was slightly smaller, and it made it into the Boone & Crockett record books. This animal is a bit wider, a bit higher, and has more scoreable points. One day I may have it mounted but it’s not necessary.

One day, that caribou may get scored but each time I look at him, all I see in my mind's eye is a huge snow fall, strong winds, and a massive caribou migration that put 2,000 to 3,000 animals past us that day. Believe it or now, hitting the caribou migration isn't easy.

Memories of other hunts may be come or go, or may be forgotten, but I'll never forget my first caribou bull with a bow, on a lonely northern Quebec rive shoreline, when the snow fell and the caribou just kept coming. It was a wilderness spectacle that  has stayed with me for many years, and will never go away.