Heard the one about a couple of American deer hunters wandering around an Inuit town? The younger one was from the Deep South, and the cold wind roaring off Ungava Bay convinced him his rubber knee-highs were not enough boot for caribou camp. The other, an undistinguished sort despite the gray in his beard, agreed.
We were looking for a store where The Boss (his show-biz name) could buy insulated boots, and by the time we happened upon one we were both shivering. From the outside it looked like a makeshift grocery and who knew if they sold boots. We just wanted to get out of the cold.
Inside it was steaming and everyone turned to stare at the foreigners. The place was loaded with teenage kids playing grinding hip-hop music. The boys were wearing baggy jeans, sneakers and sideways caps; the girls dolled up with makeup and jewelry. Some were smoking cigarettes and there was a feast of microwave pizza, hamburgers, sodas and candy. They had straight black hair, sharp cheekbones and Asian eyes, and after sizing us up, turned away disinterested.
In the back The Boss located a rack of shoes. He was lucky to have small feet because there was nothing bigger than a 9 1/2. The selection was limited—mostly sneakers—but he found some synthetic pacs that would work … for about twice what you’d pay at your local big-box.
That didn’t seem to bother The Boss. In fact, it appeared he felt right at home.
Sleety rain beating on the Quonset hut’s steel shell is not what’s keeping me awake our final night in caribou camp. Can’t really blame the tough luck, either, though hardly any caribou have shown since we arrived. Guilt is to blame. I have done far too little—too little walking, too little pestering the guides—to earn a good bull. And now we are out of time; the plane is coming for us at noon.
So do something.
In the pitch-dark I grope for my clothing. I don’t want to wake the others since their plan is to sleep in, shower, pack and head for the airstrip. Why bother going out where there are no caribou?
But that’s what I’m doing.
I creep over to The Boss’ bunk and try to rouse him. No sleeplessness here; he’s been revving like a diesel all night long. Futile as it seems, I want him to get up and bring the video camera. What we’ve got so far isn’t going to make much of an episode of “American Hunter TV.”
“Naw,” he says finally. “I got to shoot B-roll here at the camp and then pack up. You gonna have to turn around and come right back. Shoot, you’ll probably miss the plane.” He’s snoring again by the time I slip out the door.
The Kuujjuaq airport had really gone downhill since my last caribou hunt in northern Quebec. Hunters arrive here on a big jet from Montreal, then split up to take bush planes to camps scattered across the tundra. The terminal used to be one big bullpen, and when everyone deplaned and crowded in waiting for baggage it was like one wild party. Now the waiting area has been walled off to the size of a narrow hallway, all the chairs are gone and apparently they’ve stopped washing the floor and walls.
Our organizer, Shannon, was smiling but I’m sure she wasn’t happy about the delay. She is one of the most perpetually upbeat people I know, which is one key reason why Shannon Jackson Public Relations is a success in the firearm industry. For several years she has represented Zeiss Sport Optics, somehow managing to mesh egghead German scientists with the motley crew of editors and writers who produce America’s hunting and shooting media. Her ability to bridge that gap should merit a prize of some sort, but I knew better than to think that escorting The Boss and me qualified.
Talk about your wintry mix—along with rain I am pelted by every kind of wind-blown frozen precip, and patches of white glaze the trail. What is the Inuit word for “miserable?
"If I hustle I can reach the end of the 4-wheeler trail by first light, but then how much longer until I must head back?
If I go another hour after that, then it’ll be at least two hours back—so somewhere around 10 a.m. That’s two hours if I run. What happens if I’m late? Will they hold the plane?
In the stormy night overhead I can hear geese honking.
Our guide was Ira, a good-natured older gent who had worked in caribou camps for many years. His strategy was to drop us off at “The Rock” where we were to keep watch until cold and/or hunger motivated us to walk back. He told us to wait, that the “carry-boo” would surely come along the well-worn trails that laced around a boulder the size of a small cabin. Pretty soon we started using the boulder for a windbreak, though the benefit was mostly psychological.
From deep inside my hooded parka I start seeing enormous, slow-moving snowflakes, and upon glancing up I note that the sky is graying a bit. To the east a surprising band of orange confirms that it’s daybreak.
Once past The Rock, I hit the end of the ATV trail. I plan to keep going over the rough tundra, hoping I can find a chokepoint narrow enough to cross one of the streams that run into Lac Aigle Fontaine. If so, and if there’s time, I will continue west to the high ridge across the creek. From that vantage I should be able to see lots of country we have not previously glassed. Maybe that’s where the caribou are crossing.
After a couple long days we became all too familiar with The Rock. As a windbreak it was just better than nothing and it lacked comfortable places to sit or lean. So most of the time we huddled together and shouted to be heard over the never-ending gale. The Boss kept a rain jacket draped over his expensive video rig and fussed about what poor sound quality he would get in that awful wind. We had too many hours to kill and it reminded me of a junior-high-dance stag line when all of us boys stood off cracking lame jokes and vaguely wishing something would happen.
Okay, that’s a stretch. While The Boss and I were plenty sophomoric, Shannon was ever the picture of refinement. Nevertheless, she made us laugh by impersonating characters she had met during her days as a TV reporter in Richmond, and could talk hunting like any semi-backwoods Carolina kid. But all that was pure charm, never the trash talk of an idle mind.
And of course there would have been no vague wishing if a decent caribou bull had shown himself.
The snow starts, stops, starts and stops again. At times sunshine leaks through seams in the clouds and the air and the snow are tinted orange-yellow. Canada geese are swarming, seemingly outnumbering the snowflakes. They are stacked at virtually every altitude, some almost low enough to shoot, others so far aloft they are merely tiny chevrons. Most are linked in ragged-V’s numbering hundreds of birds, and every goose is flying in the same direction, south, the direction I am supposed to be flying in just a few hours.
The Rock was like an anchor. Citing Ira’s advice, The Boss had balked at the idea of lugging his weighty camera and tripod over the ankle-breaking tundra in a blind search for fugitive caribou. So there we sat like ships run aground.
