Home Forums Hunting & Shooting General Big Game AK Caribou - AZ Guys Do Good

Sorry for the delay, friends. I just drove my sister and 2 new Queensland Heelers to Sky Harbor, and it has been busy here. Where was I?

When our Caribou harvest tickets arrived in the mail, I did the Happy Hunter Dance, hung it on my bulletin board, looked at it for the next six months, and never noticed the part that said our hunt quota was limited to 25 bulls. Meaning that the hunt would end 48 hours after the 25th bull was harvested, or game managers felt it would be harvested. As our departure approached, Bob and I worried that we might find ourselves afield, equipped with new $650 locking tags and a big game license, with 2 days to hunt. Nelchina herd hunts were closing right and left, and our preference to schedule when a) antlers were hard; and b) insects were dead, seemed an expensive choice. We discussed cutting our losses. Finally, one of us said "Hey, this is Alaska hunting, and this is the ante. We're over 60 years old and we're going for it."

We could not have predicted taking the last bulls reported for the hunt -- bulls 14 and 15. I guess the remaining 10 bulls are still walking, or someone reported them after late afternoon closing day, which is when we stopped by the Glenallen Fish and Game location. We asked about the odds of drawing our non-resident Nelchina permits and found out that over 3000 applicants had put in for the 50 tags allotted. We were stunned. Neither of us had ever drawn such a low-odds tag. Also, the hunt won't be offered next year.

After fun with moose at our pinch-point camp, we took some good advice and headed north to catch some caribou west of Paxson. On our way we stopped at the Glenallen Game and Fish office to ask for pointers. Everyone at the place, including the region biologist, spilled out from behind the desks and started pointing at the map. We wanted a place where we could find caribou and possibly get away from the hundreds of ATVs swarming trailheads along the Matanuska River and points north. Here's a photo of a young guy pointing out glassing areas near the Maclaren River, as well as trails and glassing points in the Controlled Use Area (no ATVs) near there.



This advice meshed with that gleaned from months of annoying Alaska friends, and we set off.

The country was enormous and wide open compared to the spruce and willow-hemmed lake. The dwarf willows were crimson, gold, and bare. Snow-capped summits surrounded an occasional glacier; honking trumpeter swans and regular bald eagles kept company. Ice skeined the muddles and it didn't rain. We found a daily hot meal and (for purchase) a shower at the Maclaren River Lodge, and life was good. The kill-total on our hunt was creeping along from 11 to 12, and we had ceased concern about the hunt closing. It was as good as hunting gets without red hands.





The third day brought caribou. We found them with our naked eyes as they headed over a willowed rise into a long flat tundra bog. We smashed our binoculars into our faces trying to make them. Within a second it was dead silent. Somebody said "do you see that bull." Of course we both saw it. There was no way not to. O'conner said "The big ones look big" and that is an understatement. A giant bull stood within a small herd and we both wondered if he was the same specie of animal. His antlers were fantastic, and his rack alone as big as most of the other animals. Good bulls in the herd looked like pups, their antlers lost in undulating fur and willow. We could not believe him.

The shock drained out and I ranged them at 650 and Bob dropped to prone, dialing the turret on his 338 RCM. I ranged again at 647 and Bob did not shoot and I knew he would not over a 1/4 mile of open water and half that of tundra bog between us from the bull of 3 lifetimes. We watched the caribou move and it is true that you cannot outrun a caribou, nor can you flank a caribou, nor do they stop.

Bob and I have hunted over 100 years, and seen many trophies. 400 inch elk and 200 inch mule deer, as well as other book animals. The caribou bull dwarfed them all, and we watched him disappear into that great tundra. I had watched Bob pound rocks at 650 yards with his Ruger .338, and knew why he shook his head.

The next day it was still Bob's shot. Pancakes make everything better and we left happy to have seen caribou. The big bull broke our drought, and within an hour we found another small herd streaming through distant willows, heading toward whatever calls them, whatever has always called them.

We were in the right place. Our kill drill was practiced, and I ranged the caribou at 500 and by the time the Leica was out of my eye Bob had found a place to go prone, dumped his pack, dialed the turret, and sent one. I had the neck glass up and saw the bull collapse, heard the womp of that big bullet.

"He's down! Down hard!"

Bob had already cranked another in and the bull picked his antlers up. Bob sent another and hit him again. The bull was done, but it's not wise to hesitate in that country. We gave a Desert Boy war cry and threw high 5s, caribou killers against long odds.





We spent the day in tundra water over our boots, skinning out the bull and disjointing and bagging the meat. Every few minutes one of us uneasily scanned the tundra, knowing that 2 grizzlies had been seen locally. We were glad to be together, two men, two rifles, four eyes. We had driven past the Wrangels where a moose hunter had lost his life to a grizzly just the year before. We were on the tundra playing the bear's game, and we knew it. Bob bought me dinner and a shower chip that night, and it was good. I slept in the back of the jeep while the temp fell to 20.



My rangefinder had totally submerged in bog, and was frozen. I changed the battery for good measure and it worked fine. It has been as good a piece of hardware as I've ever owned.



The day was mine to shoot and my boots were wet and I did not care. All of the caribou we had seen had been in the same 2 mile stretch of tundra and we headed there. I had plenty of gear to stay warm glassing. The stink was off since Bob's bull went down. Things were in synch.

We had not even arrived at the trailhead when we spotted a small herd trailing off a mountainside about a mile away. The caribou were coming our way and I hit the willow brush while putting my pack on. The mountain broke off into a series of smaller hills and these abutted a stream and large bog. I angled into the ridges as fast as I could, clocking when to take a hard right turn and sprint for a closer hill to hopefully catch the caribou as they entered the boggy area. It was good to have seen the other animals, because everything depended on timing my break with their travel.

I looked up my ridge to the next summit and something said "go now" and I banked 90 degrees right and made for the next high place. Dropping and inching the rangefinder over the crest, I made the caribou standing broadside. 300 yards. I had memorized my come-ups, and though they weren't needed at 300 yards, I dialed because that was what I had trained to do. I laid over my pack and found the biggest bull, taking about half a second to look for and aft for larger animals. He was the biggest and when the reticle met the sweet spot the firing pin spring lept forward and I watched the bull collapse onto his hooves. About then the 'womp' of the 140 grain Nosler Partition arrived. By then the bullet had gone through his mid chest, nipped the elbow meat, and left thoracic spume on the offside tundra. The bull twisted his head and I sent another, with the same result. He was down.

We spent another day making meat. In my excitement I left my phone and these photos were taken later:







My rifle is a Tikka T3 Stainless in 6.5 Creed, and I favor it. For Alaska I loaded NPs over Ramshot Big Game at 2688 FPS. I would take the same if I ever drew the tag again, and if they ever offer it again, I'll be putting in.

Well, the wife just looked over my shoulder and invited me out for a drink, so I'll continue later.