I don’t know why I’m starting with this one, but it’s a start.
The story of Wilbur takes place in northern Alaska up the Kugarak river from Selawik.
The hunting party was myself, my dad Vic Barnes, my brother Joe and a close friend Greg.
Hunting Caribou on the north slope is a bit a game of cards. If the animals aren’t migrating then there is nothing to hunt. We elected to go early September and with unusually warm temperatures the fact was the caribou weren’t moving.
If you’ve never done this type of hunting I can say that a large component of the camp meals depends on harvesting an animal early to feed the camp. The rest of the meat from other animals is meant for the freezer or gifts to the villagers who rely on that meat much more than we do.
So a few days in I would say we weren’t starving but with no caribou we definitely were looking for some game meat.
One day we’re glassing the tundra from camp and low and behold we see a lone caribou off in the distance. This is strange at first to simply see a lone caribou. Secondarily it sets up a near impossible hunt. Caribou are curious animals to be certain but they are wary and certainly as a single animal this guy was going to be no different.
That said, Joe and I decide we have to take a chance and see if we can get the caribou in range. Our dad, and Greg, think this is a foolish adventure at best. Though it may provide for some comedy. So we hop in the boat and ride down a little further down the river just to get a little closer to this single caribou.
Joe and I hike up off the bank and the caribou is still there. He’s way too far for gun range so we know we have to stalk him. That is, in a word, a very loose interpretation of the term stalk. There is virtually no stalking on the tundra. You walk and hope that the distance can be closed for an ethical shot. If not, the caribou is gone.
Now, during the migration things are easier. You move to where you think the caribou will be and just wait. 9 times out of 10 they will move past you and you can harvest an animal or two for meat.
The story of Wilbur, this caribou, is different though. Wilbur sees us pretty easily and he clearly is not all that interested in Joe and I. So Wilbur decides to move out pushing farther and farther away. As you may suspect the caribou can move across the grounds much, much quicker than us two legged creatures. So Wilbur moves on. Joe and I are a little dejected and as we glass back at my dad and Greg on the hillside we know the jokes are coming … “those youngsters had this coming”
But then an unusual thing happens. As I’ve mentioned … Caribou are curious and Wilbur was, in fact, alone. So we see him peek back at us wondering what the hell we are.
My brother Joe is out of cards to play, or so we think, and so desperation sets in. He looks at Wilbur, see’s his beautiful maine and coat, and thinks maybe if he strips down to his white long johns that Wilbur may be more interested in a friend than worried about these crazy people walking on the tundra.
So Joe gets down to his long johns, he bends and the waist, and just kind of wanders around. Wilbur takes notice. And with a slow walk, Wilbur decides he needs to see just what is going on.
So Wilbur walks back to about 300 yards and stops. I keep telling Joe “this is working, keep it up” so Joe continues with the charades. And Wilbur keeps coming in.
For me, I’m a little surprised. At first I’m thinking I’m going to have to attempt a longer shot but Wilbur keeps on working in. He disappears under the land a bit and I begin to realize when he crests he’s going to be barely 100 yards away.
Sure enough, Wilbur peaks out at almost exactly 100 yards. I am well set up and make the easy shot to take him clean. Joe is ecstatic and of course he and I both have a little “told you so” story for Dad and Greg. They come down as Joe and I are processing Wilbur and we all pack him out.
Camp that night was special. Fresh, and much needed, meat and a cool story about a beautiful caribou.
Recently Sheryl and I were moving from Pittsburgh to New England and a friend was helping out. He noticed the caribou racks and made mention that he’d never seen anything like them. I gave him Wilbur’s rack. I hope my friend Chris someday reads this story and knows the story of the rack that now hangs in his shop.
It is truly a special memory, one of many.
Redjack