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It all started a few years ago at moose camp when the boys starting talking about going on a ‘bou hunt. The same thing, year after year was talked about. Finally, I got on the phone and made it happen.
We ended up going on a self-guided, bring-your-own-food hunt with Blue Sky Outfitters. With two years of planning and dreaming, the time finally came.
The bro’s, our uncle and I all met up in Thompson. After a few beers in Trappers Bar, we all tried to sleep, but like a bunch of kids before Xmas there was very little sleep that night. We were up at 4:30am and at the floatplane dock by 5:30am. The only problem was the plane wasn't there; it was stuck up north for the night but would arrive in a few hours. After some bacon and eggs we were off.
After a three-hour ride and one green uncle, we made it. I spotted two caribou from the plane as we landed and that got the heart pumping. After a quick meet and greet and bunk calling, we split into pairs and were off running across the tundra. We saw about 15-20 ‘bou that afternoon but nothing big. Back at camp, one of the two other guys that were with us had a nice little bull down. After some beers and a late supper, we all had a good sleep.
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| A very successful caribou hunt! |
Next morning my uncle and I headed out for the day. We saw two nice bulls just as we left camp but passed on them as it was still early. After walking about 15 miles and seeing about 50 ‘bou, we started second guessing letting those two walk in the morning. When we got back to camp, my brother Dan had a huge one down. My little bro had passed on him as there were three bigger ones in the herd but was unable to get a shot. To say he was kicking himself is an understatement, especially when we started to tell him how big it was. He said this was the smallest out of the heard. After many beers and a great meal, we hit the hay.
The next morning after breakfast, my uncle who was bowhunting, was sitting on top of a big esker glassing as I was gearing up when I heard, “Trevor! Get the $#%& up here!”
There he was, about 700 yards away. I knew he was a shooter as soon as I saw him. We came up with a quick plan to get closer and closed the distance to 170 yards. Out came the sticks and my new X-bolt 270 WSM, loaded with my 110 ttsx. He dropped like rock, as I put one through his shoulder blades. After the shot, about 7 or 8 more caribou came up from the river. I reloaded and did a quick scan; one was nice. My uncle and I then tried to get him into bow range but no luck. I passed him my gun and bang! We had two down nice and close to camp. Weldon, our great host and Rick, his buddy, came out with the trike and just like that, they were hanging on the meat pole.
We went out that afternoon and saw a few ptarmigan and more ‘bou, but I was getting a little more picky as I was trying to up the bro.
The next morning I was the first one up, so I headed to the dock and did some fishing. It was really foggy but I could make out about a dozen ‘bou coming over the ridge across the river—but no shooters. Then I saw a lone bull coming from the other way and he looked pretty good. Since my youngest brother was yet to fill a tag, I ran and got him up. At 300 yards, his 7mm, loaded with 120-grain ttsx, put him down. A great way to start the morning. Got a nice video of him in his underwear getting his first ‘bou.
After we hung the meat and had a bite to eat, we all headed for a big ridge we’d seen a lot of ‘bou on. It was sweltering out and the ‘bou weren’t moving very much. I had my shirt off, my zip-off pant legs down, and no bugs. This was the last thing I was expecting to be doing on the tundra. My uncle and I met up with my bros and we had some lunch on top a huge ridge and did some glassing.
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| Trevor Bazylo’s two caribou. |
After a few hours, we all went our own ways. I starting seeing some nice bulls moving closer so I took cover hoping they would come my way. Just then, I heard some grunting really close—cows and a few small bulls. I was pinned down and couldn’t see my big bulls but hoped they were getting closer. When the small herd finally moved off a bit, I was able to peek and see if they were coming. I was choked to see that they took the wrong side of the lake. I tried to circle around but they just vanished into the tundra. I passed a few good bulls that afternoon after seeing a lot of ‘bou. My uncle had returned to camp early and the two guys that we were with had already tagged out and were sitting in camp. They told my uncle they’d just seen a few go over the ridge across the river. He decided to go and take a look so he got Weldon to drive him across the river. There, he jumped out of the boat, ducked down and took a few quick looks with the rangefinder. A fifty-yard shot with the Rage and the bull took off crashing through the bush. To Weldon's surprise, the bull crashed into the river and went legs up. He quickly fired up the boat, wrapped a rope around an antler, and towed him in. It took all of 10 minutes. A great story to hear them tell over some cool beers and the fire barrel.
On our last day I was starting to feel a little heat, as only we brothers had a tag to fill. My brother and I headed for a big ridge that I was seeing a lot of ‘bou on the day before. It was foggy but we left bright and early, as we wanted to get there before it lifted. As we made our way there, the fog started to lift and I could see four bulls bedded on the ridge. Another quick stock was planned and away we went. I came through the bush at about 75 yards from them, picked out the double-shovel guy—not the biggest but the only true double shovel I’d seen all week. We got them to stand up and the 110 was on its way. My bro that was taping said I missed, but I knew I smoked him as I could see blood pouring out. I quickly grabbed the video camera and my brother hammered a nice one as they stopped to see what just happened. A few high fives and we were tagged out.
As we were heading back to camp, we got a call on the radio from my youngest bro who had just dropped a nice bull as well. We quickly hung our meat and went out to help with his. It was a beauty with nice, thick palmated tops.
The next morning we boned out our meat, packed up and waited for the plane. It was a great hunt and I’d seen probably 300 ‘bou, three ptarmigan and had a red fox walk by me. There were loads of blueberries, nice clear water from the river that we drank and some late night northern lights. The hunt was a lot harder than what we were expecting and the tundra is far from flat. But it was great. ■
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