In more than 30 years of caribou stories, this one stands out from the rest for us, not so much in what the hunt for the caribou entailed but in the rest of the story, what we encountered in caribou country and brought home with us at the end of the day. I have a feeling this story will stay with us for a long time.
In our usual way of forgetting we are no longer fortyish but closer to twice that age, we went about doing what we always do, making plans to hunt the Nelchina caribou, but without any definitive word from the Fish & Game caribou hotline that there actually were caribou accessible to hunters on foot like ourselves, we had to keep putting our plans on hold. This year, like last, the Nelchina caribou weren’t feeling the pressure of early snow to start their homeward trek back to Canada, so they extended their sojourn in their summer habitat, scattered in the high lands of the Alphabet Hills. And since we had our own extended season of summer in this warming climate era, we were happy to have them do just that, while we busied ourselves with finishing the fall harvest - digging potatoes, picking apples, collecting fruits and vegetables, and all the canning and freezing and bottling and saucing and jellying that goes with it.
Meanwhile, we were keeping an eye on our beautiful pear tree in the front garden. Every morning over coffee and the paper, we would chat with each other about the leaves turning color. The once lush summer green was slowly turning more yellowish, and orange and red. While we had been in no hurry, we now needed the caribou to get a move on before we ran out of days for our other autumn pastime, our drive through the beautiful autumn-colored countryside on our way to the caribou grounds. Two days before the close of the hunting season, we looked out the window to a beautiful carpet of red and gold leaves beneath the tree. Now we knew we couldn’t put our trip off any longer. Caribou or no caribou, if we hoped to see the colors at their peak it was time to get on the road.
We changed our road trip plans of camping on the Denali Highway and headed instead for Denali Park. The park road was still open for visitors to drive as far as Mile 30, promising beautiful vistas, golden hillsides, perhaps some wolves or bears. Getting started before daylight, we loaded up the car with all our road trip comforts and then just before leaving, Dan made one last call to the hotline to hear that the caribou were mostly still hanging out in the Alphabet Hills except for some small bands that had been sighted on the Cantwell side of the Denali highway. They were herding up and heading out. That’s all Dan needed. He went to get his gun. “Might as well bring it; we might see one crossing the road by Pass Creek.” Then almost as an after thought, he went and got the pack already loaded with his hunting equipment and some game bags. We were well on our way when I thought maybe I should have brought my pack as well.
We never found the promise of that morning. There was no Alaska moment when you come over a rise or around a bend and the whole vast countryside lays before you for miles, mountainsides and valleys, golden in the sun. Instead, as we got further north, all we saw were bare trees and winter brown. Our hope of seeing caribou crossing the road was quickly dashed by a highway shrouded in thick morning fog. There could have been dozens of caribou right outside our windows but all we could see were the dim hint of headlights coming our way. And at the Park, we were told snow had fallen at the higher elevations the night before and now the road was only open a scant fifteen miles to Savage River. Still hoping for colors or some wildlife sightings or even just a picture-worthy scenic view, we settled for the shorter trip. All we ever saw was a lone moose a mile off, not much different from the one that visits our garden every other day.
By noon, our trip was over with nothing to show for it. We headed for home with a lingering hope, now that the fog had lifted, that a lone caribou might show up and save the day. We were passing through Cantwell when we looked at each other with the same thought. Might as well give it a try. With low expectations, we turned east on the Denali Highway and headed into caribou country. As soon as the paved road turned to gravel and we started bouncing in the endless ruts and deep potholes, we began to question our decision, until a pickup truck passed us on the way out with two sets of caribou antlers riding high for all to see. Reluctant to give in to high hopes, we decided they must be hunters who made the 40 mile four wheeler trip up the Swede Lake trail, or one of the other trails that go back to the caribou summer grounds, something we weren’t prepared to do. Soon more trucks and campers and SUVs pulling trailers, some with four wheelers, some not, were coming along every few minutes, laden down with antlers in the truck beds, the trailers, on the backs of their four wheelers, the roofs of cars. Things were looking up.
Just past the Nenana River and the posted section of the highway, we came to our first campsite. Dan pulled right up alongside the old hunter who was waving a welcome to us and asked him “any caribou?” “They’re all over the place, he said, just an hour ago a band of about a dozen crossed the road in front of me.” He told us he was staying right where he was because he fully expected more to show up. He thought we should pull in and wait with him, but there were miles of caribou country we were curious about, so we traveled on with a whole new mindset.
At about mile 100, thirty-five miles in, my neck was getting stiff from straining to spot caribou in the brush or on the hillsides and the sun was in my eyes so we stopped for a break. Dan hopped out of the truck with his binoculars and began scanning the countryside, first the Monahan Flats on the north side of the road, then the south side, and after a long look towards the scattered foothills and wide gullies of the north terminus of the Talkeetnas, in a quiet voice came the announcement “there they are.”
There were two groups; a band of a few hundred just beneath a hill, and another group running, probably spooked by a hunter. Dan handed me the binoculars as I got out of the truck. I was filled with the same awe I always feel when the sight of hundreds of caribou comes into view as they amble along in a vast open wilderness, like something out of National Geographic, Alaska’s version of the Serengeti Plains. About a mile off, one group was climbing a the hill one behind the other, bringing to mind pictures of the old gold miners trudging up the Klondike Trail.
High on the ridge we could see their antlers silhouetted against the sky. All were out of our reach. Dan thought they might be coming down the other side, closer to the road, so we moved up the highway to find a better vantage for viewing and parked near the camp of a small party of hunters who were watching the caribou as well.
As Dan and the other hunters talked about what the caribou might do, a truck pulled alongside the campsite with two caribou in the bed. The young men in the truck couldn’t hide their excitement. Decked out in matching new camo, more Army surplus than Cabela’s or Bass Pro, they seemed so amazed with their good luck that we guessed it was their first hunt. After a few moments of sharing their news with their friends, they came over to our truck and we heard their thick Hispanic accents. So they were new to the country as well. They knew where the caribou were and were excited to share their good news. “We’re going back, c’mon.” As their truck pulled off, we started to follow, but then we spotted a lone caribou a reasonable distance from us for an easy attempt.
While we sat watching it munch on dwarf willow, casually strolling back and forth, another truck with antlers passed us on its way out. It stopped up the road a bit and waited for traffic to pass, then it started slowly backing up to where we were. This time the accent was Russian. “If you’re looking for caribou” he told us, “there’s a band of over 50 in back of some trees across from a white camper with an AC on its roof.” He could not have been more specific.
When we got to the white RV, we didn’t look for the caribou because we had our eyes on a group of hunters standing in the road ahead of us, a family of five, probably husband, wife, two teenage kids, and an uncle or grandfather, all intently gazing in the same direction towards the north side of the road. We assumed it had to be the caribou we heard about. When we pulled up to them they confirmed that a bunch of caribou had just crossed the road, but we could see by how fast they were running they would soon be long gone. So we traveled on to find the Mexicans. At Mile 82 we came to Gracious House closed for the season. The Mexicans were no where to be seen, so we decided It was time to assess our situation. We knew in a few minutes we would be crossing the Susitna River, a good 50 miles or more from the Parks highway and, considering daylight and gas, much farther than we had planned to travel. “Let’s just go back and see if that lone caribou is still there.”
Not feeling very optimistic, we turned around, and when we came upon the camper again, Dan slowed to take a better look. There it was, the telltale white of caribou fur flashing through the trees. It must have been the bunch the Russian told us about earlier, but they were behind a stand of spruce and birch with bushy undergrowth and difficult to see if you weren’t looking for them. About 50 were hanging out at a dried lakebed, some small scattered pools here and there, most likely their watering hole. They looked in no great hurry to leave.
We sized up the situation one more time. The opening beyond the trees was at most 50 yards through the brush. The undergrowth seemed sparse enough for easy packing. It was already 4:00. Dan was sure if he shot it right then we would have time to butcher it and pack it back to the truck before it got fully dark, about 4 hours, at our age a most likely time frame. Because of the sun’s gentle tangent this time of year, we had a long dusk when we could still make our way without a headlamp.
We were putting the best spin on the task ahead because we didn’t want to pass up the opportunity.
Off Dan went in a hurry with his gun. In short order I heard the first shot. Then a second shot. After a short pause, as I was getting the pack and gear, I heard 3 more shots. It didn’t bode well. I waited and, with no sign of Dan, finally decided to go find him. A good half hour passed before I saw him coming out of the woods on the other side of the lake. I guessed what happened— every hunter’s worse nightmare. The caribou fell on the first shot but got up and took off wounded across the lake and into the brush. Dan went after it and when he caught up to where it finally went down, it was now a good half mile or more from the road. It would be midnight before we got this done and it wouldn’t be easy packing loads more than twice as far as we thought was our limit. The way the day was slipping away, we might only have time and energy for one load, which meant saving the rest for morning, which meant sleeping in the truck because we hadn’t planned for camping and weren’t about to drive 100 miles round trip for a hotel room. Again the day did not go as planned. I was glad I had brought my car quilt.
We carried the gear and the pack to the caribou and then I remembered the phone, not that we could pick up a signal, but just in case. Walking back to the truck I started thinking about the energy I was wasting. How many round trips did I have in me? As I reached the truck, along came the very first hunter we met on the way in, traveling back to his campsite pulling a trailer behind his four wheeler, a good size caribou inside. He stopped and called to me, “Look what I got”. “How did you ever load it in the trailer?”, I asked. “Oh I didn’t do it myself; the Mexicans helped me.” We talked for a bit and then he asked how we were doing and I told him my story. I expected him to say we should just wait for morning but instead he said I should get the Mexicans to help. “They’re just up the road. Offer them a few bucks. Tell them Tom suggested it.”
Hesitant to give into a feeling of relief just yet, I hopped in the truck, but when I got to them, they were a good 100 yards out in the field busy with their catch. Now I was walking again, hoping it wasn’t a wasted effort, and downhill besides, which meant uphill coming back. I could tell as I made my way across the open tundra, all of their eyes watching me warily, their activity on hold, that they wondered what I was doing. When I arrived and explained my problem, they were back to their original friendliness, eager at the prospect of coming to help carry our caribou. That’s when the one who seemed to be in charge spoke up. He was older, with hardly an accent at all, an in-charge military bearing about him that they all deferred to. He said they were happy to help and didn’t want our money but that they were going to be busy for a while with the caribou they were working on and it might be better if I found someone with a four wheeler. He was quick to assure me that if I didn’t they would help us on their way out.
As I drove back to our spot by the RV, I saw the four wheelers. Our neighboring hunting family was busy unloading two nice-looking caribou from their four wheelers into their truck. Rolling down the window to congratulate them, I said, “looks like you’re set for winter.” Their big sighs were followed by “It’s been a long day.” Then they asked “how about you,” and as I was telling them about the difficult situation we were in, I watched them look at each other, shoulders slumping. They weren’t keen like the Mexicans but they knew what was needed. “Can we get to him with the 4 wheelers? We could make short work of it.” Now I felt guilty. I knew they had to be tired from their own all day effort and eager to get home. “Nevermind; you must be pretty tired,” I said. “Any way the young guys up the road said they would help.” Then it felt like the whole family spoke together. “No we’ll come get it. It’s nothing; we’ll have it done in no time.”
The plan was to show them where Dan was, but as I drove back to our spot, I could see them in the side view mirror, going down the embankment and into the brush. They must have scoped out the terrain and knew that was the best spot to get off the road since there were no berms in the way or narrow ditches to deal with. I got out of the truck in a hurry to catch them because they were heading for the wrong end of the lake but by the time I came out of the clearing they were already a good hundred yards or more west of where they needed to be, looking around, not sure where to go. It didn’t take long for them to head back my way. I was explaining where Dan could be found and how we went around the other end of the dry lakebed to avoid the wet silty sections, when the younger hunter spotted the red flagging Dan had tied to the tree to show where he was. He decided to just cut across the lake and head for it. He was sinking deep in the wet silt but he powered through it, as did his buddy following behind. I looked at the long hike it would be to walk all the way around the end of the lake and the time it would take to catch up to them and then came one of those what-were-you-thinking moments. Telling myself it would save some walking, I took off after them. It wasn’t long before I was sinking in the mud and having second thoughts. Even as I was wondering if it might be better to go back, I kept going forward sinking deeper with each step and then it was too late to turn around. My shoes were stuck fast in the wet silt. Panic was building as, try as I might, I could not get either of my shoes loose. My first thought was to hope no one was around to see how embarrassingly stupid I looked. My second thought was to wish someone really was watching who would show up to help me get free.
No one was coming. I knew from experience that the only way to get free in a situation like this was to get out of my shoes. But on other such occasions there was always some small dry tuft of ground to stand on. Here there was nothing but wet, gray silt all around. Then my eyes fell on the deep ruts made by the four wheeler tires, which had compacted the silt beneath them. I wiggled one foot out of a shoe and placed it gingerly in the rut made by the tire. Carefully putting my full weight on that foot, I sighed in relief when I didn’t sink. I soon was standing on both feet in the rut, feeling the cold wet silt soaking through my socks yet strangely not feeling cold. Compared to my earlier predicament, it was a minor inconvenience. I was able to use the tip of my walking stick to pry my shoes out of the mud and was on my way before anyone knew, shoes in hand, watching my socks turn gray from the mud they were collecting but moving freely not getting stuck. At the other side of the lake bed, I cleaned as much mud of my socks as I could and put my shoes back on. There were other more pressing matters to deal with than the nuisance of muddy socks in my shoes.
When I finally got to the caribou, I came upon the kind of scene I’ve often encountered in Alaska. Three longtime Alaskans, with only each other to rely on, using their ingenuity and self-sufficient mindset developed over years of living on the edge of the wilderness, fully engaged in the process of getting the caribou ready to transport. They said little because it wasn’t needed, all of one mind in how to go about the task and get it done and confident that they could count on each other to know what to do and do it. I sat a few yards away on an old moss covered stump, watching them work, feeling the angst drain out of me. We were back to the road well before sundown with the caribou transferred easily from the four wheelers and neatly arranged in the bed of our truck.
Then Dan took out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. The family wasn’t having it. “Well, to pay for gas,” Dan tried. That didn’t work either. He proposed they use it to go out to dinner on him to thank them for the favor. They didn’t want thanks for the favor. “Then it’s no longer a favor,” said the wife. “If you really want to return the favor, just pass it on.” Now the husband was saying the same thing— “when someone needs your help, you can just pass it on,” and the older guy joined in, “pass it on.” All in unison nodding their heads, they were of one mind on this. You could tell this was a shared belief important to them all. There was nothing left to do but shake hands all around, say thank you as sincerely as we could, say thank you again, and get in the truck and go.
In the real world of disasters, this little episode of the runaway caribou doesn’t begin to qualify, more an inconvenience, one that would have been a bit of an ordeal but hardly more than that. Still, we drove home feeling rescued from a fate worse than death. Gone from the conversation was the back and forth of the details of the hunt, all the misadventures, the usual rehashing of everything that happened after an outing such as this. All we could talk about was the family that came to our aid and their almost earnest request that we pass the favor on.
We’ve heard lots of stories about the disappointing behavior of some small minority of participants of the past few years in the Nelchina caribou hunt, who stress out the caribou with their poor behavior and make things difficult for their fellow hunters. Other years we have encountered them ourselves. On this day there was none of that. Just ordinary people in an extraordinary place with a sense that we are all in this together, wanting to help each other towards a common objective despite our obvious differences, the young Mexicans celebrating there new found good fortune, the rewards of their new land, the Russian going out of his way to share what he knew, the longtime Alaskans doing what Alaskans do, helping their senior neighbors with the work of the day, all pulling for one another, being the best they could be, and in the end reminding us that we can still hold on to faith in the goodness of our fellow man.
Five hundred miles later, a few minutes before midnight, we pulled into our driveway filled with contentment from the unexpected rewards of the day, and warm in the glow of the kindness of strangers.