DIY Caribou hunt.

H4831 said:
You have given me the inspiration to tell more of the story, and just what the isolated, historic town of Atlin was like at that time, 1968.
In the course of my earlier flying, one of the foresters I flew was Harry Gairns, at Prince George. He was born in Atlin and had said that his parents still l lived there. Earlier, a Native Indian I met was from Atlin and he had given me good information about caibou hunting out of Atlin and said if I ever came up there to hunt, to look him up and that was the main reason I had chosen Atlin to try for a big caribou. But as I was driving down the trail from Jakes corner I thought of Harry Gairns and decided to look up his parents.
The first person I met in Atlin was the most historic of the old timers-Norman Fisher, whose exploits have been written about quite often in newspapers, years ago. He still ran a water taxi, was just on his way to the dock to check his boat and he invited me to come along with him. He checked his gas tank and made the remark that no one had stolen his gas last night! I asked who would steal his gas and he said the young people who have moved in here will steal anything!
I then asked about Mr Gairns, forgot his first name, and Norman Fisher told me that Mrs. Gairns had died, (Mr.) Gairns was away but was due back that afternoon and all were gathering at one of the (old timers) house to wait for him and I was welcome to come along and wait with them.
Soon Mr. Gairns came and I introduced myself as having flown his son Harry on Forestry work. He took a deep breath and loudly stated, "You're Harry's pilot," then pointed me out to the rest and told them all that, "This is Harry's pilot!" That was just like rolling out the red carpet for me and like I had just become one of them.
Later they started to talk about gas, with one fellow saying he had a couple gallons, while another fellow said he had nearly ten gallons. I asked if that was boat gas they were talking about and they said, "No, that's any kind of gas." I said I had noticed a gas station as I drove into town and they said, "Yes, but he hasn't enough money to fill his tank!"
I remarked that I hoped I had enough gas to get out and about three all answered at once, "Don't worry, we'll find enough gas to get you out."
What great men these were. Later, one of them took me to his home to show me the new log house he had built on the shore of Atlin Lake. He stood looking out over the lake and stated, "One couldn't wish for a better place to retire." I couldn't argue with that!
And the older gentleman I told of telling me where to go for caribou was (Mr.) Gairns, who also was born in Atlin and spent a lifetime in the area prospecting.
The old time moccasin telegraph, where every one told everyone else every thing, so prevalent in all isolated areas, was never better illustrated than was my visit to Atlin in 1968. I was a friend of Mr. Gairns, so that meant I was a friend of all the old timers.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I had just come at the sunset of old time Atlin. In 1978 with wife and youngest son, we made a holiday trip to the north, including Atln. It had completely changed, hippies were every where and I could not find even one of the old timers from ten years ago.
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Great tale... the younger folk won't remember scrounging for gas... or sitting in a cabin sharing tales with old timers... so many "experienced" folk are overlooked. One of my mentors was Keith Young, a turn of the century trapper and hunter, Keith was OLD when I met him as a boy, but I spent hours sitting in his trap shed, whittling and listening to tales and soaking in the information and picturing the images conjured by the words... I was fortunate to sit in a row boat with Mr.Young and fishing perch in the waning evening hours... and later baking them over an elm fire... good times, fond memories.
 
Ardent said:
Know the drill, as I write this and it will be hard to believe I'm in cell receiption but we have a cell tower for the project, I'm on my own 58 degrees north into BC with the closest person 20kms South, and that's just camp, town is 220kms away. This is a comparatively "big city" flying job too for helis. My last job you had an end of day check in, and that was it. Now we're satellite tracked out the wazoo, have cell service, fall sensors... Never thought anything of it but there were a couple incidents the last couple years in the industry that open your eyes, especially as a dad of young kids. This is a regular work day for most pilots in the bush, but many times you're completely out of communication, working off the area they expected you to, and you have the "Sure hope this thing starts..." when you go to fire up. Mild, but throw a bear attack (hospitalized one of our pilots last year), fall, stick in the eye, you name it in there and it comes into contrast you're hanging out there a good ways. Partners are a good plan for somewhere like the Muskwa-Ketchika.

Plenty of trappers, pilots, prospectors, you name it will balk at this and I don't mean do not go out alone. Many including myself do for a living, but if this is your first northern foray, I wouldn't go solo, and just be aware of the risks.
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Fella I know, by the name of Brian Steed, flew float planes in Northern Ontario years ago... on one trip he dropped off a pair of fishermen on a remote lake and then did a short hop to check out a lake a short distance away. After landing he was slowly taxiing up the lake and climbed out on to the pontoon to take a look at the structure, while he was standing on the pontoon, a gust of wind blew off his cap, before he knew what had happened, he was in the water with the plane taxiing away from him... Brian started to swim after the plane but found that he was making no headway... as he struggled, the plane made a lazy circle and headed back toward him... as the plane approached Brian reached up for the pontoon, but discovered that he had no right arm... when he reached out for his cap, the propeller had taken his arm clean off... Brian struggled up onto the pontoon, removed his belt and made a tourniquet, that he held tight with his teeth... Brian flew the plane out of that lake back to where he had left the two fishermen, landed and picked them up, then together flew out of the bush to medical attention.

Bad things can happen fast... and by the result of a number of small miracles, Brian survived a bad situation.

Humility is a good companion when trekking/hunting alone in wilderness.
 
H4831 said:
You have given me the inspiration to tell more of the story, and just what the isolated, historic town of Atlin was like at that time, 1968.
In the course of my earlier flying, one of the foresters I flew was Harry Gairns, at Prince George. He was born in Atlin and had said that his parents still l lived there. Earlier, a Native Indian I met was from Atlin and he had given me good information about caibou hunting out of Atlin and said if I ever came up there to hunt, to look him up and that was the main reason I had chosen Atlin to try for a big caribou. But as I was driving down the trail from Jakes corner I thought of Harry Gairns and decided to look up his parents.
The first person I met in Atlin was the most historic of the old timers-Norman Fisher, whose exploits have been written about quite often in newspapers, years ago. He still ran a water taxi, was just on his way to the dock to check his boat and he invited me to come along with him. He checked his gas tank and made the remark that no one had stolen his gas last night! I asked who would steal his gas and he said the young people who have moved in here will steal anything!
I then asked about Mr Gairns, forgot his first name, and Norman Fisher told me that Mrs. Gairns had died, (Mr.) Gairns was away but was due back that afternoon and all were gathering at one of the (old timers) house to wait for him and I was welcome to come along and wait with them.
Soon Mr. Gairns came and I introduced myself as having flown his son Harry on Forestry work. He took a deep breath and loudly stated, "You're Harry's pilot," then pointed me out to the rest and told them all that, "This is Harry's pilot!" That was just like rolling out the red carpet for me and like I had just become one of them.
Later they started to talk about gas, with one fellow saying he had a couple gallons, while another fellow said he had nearly ten gallons. I asked if that was boat gas they were talking about and they said, "No, that's any kind of gas." I said I had noticed a gas station as I drove into town and they said, "Yes, but he hasn't enough money to fill his tank!"
I remarked that I hoped I had enough gas to get out and about three all answered at once, "Don't worry, we'll find enough gas to get you out."
What great men these were. Later, one of them took me to his home to show me the new log house he had built on the shore of Atlin Lake. He stood looking out over the lake and stated, "One couldn't wish for a better place to retire." I couldn't argue with that!
And the older gentleman I told of telling me where to go for caribou was (Mr.) Gairns, who also was born in Atlin and spent a lifetime in the area prospecting.
The old time moccasin telegraph, where every one told everyone else every thing, so prevalent in all isolated areas, was never better illustrated than was my visit to Atlin in 1968. I was a friend of Mr. Gairns, so that meant I was a friend of all the old timers.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I had just come at the sunset of old time Atlin. In 1978 with wife and youngest son, we made a holiday trip to the north, including Atln. It had completely changed, hippies were every where and I could not find even one of the old timers from ten years ago.
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H4831,

love to read it.

the young guys from the 70s are now old fart and some of them have good stories ...

thanks again for the memory of those days.

Phil
 
Thanks again guys, it certainly makes writing of these bits of history worthwhile, when they are appreciated.
Bruce
 
Ardent said:
Now THAT is a story. Jesus I had to read that twice.
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Yeah... it is a crazy story. Brian is a good guy... at the time of this incident he was flying out of South Porqupine (Timmins"ish")... He was a part time minister, part time pilot... and clearly one tough cookie...

I met Brian when we brought him in to speak at a Wild Game dinner that I ran for a charity for many years... he tells the tale without embellishment but clearly enough for listeners to "fill-in the blanks." Most men would have just given up and sunk to the bottom of the lake. Some are like wounded elk, if there is still an ounce of blood pumping, they are pushing forward...
 
Bruckbrush:

That looks like the prairies! Quite remarkable terrain, what genreral area was that?

H4831:

Awesome story! I've always wanted to go to Arlington and just explore. Looking at the map it just looks like there is so much t
 
cam1936 said:
Bruckbrush:

That looks like the prairies! Quite remarkable terrain, what genreral area was that?

H4831:

Awesome story! I've always wanted to go to Arlington and just explore. Looking at the map it just looks like there is so much t
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We flew out of Dease lake. Straight west to the platue. Very cool place. We where litterly higher than the mountains. Nothing but caribou grizzlies and wolverine. We spent two weeks up there, hunted two different lakes. Killed a moose and two caribou. It was truly a dream Hunt for this Alberta boy.
 
For what its worth, I shot my caribou on September 10th. Was hunting the same area the week prior and the bulls were just starting to rub their velvet. I've found around the 2nd weekend of September to be the ideal time to hunt caribou. The bulls start grouping up in anticipation of the rut, but you're still early enough to avoid any sort of poor meat due to the rut. Once Sept 20th rolls around I think you start getting into the pre-rut and I'd start to begin questioning the meat quality. No experience shooting one later, just based on behavioural observations.
 
c-fbmi said:
You're good anytime in Sept, but beware come the first week of Oct and, like H4831 says you can't even be in the same room cooking it by mid Oct. The biggest bulls are done by Oct 25th or so and by the 30th are excellent eating again, not so the smaller ones they will continue into mid Nov sometimes.
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Doug as you know i have more experience with barrenground than mountain but did you find a difference between those two different species for the rut in Yukon?
in Northern quebec when we had two on the licenses smaller were not in rut in october at all so very good for the meat the biggest ones no way to approach them lol after the kill ...
 
medvedqc said:
Doug as you know i have more experience with barrenground than mountain but did you find a difference between those two different species for the rut in Yukon?
in Northern quebec when we had two on the licenses smaller were not in rut in october at all so very good for the meat the biggest ones no way to approach them lol after the kill ...
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Most of my bulls have been barren ground as well Phil, have shot several mountain but always in Sept and 2 big bulls on Oct 30 + 31, gave the meat to others who said it was good.
 
I was talking to a couple of guys last night at work and the boss, who says he grew up in Dawson Yukon told me that a rutting caribou is way less of a stinker than a big muley buck, and I have taken a few of those and never had a problem. My last big muley I shot him as he was chasin a few does and was swollen up pretty bad but I tell ya, the meat was excellent! My wife even ate it! I guess I will have to see for myself!!
 
Cole,

i do not know for a muley but we tried to cook a rutted caribou and we had to evacuated the cook shack.

when we approached we should know better but the client insisted to have some meat for the dinner.

to sum up caribou during the rut are drinking their own urine and stop to feed.

one cree elder told us about marinating the meat in milk over night i have heaed that in alaska too.

and Mike you re right december caribou have great meat. anyway one of the best meat is caribou.

Phil.
 
Cole said:
I was talking to a couple of guys last night at work and the boss, who says he grew up in Dawson Yukon told me that a rutting caribou is way less of a stinker than a big muley buck, and I have taken a few of those and never had a problem. My last big muley I shot him as he was chasin a few does and was swollen up pretty bad but I tell ya, the meat was excellent! My wife even ate it! I guess I will have to see for myself!!
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I have to say there is something seriously wrong with your boss's olfactory senses!!! I would compare a rutted muley as being very similar to a rutted moose in strength of smell..........noticeable but not terribly obnoxious........just gutting a rutted up caribou can make me gag, let alone trying to cook it !!! Even dogs won't eat cooked rutted caribou meat, and I know this for a fact, in several cases. It is absolutely inedible, in my opinion and everybody else's who has attempted it............

Phil.......I think soaking it in milk overnight is just a waste of good milk.........;);)
 
redryder said:
I've hunted and fished mainly solo my whole life. Canoes, boats, quads, dirtbikes, trucks, snowshoes and just plain old boots. Pretty remote areas most of the time. Never thought much about it. Always figured I could handle any situation that came along. BUT the last couple of years it's taking a lot more convincing to go it alone. My good decision making skills have vanshed apparently. I can't even decide which sock to put on which foot first. Sad sad sad.
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Looking back, I have spent most of my time outdoors alone. It has always been hard to find people who wanted to bush bash to a place no one else ha been for years. Canoe for weeks. Winter camp for weeks. Hunt more than 100yds from a road or farmers' field.
I have, by necessity, been alone, or have taken my boys out alone. However, in my dotage, I am beginning to find a few adventurous spirits. Why, just a few years ago I had a bunch of scouts and venturers out. One boy got cut to the bone above his eye (they had been throwing rocks at sticks floating in the river) with a rock. No cell service, two days to anywhere for pick up. Patched him up, canoed the next two days, got to a provincial park, called his parents, continued the trip with one less venturer.


H4831 said:
Thanks again guys, it certainly makes writing of these bits of history worthwhile, when they are appreciated.
Bruce
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Bruce, I was 5 then. Years later, my dirt bike wound up being a 90cc Kawasaki. Unfortunately, I was never in a position to travel far for a hunt. And when I did (all the way to NFLD) I couldn't afford a fancy camera. I used a Kodak 110 until I could miss longer get film for it. Sadly, I never thought much about taking pictures in those days. I now wish I had, but it am still not much better at doing it.
I will relate my only "away hunt" story in my youth. I had a buddy from NFLD in the infantry. He convinced me to go to his parents home one year for moose. I had been applying for years in NS, but to no avail, so I took him up on it. I went to his mother's house (without him, he had been deployed) since everything was set up. He told me that there would be people there to help me find a place to hunt and get the animal butchered to take home. All I had to do was get there and I would be taken care of.
He should have told them I was a non-drinker!
Anyway, I arrived at the boat and was met by his mother. We drove about 45minutes to her house. I got shown to a guest room that was already made up and she fussed over me like I was important or something. I got settled and cleaned up for supper only to walk into the kitchen and find a dozen people, ready for supper and a party (apparently, my ability as an entertainer preceded me). I had previously been screeched in during a Newfie Night at the mess, so I was saved from repeating that particular custom, however, they had trouble with the not drinking part. Short story, we spent most of the night partying and I got to bed about 3am. I figured I needed to get up at 4 to be ready to go hunting.
I got up to breakfast of bacon, toast, fried potatoes (left-overs fried up), beans, and heated, bottled moose. How in the world could I hunt smelling like that? I was told to go sit on the back deck and wait for the moose to come out. Really!? So I did and soon saw half a dozen moose. I picked a nice cow and as going to shoot when Wayne's mom came out and told me to shoot it. No sooner had I dropped the hammer, than SHE was heading across the field with a knife. By the time I got out to the animal, all of my party friends had arrived! I didn't even touch it. It was gutted, hung, and skinned without my ever touching a knife. It was transported to a butcher shop without me. I got babied like crazy for two more days. Every night was a party. By the end of the week, I got on the boat with 500 lbs of moose. Someone even kept the hide.
 
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