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WHERE TIME STANDS STILL Story
by James Kelly
The four of us, all primarily whitetail hunters, sat strapped into
a single engine Otter that felt like it was dangling from a string,
3 000 feet above the tundra. Sandwiched between the coral-blue sky
and the lunar landscape below, we sat in awe at the magnificent poetry
in motion that was unfolding below us. Wild, desolate and water come
to mind when asked to describe my initial impressions. Especially
water. From horizon to horizon, as far as the eye can see, there is
water. Large, deep lakes, meandering streams, small, shallow, lakes
and boisterous rushing rivers that over centuries have sliced and
carved their way through the Pre-Cambrian shield.
Collectively, they shine and sparkle in the early morning sun as though
a hundred thousand diamonds had been randomly sprinkled across the
landscape. This is the remote tundra of northern Quebec, a land rich
in its own unique beauty. Stark rocky ridges, anemic-looking, sparsely
spaced trees, lichen, moss, and best of all, total isolation from
everything that's right and wrong with life as we know it in the nineties.
There are no roads, no houses, no people, only a primitive expanse
of land like no other on earth.
The barren grounds, as it is often called, is a misnomer. The tundra
is teeming with life and while observing the ways of this great land,
she will gently grasp hold of your heart and nurture your spirit in
ways you could never imagine. It's a glimpse into a way of life that
disappeared when we lost the open plains of the wild west, only the
bison have been replaced by caribou.
This is the magnet that drew the four of us to the traditional lands
of the Naskapi, the Inuit and the Montagnais. We were there to lose
ourselves on the sub-arctic tundra, a place where time stands still,
and become brothers with the largest free-roaming caribou herd left
in the world.
As we gently glided from the sky and skirted the tree tops, the Otter
found her way to our home for the next week - an outpost camp that
was perched on the edge of a nameless lake in the middle of God's
country. It was exactly as our outfitter had described it, comfortable
tents, a meat shack and more wild country than a man would ever need
in a lifetime.
After unloading the Otter and helping a group of departing hunters
load their gear, we quickly dressed for the hunt, paired off and sauntered
away in different directions to acquaint ourselves with the terrain.
When we met back at camp at 4:00 p.m. for a quick snack and to discuss
the evening's hunt, we all raved about the landscape, its rugged,
wild beauty, and the constant hum of a billion bugs.
We elected to travel by boat to the end of the lake and hike about
a mile uphill through a copse of thin, dwarf spruce and then over
lichen-covered rock ledges to a small knob we had found on our map.
It looked like the highest point around and upon our arrival it was
clear that it was. You could see for miles in all directions and the
breeze that danced along the ridge tops cleared the air of the annoying
black flies. The mood was relaxed, the landscape quiet and still,
the view awesome.
We decided to split up and each head in a different direction to glass
the country for caribou. We agree to meet back at the knob, which
we have named Top Of The World, a half hour before dark. It's only
once that I am settled and actually glassing that I realize that I
have no idea what time it gets dark so far north.
Binoculars in hand, I search distant hillsides, peering deep into
the spruce edges, along the bare spines of tangled rock ridges and
the down their sweeping sides to the countless lakes below. The sun
is low on the horizon and the light a rich hue of gold when about
a half mile away, the mirrored surface of a lake is broken by the
body of a huge bull that has decided to swim across. It is the first
caribou I have ever seen and I am totally captivated by the sight
before me.
His body thrusts forward through the water. Unseen, powerful legs
propel him forward. Giant, black velvet-covered antlers bob and weave
in motion with the stroke of each leg. Large bez tines wrap themselves
around what appears to be double shovels, while the main beams reach
for the sky and are adorned with at least six fingers each. It's the
way I have always imagined a big bull would look.
Reaching the far shore, he proudly steps out of the water and violently
shakes his charcoal-colored coat twice before disappearing into the
trees that hug the shoreline. It's a sight I will replay in my mind's
eye a thousand times. It's an unforgettable experience in an unforgettable
land.
There are many ways to awaken when in a hunting camp. The usual crude
alarm clock, while totally functional and effective, has always seemed
inappropriate. Shivering from the cold is also a common way to awaken
in many hunting camps, but also lacks in grace and suitable style.
Though it was cool on our second morning on the tundra and our annoying
alarms were set, it was the song of the Canada goose that welcomed
us into the new day.
"Harronk… harronk…", it began in the distance.
Soon, one call became one hundred as a large flock flew overhead preparing
for their own great migration that would commence in a few short weeks.
The four of us laid quietly, whispering back and forth while listening
to the arctic symphony. When the last of the musicians had flown by
we arose and dressed quickly. The sun was a ball of orange fire flashing
on the eastern horizon as it chased the night sky from the heavens.
In this pre-dawn setting we loaded our boat and cast off from shore.
Our destination was The Top Of The World.
At the base of the knob we agreed that Mark and I would swing to the
southeast while Terry and Lawrence swung to the northwest. The game
plan was to slowly work our way around the knob and meet back on the
top for lunch.
Mark and I glassed and walked for hours, over thin rocky outcroppings,
through shallow bogs, around several lakes and over tiny streams.
Empty caribou trails greeted us everywhere we ventured. Suddenly,
Mark dropped to his knees and pointed to a caribou. Silhouetted high
on a distant ridge top, stood a single cow looking more like a greystone
statue than a caribou.
"Should we take a closer look ?" Mark questioned.
As we had seen no game thus far, my reply was, "Let's go check
her out."
Slowly we began our climb up the ridge, pausing often to glass. About
a third of the way up the cow disappeared from sight. "Perhaps
she crested the ridge and," Mark began but I cut him off in mid-sentence.
"Bulls," I whispered while pointing to where the cow had
stood.
Three bulls stood shoulder to shoulder surveying their domain. One
of them was absolutely huge. As soon as they dipped below the skyline,
the stalk was on. They were headed in a northerly direction along
the ridge, so we sprinted almost straight uphill in an effort to cut
them off. Through knee-high bog grass, up the side of a rock-strewn
cliff, along a ledge and through some giant boulders we ran like men
chasing disappearing dreams, only to be greeted by a five-foot-wide
creek. Frantically we searched for a place to cross, and finding none,
we took a running leap across the narrowest point we could find.
After that it was straight uphill through a nest of boulders the size
of basketballs. Cresting the peak, we slowed down and through gulps
of fresh air we searched for caribou. They were nowhere to be seen.
In desperation, Mark sprinted across the crest of the hill hoping
to catch the bulls. Unconvinced that we had missed them, I ran along
the ridge hoping to catch them stalled in one of the depressions.
Sure enough, not 300 yards away, I found them feeding on lichen in
a shallow dip in the landscape. With the wind blowing from the bulls
to me, I turned and whistled at Mark, while holding my fingers up
to my head to indicate antlers. Mark made a mad dash to my side.
"Keep that big boulder between you and them, and move slowly,"
I instructed.
Mark dropped to his stomach and crawled towards the bulls. Reaching
the boulder, Mark slithered to one side and laid awaiting the right
moment. All three bulls were suddenly on full alert. Perhaps the gusting
ridge-top winds had betrayed our presence. Perhaps thousands of years
of avoiding predators touched off a sixth sense. Whatever it was,
the jig was up.
"Shoot him now Mark. Shoot him how," my mind screamed. The
sound of the rifle echoed off distant ridges, across the many lakes
and into the arctic hinterland to be swallowed by the wind. Time stood
still. In slow motion the big bull turned and took his last few steps.
Mark arose slowly and walked to the huge bull. I left him alone for
awhile, to sit with the bull and absorb the power and the beauty of
what had just transpired. Later we would war whoop and dance jigs
like demented souls, but then we just sat in silence awed by the size
of the king of the tundra and the moment of absolute perfection on
the high tundra.
Hours later we hooked up with Terry and Lawrence and the four of us
trekked across the arctic high country - happy as larks - to collect
the meat.
That evening we soothed our aching muscles with hot rum toddies and
buoyed our spirits with renditions of the kill. Sleep came easy that
night. With bellies full of backstrap and dreams filled with giant
caribou bulls, we slowly began to live life on the tundra as part
of this magical land.
As each day passed the hunting got better and better. Patterns began
to emerge and of course we were obliged to take full advantage.
Early one morning as Mark and I were hunting along the shoreline of
our lake, 50 bulls crashed through the stunted pines trees behind
us. I got off a quick shot at the largest bull and missed.
An hour later another 15 bulls crossed an open section of tundra and
we stalked to within 30 yards of them. The largest bull became mine.
In the meanwhile, Terry and Lawrence put a sneak on a group of eight
or nine bulls and were blessed with their first kills on the tundra.
And so it goes for the remainder of our trip. We all filled our tags
by the end of the week.
There were no massive migrations through our area, but we saw over
200 bulls during the course of the week. We hunted hard every day.
We went to hunt and experience life on the tundra, not laze around
and have a caribou shoot. Migrating geese, watching red foxes hunting,
playing hide and seek with ptarmigan, catching sparkling lake trout,
watching the mysterious northern lights, and dozens of other, seemingly
little insignificant discoveries, helped us escape for seven days
into a land where life continues as it has for centuries beforehand.
Saying goodbye has never come easy for me and leaving the caribou
and their intriguing homeland was no exception. We were all filled
with a great sorrow and each of us left a little bit of our hearts
out there on the tundra. A week spent in truly wild, desolate country,
living amongst caribou and feeling their presence quicken the pulse
of life as this magical land touched parts of our being that we never
knew or have forgotten existed. They are a magnificent animal, the
Arctic's heart and soul, the lifeblood in a land where time stands
still.
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