Hunting Traditions:
The Learning Years Part 2
getting advice on rafts best suited for
our hunt, I landed on the Soar Levitator
which seemed perfect for the river we
hunt. The river is low, it’s slow, and if
the wind comes howling in out of the
North, you’ll spend more time walking
and pulling then paddling. All of the
benefits of a true white water raft are
outweighed by this flat raft’s 22-inch
tubes and 8-inch inflatable floor’s
ability to virtually float a house in
extremely low water. I still own and
use this raft today. It has more than
paid for itself and it’s been a great rig
for this type of a hunt.
On our first hunt together Jeff and I
encountered unusually warm weather.
We were hunting during the right
time of year, but Mother Nature had
decided to throw a little monsoon our
way. In this country, warm weather
means black flies and white socks.
Those little buggers about tore us up,
but boy howdy did they have those
caribou moving. That season, we
experienced the best caribou hunting
out of all of the seasons I had hunted
22
before or have hunted since.
Caribou were pouring
through camp and
with ridges running
on either side of the
river. We were able
to sit up high away
from the bugs and
watch small groups
of them filtering down
through our valley,
crossing the river just
below us. Interestingly
enough, it seemed
that 7 out of 10 small
groups
traveling
through would follow
almost the exact same trails making
them fairly easy to pattern.
We just sat there until a group came
along with a bull in it that we wanted
to take, and then one of us would
slip down to the river and attempt to
intercept them. Jeff was the first one up
and after spotting a group with several
nice bulls in it, he slipped down to the
river with his bow hoping for a shot
opportunity.
It was pretty cool to sit up high and
watch Jeff’s stalk unfold. Once he
reached the river, the caribou winded
and busted him, turning back on the
tundra and crossing about 300 yards
upriver.
Then a funny thing occurred just after
they crossed. These caribou seem to
be bound and determined to follow
a specific path and I’ll be doggone if
that group of bulls didn’t turn back and
re-cross the river ending up directly
across the river from Jeff.
Something just told those knuckleheads
that they had to cross right there and
no place else. This time when they
winded Jeff and bunched, one of the
bulls stood just off from the group
presenting Jeff with a clear shot. At 45
yards on the range finder Jeff pulled to
full draw, held center between his 40
and 50 yard pins and made a perfect
shot. That caribou only took about five
steps, and piled up on the gravel bar.
A day or two, or even three days later, I
can’t remember, I put my spotting scope
on a beautiful caribou bull. He was
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