The Old Bull

“What are you looking for in a bull?”

“I don’t exactly know. I’ll just know him when I see him.”

We were traveling the Dalton Highway, somewhere between Fairbanks and Coldfoot, when my friend Steve asked me that question. The Ram truck that we rented was loaded down with two inflatable jet boats, the engines to power them, as well as enough camping and hunting gear to get us through ten days chasing caribou on the tundra.

I’d been thinking about the answer to that question for months. He wasn’t the first person to ask me. And I’d asked myself off and on since I committed to the hunt — my first ever for caribou. Folks had given me all sorts of advice about what I should be looking for in a bull.

Look for big tops.

Shoot one with nice shovels.

The list goes on.

But I knew it wasn’t going to be that way for me.

“How do you think you’ll know?” Steve asked.

“There’ll just be something about him. Or where we are hunting. Or the situation. I’ll just know it’s him.”

At the end of the first evening of driving, we parked the truck in a quarry that sat high above the highway. Both of us leaning against the truck’s front bumper, we sank a couple of beers from the case we stashed in the bed as we watched the fog settle in over the wilderness. Spruce trees disappeared beneath a gray blanket as the dim light of the midnight sun provided just enough illumination for us to see. We slept for a few hours in the front seats of the truck before getting back on the road.

In Coldfoot, we stopped for a quick breakfast of reindeer sausage, eggs, home fries and toast. That covid restrictions forced us to eat outside only motivated me to eat faster so that the chilly air didn’t cool my food. Besides, I was ravenous. We set off, and by the early afternoon we crossed the Brooks Range through the winding beauty of Atigun Pass and were on to the tundra.

I was immediately struck by how much the tundra reminded me of Wyoming’s high prairie. The rolling vastness that tricks you into believing it is flat but is hiding depressions and drainages. The secret beauty in the finer details. The feeling of being somewhere and absolutely nowhere at the same time. But where the high prairie is a dry and sharp brown, the tundra is a grassy and wet yellow.

We’d travel far into the tundra before we’d spot our first caribou, and farther still before seeing our first bull. He was a goofy youngster, frozen in place on the side of the road. I knew he was young because his rack was dwarfed by the two bulls that Steve and I glassed in Denali National Park on our drive from Anchorage to Fairbanks. Nonetheless, it would be nice to have camp meat, and Steve had his bow and five caribou tags in his pocket. I let him out so he could stalk the bull and drove on, feigning disinterest. But the young bull got wise and bolted across the tundra.

That night we’d inflate one of the jet boats and cruise the Sagavanriktok River (commonly known as “the Sag”) five miles in, setting up a spike camp to scout an area that Steve marked on the map. Our camp mates would be landing in Deadhorse the next day and we needed a solid lay of the land before committing to our camping spot. We settled on a spot just off of a high sandy bank of the Sag with a creek drainage three quarters of a mile in. That night we glassed bulls miles away from the bluff above the creek drainage, but decided to let them meander undisturbed. We’d need our energy for over a week of hard hunting. And I didn’t want my hunt to be over on night one.

My East Coast internal clock had me awake before Steve the next morning. So, I geared up, grabbed my rifle, and headed out for a quick solo hunt. Mostly what I found was a thick blanket of fog that left me imagining what the rest of the tundra might be like instead of seeing it with my own eyes. I sat on a high tussock, one quarter mile from camp, glassing into the immediate landscape and hoping a bull would materialize out of the gray. After an hour, no bull came, and the fog wouldn’t relent. I made the march back to camp. We had a lot of work to do to prep for our camp mates anyway.

Navigating the braids of the Sag, we motored back to the truck, prepped the cab for three more passengers, and drove to the airport in Deadhorse. When we got there, our companions were waiting for us on the tarmac. The private jet that they flew in on had taken them first from Florida to Colorado, then from Colorado straight to Deadhorse. Piling a ton of gear and a great deal of human mass into the truck, we made the drive back to our gear cache — glassing and pointing out caribou and musk ox along the way. As we drove, I looked for him.

With both jet boats loaded down, we motored over five miles through the braids of the Sag to our camping spot set on a sandy bluff above the river. We set up our tents and got to know each other over a camp dinner of moose ribs and random freeze-dried backpacking meals. After dinner, Steve and I retired to our tent and left the Florida crew to theirs. The morning held the promise of caribou.

We set off as a party of five for our first hunt. One member of the Florida crew had never hunted before, and the two others had no experience with backcountry, spot and stalk hunting. So, we thought it best to stick together at first. After two quickly blown stalks and a lot of moving parts, we made the decision to split up. Steve took the member of the crew that never hunted before and motored down river. The two other Florida folks, being significant others, hunted together. I took off by myself to glass the creek drainage and hunt until what resembles dusk in the land of the midnight sun.

I laid out my accordion foam, set my pack against a large tussock for a back rest, and plopped myself down. As I pulled my binoculars up to my eyes, I reveled in solitude. For the rest of the day, I’d watch a lone caribou move across the tundra 1,000 yards away. The strange thing about caribou is that you never know how long they’re going to stick around. Sometimes they stand in one place for an hour, statue still. Other times they blow like smoke across the land and are gone in a matter of moments. That I sat alone glassing a caribou that was also alone made me feel as though we were kindred spirits. I couldn’t tell if it was a cow or a bull. And either way, it wasn’t my bull. But when no other caribou came, I turned from hunter to observer and watched my kindred caribou move across the landscape and out of sight. I picked up my stuff and hiked back to camp.

“Man, where are all the bulls?” Steve asked in our tent that night. Through our collected wanderings we’d all seen a lot of cows, but no obvious bulls in the mix. He was feeling the pressure of showing four friends his favorite hunting spot — and the potential of no one filling their tags. I reminded him that we had time, while internally I was feeling my own pressure to find the bull.

The next day took Steve and I on a boat ride upriver followed by a ten-mile jaunt across the tundra. Throughout the day we’d come across bands of caribou. But no bulls. One cow decided that she’d accompany us for most of the day. Wandering behind us, then jolting in front of us, sometimes getting as close as fifteen yards. We were all glad for the company.

Halfway through the day, Steve glassed a deadhead on a tussock a few hundred yards away.

“That’s either a big bull bedded down or a giant deadhead,” Steve said.

I raised my binos to my eyes, “Gotta be a deadhead. The caribou we’ve seen are still in velvet.”

Steve agreed and we made our way to it. The rack had everything a hunter could want — symmetry, big tops, a nice shovel, height, width. Sun-bleached, but twinged with the gray of decay, it looked as though the antlers could at any moment dissolve into a plume of smoke. We named him “Old Smoky.” Old Smoky was magic. Steve and I agreed that we shouldn’t disturb him — as much as we wanted to strap the skull to one of our packs and take him with us. Old Smoky belonged right where he was; a north star, a good luck charm that guides from a position sealed in space and time — you carry him with you in spirit. He needed to be there to guide the next hunters that found him.

As day turned to evening, we found ourselves on the high ground above the creek drainage a few miles behind our camp. Through our glass we saw a dark figure contrasted against the yellow green of the tundra grass. It was one of our companions, and his pack looked full and heavy. We celebrated, smiling and high fiving as we watched him trudge toward camp.

As we sat down to glass, a lone caribou calf stood up barely fifty yards away. She had been bedded on the slope of the high ground above the creek. Immediately, she moved toward us, calling with a high, grunting sound as she walked. I wondered where mom was and why the calf was all alone. There were wolves in the area — we’d found their tracks not far from our tents each morning. “Get outta here!” I yelled. “There are wolves. Go find other caribou!” It’s amazing how quickly you can turn from hunter to protector of the same animals you’ve been spending all day trying to kill. After hanging around for quite a long time, she eventually wandered off, as Steve and I would.

The morning came with a boat upstream where we left it. We decided to hunt our way to the boat. With all of our companions tired from their exploits during the previous day, Steve and I set off alone for the few mile walk. Moving as quickly as possible across the tundra, which isn’t quick in the grand scheme of things, we stopped at high tussocks to glass. Without any caribou in sight, we moved faster until we got to the boat.

Fast walking jostled Steve’s innards to the point that he needed to relieve himself. Perched on the sandy bluff above the rock beach where the boat rested, he glassed across the tundra while I looked in a different direction.

“Todd, quick, bring me the spotting scope,” he said after he finished his business. I hustled it to him and stood scanning with my binoculars, as he set it up.

“Good bull, but he’s way out there,” Steve said, moving aside so I could look. He was across the river on the flat ground between the river and the haul road.

“That’s him. That’s the bull,” I said, my eye still on the glass. Through the mirage, his image was broken by the waves. But even from a couple of miles away, and through the distortion of the mirage, I saw the beams of his antlers curving above his dark brown body. He was big. But it wasn’t only that I could see his size from that distance that drew me to him. As he fed slowly across the tundra, with musk ox matching him in leisure in the background, I just knew it was him.

“Well, hold on,” Steve said. “I have a couple more on the same side of the river as us.” He was glassing upriver, so I swung my binoculars in the same direction. There were two bulls, one slightly smaller than the bull out on the flat and one smaller yet. I wasn’t immediately struck by them like I was by the other bull. We started deliberating.

“That bull in the flat is right on the edge of the rifle corridor right now and I don’t know how we’d stalk him,” Steve began. “We could sit here and wait to see what he does, or we could go after those bulls down there and if it doesn’t work out, we come back for him.”

I agreed to go after the other bulls, even though my whole heart wasn’t in it. I would have sat there until the next morning if I had to. There was a part of me that knew that Steve was right, that we had to take the best opportunity in front of us. But goddamn it, I knew that bull in the flat was the one. We loaded into the boat and motored upstream after the two smaller bulls.

After a quick stalk to 350 yards, we blew it when we tried to get closer. Even though the wind was in our favor, the stream bed we used to travel didn’t offer us the concealment we thought it did. And it being only our second time hunting together, miscommunication in stalking styles made our movements clunky rather than uniform. Our march back to the boat was initiated by frustration. Friendship gave us quick cause to let it go. Luck was actually on our side.

“Well, fuck it. Let’s go get that big one,” Steve said. The bounce returned to our step as we made faster time back to the boat. We realized it wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Oh shit, we have to go. He’s crossing the river!” Steve said and we ran back to the boat.

Jumping in, Steve asked if I’d be okay with laying in the bow of the boat and shooting as we beached it — which is legal in Alaska. After a quick second of thought, I decided that I was okay with it and I told nodded affirmatively to Steve. As much as I wanted the scenario to play out as a picture-perfect spot and stalk, humility won the day. It is trained into a hunter during all of the game-less days and missed opportunities. Who was I to snub the bull because the scene wouldn’t happen just as I wanted it to?

As we rounded a bend, we spotted the old bull on the rock flat in the middle of the river. Standing still, and totally broadside, he watched us curiously.

“Okay, get ready, I’m going to beach us,” Steve shouted over the scream of the engine, revving the boat ashore. I was set up prone, my rifle resting on the bow of the boat. After we beached, I cycled a round into the chamber. But the bank that we beached on was too steep. I couldn’t see over the rocks. I rose up to the kneeling position and found the bull in my scope. It looked like he filled my entire sight picture. Confidence welled in me. There was no way I could miss.

“200 yards,” Steve called out. He was ranging for me. I fired and missed. The old bull just stood there, still curiously eyeing us. I cycled another round and fired again. I missed. That I knew better than to expect to connect with a 200-yard, offhand shot didn’t register in my mind. The strange thing is that I didn’t feel rushed or uncomposed. Every part of me, from bones to brain, believed that I could make the shot. I was surprised that I missed twice.

After the second miss, the old bull began circling to get our wind. I dropped down, lying half-prone and half on a knee while propping my elbow on the gunwale of the boat to get a rest. “160,” Steve called out. The bull stopped right there, but there was river debris in the way. Come on, man, come on. My internal dialogue was speaking to the caribou. Then he circled more. “170,” Steve called out and the old bull stood still, broadside and looking at us. I fired. He dropped.

“You dumped him! Nice shot, man!” Steve shouted.

I released a long exhale. Then I cycled the empty round out of my rifle and put it on safe. I knelt on both knees and looked at the old bull lying still on the rocks. I took another breath. I stood up. With wide smiles, Steve and I hugged and shouted. Then we sat on the edge of the boat and gave the old bull his time and space to die.

Kneeling beside his head I brushed my hands across both antlers. They were tall, one side slightly taller than the other — the left side being gnarled. It was the first time I’d seen velvet in the wild. It was chocolate brown and the fine hairs held river sand that felt coarse under my fingers. I rubbed his snout, from the space between his eyes to his nose. “Thanks, old man,” I said as I stood up to take in the rest of him.

“Hey dude, I think he’s still alive,” Steve said, his hand on the bull’s ribcage. “Yeah, he is.”

“You’re kidding? Shit,” I replied and began reaching for my knife. I hit him with a high shoulder shot, which drops an animal instantly but doesn’t always kill them instantly.

“Can I have your knife?” And reflexively, I handed my knife to Steve. Before I could say, wait, Steve, I’ll do it. He bent over, raised the knife high above his head, and thrust it between the old bull’s ribs and directly into its heart. Blood poured from his nose.

“Well, I sure didn’t expect you to do that,” I said.

“I figured it would be faster and I didn’t want to mess up the hide by slitting his throat. Let’s give him a little more time,” Steve said. We gave the bull some space. But I made sure to look at him, to take him in and remember his current form — the mahogany body, the whisps of white fur that hung from his neck, the form of his long legs and splayed hooves. When the knives came out again and the first incision was made, the old bull would become something else. And I wanted, forever in my mind’s eye, to see the old bull in the form that he’d lived his life in, moving across the tundra until the moment he met his end on a rock bar in the middle of the Sag River.

He was perfect.