Fair Chase in North America

by Boddington, Craig

  Introduction

  It has been more than 40 years since Outdoor Life published The Big Game Animals of North America by Jack O’Connor. It was about that time that my interest in big game hunting piqued and O’Connor’s accounts of his personal experiences while hunting 20 different big game species, coupled with George C. Goodwin’s accompanying natural histories provided the basis for a life-long love for wild places and the magnificent creatures that live there. I read and reread each of O’Connor’s chapters and carefully studied Goodwin’s natural histories, while I quietly dreamed of the day I could hunt for many of those same big game animals.

  My first experiences with big game hunting began with mule deer on our family farm in the state of Washington. I began hunting mule deer about the same time I obtained O’Connor’s book through the Outdoor Life Book Club. His accounts of mule deer hunting in Arizona provided new insights to what I already knew from hunting them on our farm with my father and brother. O’Connor’s accounts of Arizona mule deer created an excitement within me as I thought about hunting big mule deer bucks elsewhere.

  It was natural that O’Connor’s book would serve as a basic reference for learning about one big game species after another over the years. From mule deer to elk to pronghorn to black bear and rocky mountain goat, O’Connor’s writings served as a basis for further research. My first hunts for Alaska brown bear and Dall’s sheep came 20 years after the publication of O’Connor’s book. This past fall, more than 40 years after I obtained his book from the Outdoor Life Book Club, I went back and reread O’Connor’s account on bighorn sheep in preparation for my hunt for a bighorn in Montana.

  As time passed and I became successful in hunting different big game animals, my enjoyment of the hunting experience changed from the simple act of taking a borrowed rifle up on our “hill” after school or on a weekend to look for mule deer to a much more full appreciation for all aspects of the hunt. Subtle aspects of the hunt such as the chatter of the Douglas squirrel, the call of the nuthatch, the hollow clanking of the bells on my horses in elk camp or the fragrance of a fir thicket on a north slope in Northern Idaho created an excitement much greater than a simple hike up on the “hill” in hopes of seeing a deer. The nature of my enjoyment for hunting and exploring new, wild, and remote places fostered my active participation in all aspects of the hunt. It was not long before I was backpacking into rough country in far away places scouting new areas and learning the habits of more and more big game species. Soon, I understood the value of owning one’s own saddle and pack stock. This led to learning to pack and ride, as well as a myriad of other associated skills required for safe and successful hunting in the backcountry on my own. Soon my collateral interests, experiences, and skills related to hunting were as important to me as was the hunting experience itself. My interest in hunting and outdoor literature, rifles, shotguns, ballistics, outdoor photography, map reading, horses, dogs, and the history of our wildlife cultural heritage soon became so woven into my life that they became a part of my identity.

  Given this history, it seemed only natural that I would become acquainted with the Boone and Crockett Club and its Records of North American Big Game program. My first interest in the Club came through the “records” program, but it was not long before my interest in the Club’s publications surpassed my interest in records. It was in the fall of 1992 when Club President, Steve Adams, asked me to assume the responsibilities for the Club’s Associates Program and the Associates’ Newsletter.

  The first task was to develop an appropriate means of communicating the Club’s mission, visions, and programs to the Club’s membership. This was accomplished by hiring Julie Tripp (Houk) to provide oversight for the layout and design of the Associates’ Newsletter. Soon after we hired Julie, our Associates provided ideas for a more formal name for the newsletter. Fair Chase was selected as the title for the new official publication of the Boone and Crockett Club from among 46 different titles proposed by Boone and Crockett Associates. Chris Keenum of Hartsell, Alabama, and Don Moody of Gainesville, Texas both submitted the title Fair Chase.

  With a new title and a lead staff person to oversee this new publication, we launched Fair Chase magazine with the Winter 1994 issue. The first two issues were well received by our Associates, but we needed a more well-defined editorial policy and a focal point for the magazine. With an eye to this venture, the influence of Jack O’Connor’s writings and The Big Game Animals of North America had upon me as an eager, young hunter stood out in my mind as I searched for an overarching plan for the series of articles that would become the centerpiece of Fair Chase. When my friend, Biff Mac Collum of Phoenix, Arizona, reminded me of his keen interest in O’Connor’s articles on each of the big game species in this book, the project’s format became clear in my mind. Each of the issues of Fair Chase over the next four years would feature a species of North American big game on the cover and an article about that species by Craig Boddington. Early issues also contained an article about the natural history of the species written by Dr. Philip L. Wright.

  It was fitting that Craig write these lead articles for he and Jack O’Connor were past hunting editors for Peterson’s HUNTING. Craig was a professional member of the Boone and Crockett Club and had first-hand experience hunting and writing about our North American big game. His writing and field experience made Craig eminently qualified for this assignment. As with O’Connor, I had read most of Boddington’s articles on North American big game and had an appreciation for the knowledge and expertise evident in his writing. By this time in my life, I too had acquired first-hand experience hunting many of the different North American big game species and found that my experiences afield were consistent with Boddington’s work. A telephone call to Craig was all it took to seal the deal and for the next four years his articles served as the centerpiece for Fair Chase magazine.

  When Craig concluded his last article in the North American big game series in the summer of 1998 we talked of publishing all of the articles at a later date in one combined volume. I actually had this vision in mind when we started the series and was very pleased when Craig agreed to work with the Boone and Crockett Club in publishing Fair Chase in North America.

  When Outdoor Life published The Big Game Animals of North America in 1961, our world was quite different from what it is today. Today, our population has shifted to be overwhelmingly urban. As a result, generations of Americans have little or no contact with the outdoors or wildlife. Modern societal norms have influenced the motivations and attitudes related to hunting. In today’s fast-paced society, fewer hunters have the time to seek out new hunting territories and learn the biology and behavior of their quarry. Time seems to be short and the “endless day” that typifies many of our lives has a great deal to do with where we hunt, when we hunt, and how we hunt.

  By focusing on the “Fair Chase” hunting tradition as the common denominator, the Boone and Crockett Club has harnessed the passion of generations of hunters for the conservation of wildlife and its habitat for the common good of the American people. This passion, for over a century of conservation in North America, has led to the protection of Yellowstone, Glacier, and Denali National Parks; the foundation of the National Forest Service, National Park Service, and National Wildlife Refuge; the passing of the Pittman-Robertson and Lacey Acts, and the establishment of the Federal Duck Stamp Program. The North American Model of Wildlife Conservation and much of our nation’s conservation infrastructure and heritage can be traced back, directly or indirectly, to the Boone and Crockett Club.

  A major part of the Club’s conservation legacy lies in having defined and promoted the “rules of the chase” for hunting North American big game,
which provided the foundation for hunter ethics throughout North America and, to some extent, the world. Adherence to Fair Chase ethics have defined the requirements for inclusion of big game trophies in the Boone and Crockett Club’s North American Big Game Records Program—the program by which all other trophy recognition programs are measured.

  Fair Chase in North America incorporates the Boone and Crockett Club’s Fair Chase traditions and presents them in the context of the modern hunter in today’s society. Craig Boddington has accomplished a masterful work in sharing his experiences afield in a manner that is enjoyable to read while providing insight into hunting techniques and the habits and traits of our North America big game species.

  The Boone and Crockett Club is indebted to Craig Boddington for his many contributions to the Club as a professional member. After reading Fair Chase in North America, we hope you will share our enthusiasm.

  BY GEORGE A. BETTAS, ED.D.

  Fair Chase Magazine

  Editor-in-Chief (1994-2002)

  CARIBOU — Nomads of the North

  Caribou! It’s Feast or Famine When You Hunt the Nomads of the North — But Being There is at Least Half the Fun!

  I’ll never forget the first caribou I ever saw. It was nearly thirty years ago now, and I was on a mixed-bag hunt in British Columbia—back when such hunts, though hardly commonplace, were laughably affordable by today’s standards.

  We were looking for Stone’s sheep, my Indian guide and I, working our way up a knife-edged ridge in the Cassiars. There were some sheep, all right, far away below a distant snow pack. Much closer, on an intervening ridge the twin to the one we were on, a set of massive antlers floated above the skyline. He was a world record for sure, with double shovels and tall beams and good top points. And even if he wasn’t a world record, he was all the caribou I needed to see. He was also all the caribou my guide needed to show me.

  ­­When those floating antlers dropped out of sight we jumped on our horses and followed the contour around to the next ridge. We dismounted and worked our way down the spine, finding the caribou on about the third little bench. He was bedded in a little depression, and when he stood I shot him very carefully in the shoulder.

  No, he was not a world record. In fact, he was not really a very good caribou; what size he had was greatly exaggerated by the heavy August velvet. But it was some years before I realized that, and it’s never made any difference anyway. He was my first caribou, and like all firsts, he was and is very special.

  Since then I’ve been fortunate to have hunted caribou in lots of places, from Newfoundland to Quebec to Northwest Territories and on to the Yukon and Alaska. I kind of like them, but perhaps not for the most obvious reasons. They are beautiful, with those wonderful antlers unexcelled in the deer kingdom and, as winter approaches, the snow-white flowing mane. But I can’t say they match the majesty of a fine elk or the breathtaking wonder of a big ram. I certainly can’t rate them high in the challenge department. How shall I say this kindly? In terms of interaction with hunters, caribou are not rocket scientists. Even in the venison department, they don’t quite compare with our other antlered species. (This was brought home to me one time when I spent four days in a tent waiting for a plane with nothing but caribou—no ketchup, no salt!)

  And yet there’s a special charm about being in caribou country in the early fall, with the low scrub turning golden and crimson and the ptarmigan shifting to white. The landscape is completely empty, horizon to horizon. And yet there must be caribou there, perhaps in a hidden fold—or perhaps, as you watch, a great herd will march over the far horizon.

  That actually happens, and the mere possibility of seeing the spectacle of the caribou migration is another thing that brings many of us to caribou country. But it doesn’t happen often. That’s not true. It happens once every autumn at every point along each caribou herd’s migration route. The problem lies in being at that point at that time. And there’s the big rub with caribou hunting.

  Few hunts in North America can be as feast or famine as caribou hunting. If they’re there, they’re really there, and in numbers that literally march to the horizon, one group after another. If they’re not there, well…

  Actually, it isn’t as grim as that. The peak of the migration, especially with some of the larger regional herds, is a fabulous sight. But it isn’t one great press of animals. Rather, it’s group after group that will be many days in the passing. First a trickle, then a flood, and finally a few stragglers—sometimes the largest bulls of all.

  Across North America I suppose I have hunted caribou maybe fifteen times. Just twice have I really in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. The first time was on the barrens of Northwest Territories, when caribou hunting was first opening and before anyone had thought of creating our Central Canada barren ground caribou category. I went in with some Indians, whose goal was to secure their winter meat. We pitched camp by a small lake with a vast flat to our north and, beyond that, a long, low ridge. The first couple of days were uneventful, with just a small scattering of caribou passing through and no mature bulls at all. Then the floodgates opened and the caribou marched past. Each hour would bring a new herd skylined on that distant ridge. The next hour would bring them within a few hundred yards of our tent, and by then a fresh herd would be skylined on the ridge. It went on for days, and was still happening when we left.

  The second time was in the fall of 2001, just a few days before our world changed on September 11th. I was on a semi-guided hunt southwest of Kujuuaq (formerly Fort Chimo), where the burgeoning Leaf River herd comes through. The first couple of days there were what I’d describe as “some caribou” percolating around camp—plenty enough to see and hunt, but not in great numbers and really not migrating. I know this because I saw the same distinctive bulls in different places on different days. I took a nice bull early on, and most of the hunters in camp filled one or both tags in the first three or four days.

  With just two days left in the hunt the wind changed, and we woke up to the spectacle of the genuine migration! Caribou in groups small and large, with many big bulls, marched around our camp on both ends of the lake for the next two days. Gunmaker Lex Webernick, who had held out, took two spectacular caribou. I had one tag left, and took one of my very best bulls. Those of us who had filled out too quickly, well, all they could do was watch and drool!

  Remember, though, this is just two occasions out of a number of caribou hunts across the North Country. The other extreme was that mountain caribou I mentioned earlier. That was the only caribou I saw that trip, and Dad never saw one at all. So I suppose that bull wasn’t all that bad after all!

  The rest of my caribou hunts have been somewhere in between, ranging from fairly tough to fairly plentiful, but usually plenty of caribou to look at. A fairly tough one was a hunt I made in Quebec in 1983, out of Schefferville. Caribou fanatics will almost certainly remember that as the year the great George River herd changed their migration route. Mostly we looked at empty landscape. Lots of empty landscape. This was a camp that had been on the migration route for years; easy hunting, big bulls, 100 percent success. The outfitter was spoiled. The guides were spoiled. The hunters came expecting to be spoiled. That year the only thing that was spoiled was expectations of an easy hunt!

  Actually, there were a few caribou around. Rather than what a typical Quebec caribou hunt had been for years, it was more like most other typical North American hunts. But success was possible if you were willing to hunt hard. The guides were and the outfitter certainly was. Surprisingly, a few of the hunters were not. They went home without caribou. The rest of us pitched in and walked our tails off, and we scratched out some pretty fair caribou.

  Most typical, perhaps, was the first trip I made to Newfoundland—not too easy, but not too tough. After a couple of days of seeing little close by camp my crew determined the caribou must be hung up on a big plateau a few miles away. That’s common, by the way, for caribou herds to stop for a day
or a week—especially with caribou that migrate only short distances, if at all. That includes most woodland and mountain caribou herds that I’m aware of.

  So, since the caribou clearly weren’t coming to us, we went to them. We left camp hours before dawn, and it was long after dark when we got back. But we reached the caribou right on schedule, shortly before midday—and indeed there were plenty of them. I like Newfoundland; I’ve hunted there twice more since, and probably will return. But that was the day I shot my best woodland caribou. He had it all; good mass, good shovels, good bez, and lots of points. Even at that I shot much too quickly. While we field-dressed my bull a herd with two much larger caribou fed over the hill to us!

  The good news is that the migration isn’t a sudden event, nor is it a flash flood that comes with no warning and quickly abates. In Quebec last year the caribou around camp were probably the advance guard, with the bulk hanging back somewhere over the horizon and not moving much… until the wind changed and here they came. A few years ago Randy Brooks and I went on another semi-guided hunt in Quebec, but that time we went at the tail end of the season, the last week in September.

  This camp had enjoyed a spectacular season, but by the time we got there the migration had almost passed, with just a few tail-end Charlies coming through. We hiked and we glassed, and we shivered endlessly at crossings. On the first day I passed up a pretty good bull, figuring we would see better…but as the days passed we saw fewer and fewer caribou. Persistence counts, so we stayed at it. Usually there will be some good bulls trailing the main migration, and so it was. On the next to the last day Randy and I both took very fine caribou. Actually, he shot two nice caribou and I took a real dandy. And on the last day, as I recall, we saw no bulls at all!

  All this may sound like caribou hunting is routinely successful. It is…if you go to the right place and hunt caribou. Only once have I been altogether in the wrong place. That was on an unguided caribou hunt in 1975, and while the country was beautiful, the caribou just weren’t there yet. Even so, I have quite a collection of unused caribou tags. Mostly these remained unused because I attempted to hunt caribou as an adjunct to some other primary quarry. Usually that doesn’t work. Few North American areas are really prime for more than one species at the same time. Or there isn’t time after the primary animal is taken.