by Boone
As we headed to the base camp we passed icebergs floating freely in Hudson Bay, and seals looked like bobbers floating in the big water. Leaving the 90° heat of North Dakota for the 30° weather of Northwest Territories, I was glad I packed my good wool clothes.
Once we arrived at our base camp our guides set up the canvas tents we would call home for the next week, and we carried our gear from the boats in preparation for our first day of hunting. Joe was to be our guide, while his helpers Richard and Steve, would use a 42-foot whaling boat and a 14-foot aluminum boat to cruise between the mainland and the islands.
Since we could take two caribou, Curt and I had decided that we wanted to fill both tags with a bow, but we did bring a rifle along since we had hunted caribou before in Quebec and were unsuccessful. The first two days we did spot and stalk a few caribou bulls, but it was early in the hunt and they were not quite the size bulls we were looking for. After the second day, Steve said, “You want big bulls? We go to Qikitaluk Island.” The sea was rough and the island was 20 miles across Hudson Bay, so while we waited for calm seas, we continued hunting the mainland.
Finally, on the third day, I had an opportunity to take my first caribou with a bow. Cutting the bull off as he worked his way up a hill, I narrowed the gap to 40 yards and made the shot. After the photo session the guides went to work on the caribou, skinning and preparing the meat. As we watched, Steve cut the heart into pieces and began eating it raw, like you would an apple. He said, “I like the heart when it is fresh and warm like this,” as he wiped the blood from his chin. This was our first dose of Inuit culture. When we got back to the boat, Steve said, “The wind is good. If you want to go to the island we must go now.” In the blink of an eye, we were on our way.
Once we got to the island we followed an inland waterway and beached the boat. Escorted by Joe with his .223 Ruger, which he carried for polar bear protection, we went after two good bulls. The island was comprised of rough, rolling hills of rock and valleys covered with lichen. Curt made a stalk on a nice bull and got a long shot, but missed. It was nearing low tide, so we had to go or risk being stranded by the 25-foot tides. Once back on the big boat, the guides treated us to a supper of Arctic char and fried potatoes.
The next day, September 1, we began skirting the island. To our surprise, a polar bear was cruising the shoreline as we came around a point. We captured the moment on film as the bear began swimming out to an island, 12 miles away. At one point, he snapped his teeth at the 42-foot boat in defiance, just before swimming off into the morning sunrise.
It didn’t take long before we spotted a white-maned caribou bull on a hillside, grazing by himself. It was Curt’s turn for a shot, so he grabbed his bow and I carried the rifle. Closing the gap to 200 yards, the bull somehow spotted us and started to take off. Curt decided to take the bull with the rifle and placed two good shots behind his shoulder, dropping him. Joe, Steve, and Richard were there in a flash to take care of the bull. This time they cut a huge slab of fat, or tallow, into bite-sized chunks and ate it raw. It was their favorite part of the caribou. Maybe that is why we were wearing heavy winter clothes and they stayed warm wearing just sweatpants and sweatshirts.
After Joe and Richard had the bull packed, Curt grabbed the antlers and we all made our way back to the boat. Steve had gone up on a large hill and was soon waving his arms after spotting three large bulls. We left the rifle behind and began slipping around rocks, stalking the bulls. While feeding 300 yards away, the bulls caught wind of the guides and took off running. They eventually bedded down and Curt put an outstanding stalk on the biggest bull. His bull ended up scoring 369-2/8 points with 54-inch main beams and a huge shovel, ranking him in Pope and Young Club’s top 10.
By the time we arrived back at the boat the wind was gusting and we had to anchor in a narrow bay for the next day and a half. With the temperature dropping and the sudden snow squalls, it made for tough hunting conditions. I had a chance to stalk a huge bull with double bez tines, but couldn’t put it all together. On September 3, the wind finally let up. Steve said we had to go back to base camp, and that meant our hunt was over. On our way back we would first stop at a small island where I would have one last chance to fill my second tag. Up until now, the bulls had been getting bigger and bigger, but I had my chance and passed, so I was happy. I told the guides I would take the next caribou we saw. Joe laughed, “A big fat cow maybe?” I replied, “No, a big bull!”
We pulled up on the shore of a tiny island and immediately found fresh sign. The guides told us that bigger bulls like to go to the small islands to get away from the other caribou until rutting season. With my bow in hand, Curt and I went in one direction and Joe went in another. Soon Joe was signaling us to get back to the boat. He had spotted three caribou on the windward side of the island. We hopped back into the small boat, went around a rocky point, and beached on the nearby shore. Joe told us approximately where the caribou were headed and I took off with my bow, still hoping to fill my second tag with an arrow. Curt followed carrying the rifle and video camera.
As we closed in, I finally spotted a bull’s antlers and identified three bulls bedded in a small draw. The wind was blowing nearly 40 miles per hour now and it looked like a stalk with a bow was going to be extremely difficult. Curt peeked over the ridge and saw a bull I did not see at first, and said, “Kendall, he’s a monster, a World’s Record! Don’t even try to get closer, use the rifle!”
I thought, “Boy, the bull I saw wasn’t that big!” But when he showed me the bull he was watching, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The bull was bedded facing away and my jaw dropped as I saw a beautiful, white-maned caribou with an enormous rack that almost touched his back. I decided this bull was North Dakota-bound and took the rifle from Curt. I slipped up to a rock 75 yards away and looked at him through my riflescope. That’s when I saw a loose chip of glass floating around inside the scope. The rifle had been passed around so many times on the hunt it must have been dropped somewhere along the line. I prayed as I put the crosshairs on the caribou and pulled the trigger. The bull struggled to his feet and I anchored him with a second shot.
I was speechless. The two other bulls, both good bulls, just stood and watched the whole episode. As I approached the bull I started to shake and couldn’t believe what I’d just accomplished. Curt said, “Kendall, you just shot yourself a world-class caribou.”
I was still stunned. The rest of the crew came running like wolves to a kill and Joe said, “Nice cow, Kendall,” as he shook my hand and laughed.
The bull scored 407-6/8 points and was absolutely gorgeous. We quickly took photos, caped the bull and packed it back to the boat. The wind was getting worse and we ended up spending most of the night working our way back to the mainland in rough seas. Steve’s GPS unit helped keep us on course.
After reaching base camp the next morning, we met up with the other eight hunters who all had taken bulls. We even took time to catch a few lake trout on an inland lake before heading back to Repulse Bay, and our plane ride home.
The impact of this hunt really didn’t hit me until we were in the air, on our way back to Winnipeg. It was then that I felt I had just had the experience of a lifetime. A hunting trip that will never be equaled or forgotten.
Horned Game
Pronghorn
Bison
Rocky Mountain goat
Musk ox
Bighorn sheep
Desert sheep
Stone’s Sheep
Photo from B&C Archives
Pronghorn, Scoring 93-4/8 Points, Taken by Michael J. O’Haco, Jr., in Coconino County, Arizona, in 1985.
The Longest Night
By Michael J. O’Haco, Jr.
19th Big Game Awards Program
IT WAS THE FIRST WEEKEND IN AUGUST 1985, AND I WAS OUT OF TOWN. I CALLED HOME BECAUSE I KNEW THE ARIZONA HUNTING PERMITS SHOULD BE IN THE MAIL. MY WIFE LINDA SAID THERE WAS GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS: I SAID I WANTED THE BAD NEWS FIRST. SHE SAID THAT I HAD NOT RECE
IVED AN ELK PERMIT. HOWEVER, THE GOOD NEWS WAS THAT I HAD RECEIVED A DEER AND PRONGHORN PERMIT. ALREADY HAVING A MULE DEER IN THE ARIZONA STATE RECORDS BOOK, I WAS PLEASED AT HAVING DRAWN A DEER PERMIT, BUT NOT HALF AS PLEASED AS I WAS WITH THE PRONGHORN PERMIT. THIS WAS THE TWENTIETH TIME I HAD APPLIED FOR AN PRONGHORN PERMIT; THE 19 PREVIOUS TIMES I HAD BEEN REJECTED. THE COMPUTER FINALLY CAME THROUGH.
After getting home, I called my hunting partner Phil Donnelly. We got together to plan how we were going to scout the unit for which we had been drawn. Being a rancher in that same area, I would scout the top half of the unit, while Phil would scout the lower half. The top half was closer to where I was working cattle, and the lower half was closer to Winslow, where Phil lives. We got together after a couple of weeks and discussed what we had seen. He seemed to think that he had two records-book bucks in the lower half of the unit, and I thought I had three records-book bucks in the top half, but one buck was exceptional.
I tried to get a look at the bucks Phil had spotted, but I was unable to find them. I kept track of two of the bucks I had spotted, but I couldn’t find the big buck. I almost panicked! After a little research on pronghorn, I found that during early September in Arizona, a buck will be looking for his harem, but will return to his own territory after putting them together. The big buck did, and I found him again the week before the hunt. I explained to Phil where I had seen the buck the day before, and asked him to take a look. Phil came by the ranch that night and told me this definitely was the biggest buck he had ever seen. We agreed the buck would go high in the Boone and Crockett records book, but we didn’t realize how high.
The afternoon and evening before the hunt, we decided to watch the big buck until he bedded down for the night. Phil watched until he couldn’t see him in the spotting scope anymore, then he returned to the ranch. After supper, he explained to me exactly where the buck had bedded down. My family has ranched in this area for years, so I knew exactly where the buck was. We talked about using horses, or going in on foot, and if we should come in from the north or from the northeast. We decided that hiking would be better, and that the northeast route would be the best. This way, we would have everything working for us, with the wind and the most cover, and also the sun at our backs.
Since this was my first pronghorn permit, I would get the first shot. If I missed, it was anybody’s ball game. I had worked up a super accurate load of a Sierra 85-grain, hollow-point bullet, a Remington case and primer, and 41.5 grains of IMR 4350 powder. This load would be used in a Sako .243 rifle, with a 2-7x Leupold scope. I didn’t intend to miss!
That night was one of the longest of my life, as my mind was filled with thoughts of the day’s hunt on my mind. Would the buck be there in the morning? Would we spook them before I could get a shot? Would I miss? Finally, about 3:00 a.m., I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and put the coffee on. Phil got up and asked how I felt. I said that as many times as I had shot that pronghorn in my dreams, we should be able to drive out there and load him up.
We drove to within a mile of where the buck and his does had bedded down for the night. It was still an hour before daylight. We discussed how we would make our stalk, and tried to visualize all aspects of the stalk so there would be no mistakes.
Finally, it was light enough to make a move. We had to crawl over a fence and then use the scattered cedar trees for cover. We moved slowly. When we were about 300 yards from where we had seen them the night before, I spotted the does, but couldn’t see the buck. We continued crawling slowly and easily. When we were about 200 yards from the pronghorn, something caught my eye to the left. It was a buck. Phil was about 20 yards to my left. The buck was looking straight at me, with a slight right turn, and I could see just part of a shoulder. Not being able to tell if it was the big one, I whispered to Phil, “Is that him?” I knew the buck was big, but I couldn’t see the prong from my angle.
Phil said, “That’s him.” I shot. The buck broke and ran. I thought I had missed.
I jammed another shell into my rifle. I hollered at Phil to shoot. He said, “No, he’s hit hard.” The buck slowed down, then stopped and looked back. I shot again, nothing. The adrenalin was really pumping through my body and I couldn’t hold the crosshairs steady. Phil said to use his shoulder for a rest, but he was shaking worse than I was. I took a deep breath, got my composure, and squeezed. The buck finally went down and didn’t get up.
When we got to the buck, we were awed his size. Two days later, I had Jerry Walters, an official Arizona state measurer, measure the buck and he came up with a 95-2/8 green score. After the 60-day drying period, the buck was officially scored by Mike Cuppell, a Boone and Crockett measurer, at 94-6/8 for entry into the records program.
NOTE: This trophy, and the fine, fair chase hunt for it, received special recognition at the 19th Awards with the Sagamore Hill Award, the highest trophy award made by the Club. This was the first time ever that the Sagamore Hill Award was given to a pronghorn trophy. It was only the 13th time this award was given, and it was the first time the award had been handed out since 1976.
Image from B&C Archives
Original score chart for Michael O’Haco’s pronghorn, which scores 93-4/8 points.
Photo from B&C Archives
Bison, Scoring 126-6/8 Points, Taken by Holland D. Butler in Garfield County, Utah, in 1990.
Big Bullets Do Big Work
By Holland D. Butler
21st Big Game Awards Program
A GREEN ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF ROCK AND SANDSTONE, THE HENRY MOUNTAINS OF UTAH ARE AS UNIQUE AS THE LAND SURROUNDING THEM. FOUND HALFWAY BETWEEN THE CANYONLANDS AND CAPITOL REEF NATIONAL PARKS, THE HENRY’S MOUNT ELLEN REACHES ALMOST 11,500 FEET INTO THE SKY JUST NORTH OF LAKE POWELL.
Once the haunt of Butch Cassidy’s outlaw gang, the Henrys were rumored to hide an old Spanish gold mine. Today, the Henry Mountains are famous for one of the last free-roaming bison herds in America.
The bison were never native to this area, and by 1835 the last of the species were gone from what is now Utah. During the 1950s, Utah’s Division of Wildlife Resources transplanted a small group of bison from Yellowstone into the Henry Mountains area. As a result of careful management and loving care, the population was estimated to be 400 animals by 1990.
At the age of 51, luck was with me in 1990. I drew one of Utah’s coveted once-in-a-lifetime bison permits for the Henry Mountains. Reared in a hunting family in Oregon, a love for the outdoors and respect for its creatures were lessons my brother and I were taught by our father. Since our move to Utah in 1975, I have been fortunate to draw both moose and desert sheep permits. Because I retired in 1985, I was able to concentrate completely on preparations for the bison hunt. The three weeks prior to the November 3 opening were spent scouting. This familiarized me with the country and its bison; it also served as a conditioning exercise.
Being a firearms enthusiast and a fan of pistols in particular, I naturally picked a handgun for the hunt, but only after extensive deliberation. A C. Sharps rifle in .50 caliber was my first pre-hunt choice. However, delivery would have taken 90-plus days. To stay with the traditional single-shot, falling-block action, a Ruger No.1 in .458 Winchester Magnum was selected as my “buffalo rifle.” For several years, I have hunted with a .45-70 single-shot pistol from M.O.A. Corporation. It is big, heavy, and very accurate, so I included this one as well. My real love, though, is a Ruger single-action Bisley, skillfully and beautifully converted to .475 Linebaugh by John Linebaugh, the Cody, Wyoming, gunsmith. This revolver is fitted with a special 5-1/2-inch barrel and matching five-shot cylinder. The cartridge is based on the .45-70 case, trimmed and loaded with a cast LBT bullet weighing 430 grains. The muzzle velocity is 1,300 fps.
Millions of bison were killed on the plains of the West with rifles less powerful than this revolver. Practicing three times weekly. I had a sore hand and a keen eye.
Skookum is my partner. A wonderful Keeshond, she is always ready to go and never complains about the cook.<
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On our first scouting trip to the Henrys, Skookum and I started low on Stevens Mesa. Our first sighting of bison was memorable. A cloud of dust in the distance turned into a small herd of the shaggy beasts. We soon discovered that by using cover and being careful, approaching a group was not too difficult. We drifted along parallel to the feeding animals, down wind and using junipers to break our silhouette. Watching these animals, with the sun low behind them and hazy dust diffusing the soft evening light, I imagined myself in the company of Sioux or Blackfoot hunters as they stalked their traditional prey.
After three weeks of pre-hunt practice, we had a pretty good handle on what it would take to be successful during the November hunt. Although these Henry Mountains bison are wild, they certainly are not as spooky as elk. They can be approached within pistol range if the hunter is careful, quiet, and deliberate.
There are two types of bulls. The magnificent, shiny-black 5- to 8-year-old bulls generally stay together in groups. The old loners, out by themselves, join other animals only occasionally or during the mating season. It is among the older, blonde-humped individuals that the largest animals are found, and of course these bulls are the most difficult to locate.
The week previous to the November 3 hunt, we were comfortably camped near McClellan and Willow Springs. Our scouting had identified four different herd groups, one of which had several nice bulls. On Thursday before the Saturday opener, Skookum and I discovered an absolutely perfect specimen — completely coal black very large, and impressive, shiny black horns. He was the one. The bull was feeding around a hidden water hole and the situation seemed perfect. We would simply return on Friday, follow the great animal until dark, and he would surely be ours opening morning. Oh, yeah. Sure. You bet. We never saw a hair on Friday.
