I was tasked to protect airport safety, and human health and safety from airplane/wildlife collisions with Caribou, grizzly bears, musk ox, and lots and lots of waterfowl. I wasn’t forced to work up there, it was mostly voluntary. At first I rejected the offer, but this middle-aged man has dreamed about, not only a big Alaska trip, but actually spending time and immersing myself into the culture and the land. Although this stint was only a few months long, I figured it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up to soak in the last frontier and maybe help shake up a little of the mid-life doldrums I had been feeling.
I also decided I couldn’t enjoy Alaska by flying up and being stuck in a company truck limiting my activities. So, I decided to drive my personal Tundra all the way up to the tundra so I could freely do what I wanted with any non-work time, the drive was an adventure in itself.
For five days, I drove north and watched as the sun angle changed across the skies, and how the landscape morphed from Alberta‘s prairies to British Columbia‘s craggy peaks, to the Yukon‘s boreal bogs, and finally into the diverse biomes of Alaska all the way to the Arctic Ocean.
There were many firsts along the way, I saw my first Stone and Dall sheep, as well as caribou on my way up, as well as countless bears. I saw Wood bison in BC (spoiler alert: they look just like American bison), Whitetail, and Mule Deer. I bathed in Hot Springs and slept in the back of my truck to save money, it really was quite the adventure, and I hadn’t even gotten to the North slope yet.
Leaving the endless boreal forests of Alaska for the Brooks range was exciting, and even more breathtaking was dropping off the north slope of the Brooks range into the Arctic tundra.
By the time I reached Prudhoe Bay, the sun never left the sky. The work was intense from the minute I got there, and at times it got real exciting. I worked 5 days of 13 hr shifts, and then 5 hours on Saturday. These shifts were long and by Saturday at lunch, my work crew knew it was time for me to head into the tundra. They’d wish me luck and I would take my gear and leave camp Saturday to seek adventure and then roll back Sunday night.
Also, almost every evening after work, I couldn’t sit around. I would head for the Sagavanirktok river (Sag for short) or the tundra in search of the vast flora and fauna Species that were unfamiliar. I’d look them up and ID them on the internet when I got back to service at camp.
Usually, back in Wyoming, darkness ends my day outside forcing me to retreat indoors, but the daylight never surrendered to darkness on the north slope, so usually hunger or fatigue would force me home.
It was obvious to me from my first small hike that there’s a certain harsh beauty to Alaska that I find incredibly appealing. It’s a place that challenges you, both physically and mentally.
The vastness of the land, the relentless mosquitos and little black flies, the deafening solitude. At first, I wasn’t sure I was completely comfortable with these challenges, but with some time, I acclimated to the environment. Each species was becoming recognizable, and I felt like the tundra was becoming a part of me, or more appropriately, I was becoming part of the tundra.
I purchased two caribou tags for the north slope in Fairbanks on my way up. I could only use archery equipment along the Alaska pipeline corridor. I spent much of my my free time learning the migration of the caribou as well as looking for fishing opportunity.
I had been told of a run of Dolly Varden that leave the arctic ocean for freshwater rivers in August to escape the freezing ocean. I fished for them often waiting for their arrival. Before they arrived, the arctic grayling kept me plenty busy with both a spin and fly rod.
My first successful weekend hunting caribou was full of mistakes on my part. The learning curve was steep trying to learn the caribous’ erratic movements.
I drove 75 miles out of Deadhorse (@8.00$/gallon) before finding a major caribou migration, where little dark dots sprinkled the green landscape like black pepper on a garden salad. I took off from the truck wandering into the hills towards, quickly out of hearing distance and view from the one road on the north slope.
At times, I gave the bou too much credit on their level of keen senses and intelligence. Other times, I didn’t give them enough credit and was too confident on my belly stalks. 13 miles later, I was short 3 arrows with nothing to show for it except a bruised ego and belly full of berries.
If you ever wondered, the tundra is mostly soft moss and tussock that will eat your arrows forever. Don’t waste your energy looking for your missed shots. On the plus side, it’s also very soft and full of blue, crow, and cloud berries. Making belly crawling towards caribou deliciously comfortable.
That evening, I found a lone young bull, and learning from my mistakes, I closed the distance to 90 yards, then waited for him to close the distance from there. At 73 yards, he gave me a perfect broadside with his head down feeding. The Sevr 100 grain hybrid did its job perfect.
I spent a considerable amount of time touching and going over the caribou’s entire body. Their hair is soft, like the inner thigh of a doe whitetail. Almost like long felt to the touch. Their overly large hooves are made for the tundra, but remind me of a clumsy horse wearing clogs.
I packed all the meat and head two miles back to the truck in one trip. I’ve heard people compare hiking the tundra to hiking on top waterbeds full of bowling balls. Seems a bit of an exaggeration; however, each footstep must be calculated or you will break an ankle packing heavy weight.
I had gotten my first caribou, the guys at camp were surprised I had gotten one…which I wasn’t sure how to take their reaction, but either way, they weren’t afraid to ask for a portion of the meat. I shared with all those that asked.
I couldn’t wait to get back out there the following weekend and try again with my bow for my second caribou. The following Sunday, I found small groups of caribou a little further south than the weekend before.
Bigger bulls typically were bachelored in their small sub groups, while smaller bulls were in and around the cow/calf herds. I spent the majority of Sunday using the contours of hills to try and get in front of caribou and intercept them. I probably had several miles logged belly crawling during the two weekends of hunting caribou. I did successfully stalk a bull that was solid in size, but for whatever reason I didn’t even attempt to kill him.my day had just begun.
After some more successful stalks on smaller bulls that I decided to pass up, I finally intercepted a wide bull and made a clean kill shot around 75 yards. I was sure glad, as my calves were killing walking miles through tundra.
This time, I was over 3 miles from the truck, across two creeks, and had two different grizzly bears within a mile of me. This bull was much larger bodied than the first bull I killed. I would say it was slightly larger than a mature mule deer, but not as big as a mature cow elk.
I decided to leap frog the meat bags and all my equipment back to the truck, while I had grizzly bears in my sight. If you don’t know how to leap frog meat, it means rather than carrying one load to the truck and returning for the second load, I would carry one load 300-400 yards, then drop it and go get the other load and take it another 300-400 yards past the first bag.
Leapfrogging your loads allows you to get further and further from your killsite and dangers of any bears….even if it takes all day. I was exhausted when I finally arrived at the truck at 9:30 that night.
The accomplishment of taking two bulls with my bow with limited time felt great. I started to notice the landscape changing in mid August. Millions of shades of greens were quickly giving way to oranges, reds, and yellows. Fall had arrived on the tundra and it was even more beautiful than in the summer.
The geese were fledging and flying more frequent. I got to watch the same cygnets day after day at work. They grew from little dark grey “ugly ducklings” to 3/4 size lighter grey replicas of their white parents. Swans are very territorial and I watched multiple times as the male parent would almost kill other birds, including white-fronted geese, to protect their young ones.
As the days went on, I saw gyrfalcons, eiders, and other bird species for the first time. I continued to fish after work and finally landed on the Dolly Varden. The timing of rain, water levels, and their haste to get upriver only left a few days to hook them, but made catching them that much more special.
They are a char that turn brilliant colors during the spawn, but more like a chrome salmon when they enter the freshwater. As table fare, I would rank them higher than trout or salmon. Firm meat and delicious!
My last weekend on Deadhorse, I took my bow for a walk looking to kill my first willow ptarmigan. I had plenty of opportunities while caribou hunting but never made an attempt. My last Sunday I walked near the Sag river and jumped dozens of ptarmigan, but these were in winter flocks and flighty birds.
Their white bodies exploded from the short willows like a flurry of snow flakes, well out of shotgun range and fly to a thicker line of willows off in the distance. I tried stalking them in the thicker willows and got a couple 40 yard shots, but missed. Like hunting caribou, the learning curve was steep, but once I learned how to approach the birds…I began pinning them to the ground.
Ptarmigan might be the best-eating bird I’ve had…and did I mention the caribou meat?. It seems everything just tastes better up on the north slope. Did I mention while chasing ptarmigan, I lucked upon an old bull muskox skull? Eureka! It was sort of redemption after getting charged by an ornery muskox on the airport!
My time at Deadhorse was coming to an end, 6 weeks flew by and I never wasted a minute of it. I loaded my truck, and like all the waterfowl of the tundra, it was time to head south. It took an entire day to drive the 500 mile muddy, slick, wet drive from Deadhorse to Fairbanks.
The following day I drove into the interior part of Alaska for a 10-day moose hunt with Flint Selby.
Flint was a long-time sheep guide out of Cody for years before moving to Alaska. Hunter is friends with Flint’s son, Flint jr., and last year they had an amazing moose hunt in the same area where two big bulls were killed on the same call stand. This is how I met Flint sr. and we planned this hunt together.
The moment I met Flint, his energy was on high level. I appreciated his passion and excitement. Our plan was to drive all night to the trailhead, jump on Flints 6 wheelers at first light, and drive 15 miles into the backcountry.
The little, barely visible, two track trail began winding through the canyon and I wondered how it was going to continue for as far as we were going. We crossed rivers, winched up steep grades, throttled through muddy bogs and as we got deeper, the valley slowly opened. The thick timbered bottoms were littered with moose tracks, while we glassed bears up above timber in the scree and berries. The towering peaks looked like quintessential fall sheep country, while the river bottom looked very moosey, but thick!
We had killed a couple spruce grouse on our way in for some dinner, and when we finally arrived at our camp spot after 6 hrs of obstacles, my butt was ready to get off the machine.
The moose country was vast, but thick. All the preparation I had done in trying to determine if a bull is 50” was for more open country with optics a measuring tools. I decidedly quickly on the hunt, that he would either need 4 points on a brow, or be an obvious 60” moose for me to be comfortable shooting. A legal bull had to be 50” wide+ or one brow with 4 tines
The hunting technique used in such thick country is to call moose. There really isn’t any other tactic in this type of habitat. I glassed the slopes where steep alder and spruce gave way to low brush and more open country, but only spotted bears and dall sheep. I never did glass up a moose the entire trip. These moose were using the thick spruce forests and the willow-choked river bottom.
Our first day hunting, we split up and hunted two different sections of river bottom. I was fairly confident with my cow calling sounds, but warm dry weather and an opening day date that starts a week before bulls are really known to respond, we’re working against us. I never saw a moose on day one; However, I had a close run in with some wolves that howled periodically throughout the day. I caught a glimpse of one smaller grey at 40 yards in the late morning. That evening, a pair walked past me at less than a hundred yards and I never could see them through the willows. I could hear their splashing in puddles and low-volume whines.
Flint had some action with the same wolves while going into his morning stand in the dark. The wolves were in the middle of attacking a moose. The sounds of growls, ki-yis, and pissed off moose splashing in the creek had him a bit spooked. It ended up being the same wolves I encountered as he was 1.5 miles down river of me.
The entire trip we never got more than a couple small rain showers. Most of the trip was sunny and fairly warm. The days flew by as we strategically made call stands throughout the big valley. Black bears and dall sheep kept us entertained midday, as well as finding caribou sheds, shooting grouse, and eating berries. The first moose I saw was after heading back to the machines after a call stand, we had split up a few hundred yards, and Flint jumped a big bull moose that ran right at me through the spruce. He looked wide and old, but I never could put four brow tines or confirm 50 inches within the short duration I got to see him in the thick vegetation.
The following day, I called in a moose, not far from camp, but we figured he was around 45 to 48 inches wide. In the end, we saw seven bulls, five of those were called in. and I had called in 4 of those. Looking back, two of those bulls were over 50” certainly but at the moment, I wasn’t willing to ground check and find out. My lack of exposure to big bulls and my fear of ruining a trip with a ticket would not let my finger muscles tighten over the trigger of Molly, my 20” .300 win mag.
There are a couple call-ins that stick out and I’ll tell those stories now:
Camp bull:
This call stand was a real rollercoaster of emotions: from one of the highest highs I’ve ever felt in the woods, to a moment of anger, settling with forgiveness and joy.
That morning, Flint’s guts weren’t feeling great and he decided to stick in camp. I’ll note that his guts were really hurting, cause I knew his level of commitment was high. It wasn’t easy for him to stay in camp.
I drove a mile and a half down the road along an elevated ridge where I could see into the thick spruce 20 to 80 yards below. I’ve driven past this section many times and had wanted to make a stand. This was the perfect morning. I parked my machine 100 yards back in the darkness, I turned on my headlamp and the steam of my breath fogged my vision heading into where I wanted to call.
It was a brisk morning with no wind, and the woods were silent. My cow call will travel a long distance in these conditions. I made my first call well before light, and every 15-20 minutes I would follow up with more moans of a cow. Darkness gave way to the light as the forest came alive with birds songs. A male spruce grouse pecked the mossy ground just yards below me.
Hours past, and sometime around 8:30 I heard the sound of a bull moose grunting. It was only a couple hundred yards out and incoming. My adrenaline was skyrocketing into outer space, scanning the forest for any sign. Then, I saw him, bigger than life. I know he’s as big as a dump truck,but somehow he quietly and ghost-like appeared and disappeared through the foliage.
Then, the dreadful sound of a Polaris motor jerked me from my perfect morning. Flint, unaware that a bull was closing the distance on my stand, was coming to check in and plan the rest of the day. I mentally sunk, but physically leaped from my seat hoping he’d see me jumping up and down like a monkey, alerting him of incoming moose.
He didn’t see me, so I sat back down hoping the moose didn’t leave for good. The bull wasn’t visible to me, I assume he stood like a statue aware of the machine. Flint flanked to my right and just then caught a visual on the moose. At that moment, he realized what had happened. He did his best to horn the brush, like a bull…and it worked!
The bull slowly made his way in to 30 yards. I can now see his brow tines. Long beautiful sword-like tines, 3x3. I then noticed his width. Crazy wide. If I was a betting man, I would’ve guessed 54”. But no matter how hard I tried to envision 50 inches of dead air between antler points at 30 yards, I knew I wasn’t positive.
The bull eventually got bored and melted into the black spruce forest and out of my life forever. Flint approached me very emotional, excited, but embarrassed. He apologized up and down, and I told him the timing was horrible, but he indeed helped pull it in to where I could get a better look. I was glad he go to be there to see the majestic monster. This was probably my favorite interaction/call stand of the trip.
Middle of the river 50” bull:
Flint and I decided to hit a good looking spot together along the river one evening. It was my turn on the call. This was a tight stand with a wall of spruce on the adjacent side of the river. A bull would need to be standing in the river for us to get a good look ant him and measure him.
Flint and I were siting on root wads 50 yards apart, and we had been settled in for a good two hours when beyond the wall of spruce on the other side of the river, the distinct grunting of a bull penetrated our call spot over the rushing river.
Flint and I locked eyes confirming we weren’t hearing things, just as the bull forced his way to the river bank through the veil of trees. He walked into the river grunting every 10 seconds and stood looking for the hot cow.
Immediately, I knew this wasn’t as large as the last bull and I estimated him at 50 inches. This is the only bull I reached for my phone rather than the rifle, knowing it would be great to have at least some footage of moose on the trip. Later, using my measuring tools I estimate this bull right at 49-50 inches. He, as well, had three points per brow time
Flint and I soaked in the moment, knowing neither of us was going to shoot, although it was likely a legal bull. The bull eventually crossed the river onto our side and disappeared into the willows never to be seen again.
Hawk owl meadow bull:
This stand was one of the prettiest spots we had called. Beavers had made some riparian habitat along the river that opened up into grass Meadows lined with Willows. You could see 100 yards across the river. Flint and I sat 20 yards apart and he was on the call this stand.
About two hours in, behind us, we both heard a snort/woof, Flint thought it was a grizzly bear, I wasn’t sure what it was so I slowly swivel my head. Flint grabbed his rifle and got into defensive posture, thinking we were going to have to fight a bear. Instead of a bear, a giant bull moose stood there, 20 yards behind us in the timber. He slowly walked towards the meadow on my side and stepped out of the trees and gave us the frontal look..
Right away, I could see, again, three tines per brow, but an overly-wide bull. He was broadside at 30 yards drinking from the beaver pond when I heard Flint whisper, “SHOOT!” I settled the crosshairs behind the shoulder and had an easy pound pressed against the trigger, but something held me back. I wanted one more good look, which he gave me, but I still was not experienced enough to say confidently. he was well over 50 inches..
As th bull walked into the meadow, I was in a dilemma of whether to shoot or not. My brain wouldn’t let me but I felt some pressure from Flint. Flint’s family relies on moose meat every year, and for me to pass a bull seemed selfish. I quickly made the decision to hunker down, I leaned back to Flint and told him “go ahead and shoot”.
He elected not to shoot as well. He has killed bigger bulls, but I’m not sure he was certain on the bull’s size either. If I have any regret from the trip, this bull may have been it. I’m certain he was over 50 inches, but I wasn’t mentally prepared in the moment to make that decision, I guess.
Flint mentioned a couple times he was impressed that I could pass a couple of the moose I did. I let him know that I wasn’t passing because they weren’t big enough to meet my expectation, I just wasn’t 100% certain they were legal with my lack of experience.
The 10 days flew by like a flock of migrating sandhill crane across the valley skies. It didn’t seem long enough, but I’m not certain even if we had another 10 days we would’ve killed a bull.
I didn’t need to kill a bull to mark the box, I got everything I wanted out of the hunt, but wait, it gets better!
We pulled camp and battled our way out through the mud and made it to the truck. I felt bad that Flint put all the effort in for the hunt and didn’t get any meat from it, so I offered him the majority of my caribou meat, which he gladly accepted.
One last thing he wanted to do before we left is visit a friend he had met the year before that lived near the trailhead. his name was Richard Schultz, and he was a multigenerational Alaskan.
At first, knowing I had a tremendous travel back to Wyoming, the thought of spending more time visiting someone wasn’t real appealing, but once we sat down with Richard, I quickly changed my mind after his first story adventure from the 50’s.
Richard seemed a little bit lonely, as he mentioned he had just buried his wife in the past year and her headstone/memorial laid peacefully along the edge of a beautiful pond on his property.
His vast experience of growing up during times, where they didn’t have six wheelers and technical clothing and good sleeping bags was honorable. He would hike into those remote mountains and hunt, moose, trap wolves..he spent his life outdoors, but also had quite the professional career as a state legislature a school teacher.
He mentioned an old machine on metal tracks, that he would haul up the creek to gather the dead moose, and that he still had the machine. I asked if we could go and look at it.. his eyes lit up as we walked up on the machine, Richard said this is the Johnny Walker. I’m not sure if that was what he named it, or that is what it was actually called.
I asked him if it would still start, he said, probably not. It’s been a while, but the old man, shaky hands began turning choke levers, opening up fuel filters, and then punched the starter button and the machine choked, then chugged…, chug chug chug chug ! It fired up and all three of us yelled in excitement! His eyes swelled in pride smelling the exhaust that probably brought back the memories of years gone.
Richard had moose antlers hung on his cabin walls, laying on tables all around his property. On a table next to the Johnny Walker, was a set of moose antlers that Flint and I were admiring. The bases were thicker than the blunt end of a wooden baseball bat. His brow tines were palmated and as big as the entire paddle of a good Shiras moose. Some of the paddle points had been chewed on by marten that had been coming into his shop.
We inquired about the antlers, he didn’t say much except he and his boy killed it some years back. Richard then said”, Mike, if you’re willing to take it back to cody, I’d like to gift you the set of antlers.”
I didn’t know how to respond to Richard. Of course, a 60” Yukon moose rack was something I was interested in. Tears swelled in my eyes and I couldn’t be more excited. I gave Richard the biggest hung to try and hide my tears.
In fact, after meeting Richard and experiencing the 10 days with Flint along with all the adventure, this set of gifted antlers may mean me more to me than harvesting my own. To be able to pass up moose that maybe I shouldn’t have, to share those experiences with Flint, and then to meet another friend and have him make such an offer…. It was one of the nicest things anybody’s done for me and I’m extremely grateful.
Meeting Richard and hearing his stories may have been the best part of my entire Alaska trip. I also got to give many thanks to Flint for letting me use his sweet 6-wheeler ( he let me use the newer machine) and show me some of his favorite area. I’ll forever be grateful.
Surprisingly, the rest of the trip went smoothly. I took the Alcan highway back down the same way I had come up, but the landscape seemed different… The country wasn’t such a stranger. I got to immerse myself into some Alaskan culture, meet dozens of wonderful people that call Alaska and the Yukon home. I got to feel the sensation of more than just a hunting trip, and avoid the feeling that I would be having to pack up and leave in the next week. It was the feeling of living there with no end in sight, which allows you to approach from a different perspective. And that’s exactly what I wanted from this trip.
I left a part of me in Alaska there’s no doubt, it was a life-changing experience for a 49-year-old man. I don’t think I would want to live there long-term, but I will be back with family and friends to show them maybe a little bit of some of the experiences I had. “Go north young man”, a slogan that has had such impact on so many outdoorsman. Many hunters have been lost and truly found themselves in the Alaskan wilderness. It worked for me.
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