As many of you know I headed to Alaska earlier this month with a coastal goat and black bear hunt on the books. After a highly successful hunt in the same area during the fall of 2002, I could say I was very ecstatic and dejected about the hunt...if there is such a thing. I mean, let's face it, I saw more critters than I ever imagined, killed a phenomenal goat, was in the presence of great company and saw some of the most beautiful country there is to be seen. But, despite the many perks to the adventure, I knew the hard work and mental preparation entailed in the hunt. Constant rain, steep and slippery slopes, white knuckle wall climbing and arduous packs all take their toll on the mind and the body. Plain and simple, goat hunt isn't fun, it is hard work, BUT it can be rewarding and I was ready to do it again.
Upon my arrival to Fairbanks, I spent two days visiting and catching up on all the gossip in the company of great friends. Early morning on the 3td arrived and Rich, my partner for the trip, arrived at my hotel. We loaded the truck up with all my gear, topped off coffee cups and started the 8 hour trip south to Valdez. It was good to be back in the presence of the land I love. Icy road conditions made for a slow trip, but it did permit ample opportunity to leisurely take in the scenery.
Arriving at one of the few pay phones between points A and B, I called my air taxi up to verify our rendezvous.
"Yah, we got you down in the books, but it could be two to three days before we may be able to get the plane up," spoke the pilot. "Damn squalls have us sitting tight. If you want, get yourself a room in Valdez and we'll give you a jingle when there is a window of opportunity."
When you plan so much time and effort in a hunt like this, the last thing you want to hear is "Mother Nature" is playing havoc with your long awaited hunting spree. I hung the phone up, but not before telling the pilot we would continue on to Valdez and give him a call once we got there. As many will tell you, in Alaska, if you don't like the weather...wait 5 minutes. I guess, I was hoping for a miracle, but the outcome wasn't looking good.
About an hour and a half north of Valdez, Rich and I started thinking seriously about what to do. We both agreed we definitely didn't want to spend days upon days waiting for the weather to lift. I suggested finding a water taxi at the boat harbor to take us out. Rich liked the idea, but thought if it was too nasty to fly it would likely be too nasty to hunt. My other suggestion...turn the truck around and head for none other than the "Top of the World" for a late season caribou hunt. Not much of an adventure hunt, but it beat sitting in a hotel room watching cable TV. We both agreed on the idea and Rich flipped a "U-E" 7 hours into the trip.
We swung back by the pay phone at the "Hub", called the pilot up and told him of our plans. "I don't blame you," he said. "I'd have done the same."
It was late that evening when we arrived back to our origin. I checked back into the same hotel and rested up for 6 hours before Rich was back in the parking lot and we were headed out again, this time in the opposite direction.
Here at Hunttalk, many of you have showed interest in the Dalton/Haul Road Hunt. Well, this is it people. I'll try to illustrate it the best I can, so that you it may help you decide if this is a hunt you would like to do.
A hunt on the Haul Road never starts off without a pit stop to the Hill-Top gas station, just north of Fairbanks. This isn't your typical gas station though. This is the first of three major "Greasy Spoons" along the 400+ mile journey. The other two are located at Coldfoot and Deadhorse. This is authentic truck driver food where omelets are made with 1/2 dozen eggs and a brick of cheese and small burgers start off at a 1/2 pound. Tasty stuff, but will definitely clog the old arteries. I recommend the Combination Omelet.
4a.m. and we are on our way to the "Slope". The road, despite much of it being paved since my last trip up 3 years ago, is a complete sheet of ice. Rich runs the little "Toy" in four-wheel drive and at a snails pace...35 mph to be exact.
We stretch our legs and relieve ourselves at the Yukon River bridge and then continue our way on to Coldfoot. We fuel up and grab one of those burgers I was telling you about. I opt for the small burger being the sissy guy I am.
Last hot, greasy meal for a few days.
Back in the truck and we putter on up to the pass...Atigun pass. It's a good thing to run chains here. The steep grade ascends several thousand feet in just a short distance. The first thing I notice when I drive through the pass is not the jaw dropping beauty or the dall sheep. Nope, instead I affix my eyes to the heavily dimpled guard rail that is the only thing that divides you from the ride of your life. Honestly, I think most of the damage isn't due to vehicles suddenly becoming airborne, rather DOT bangs them up with the snow plows. If guard rails could talk though.
At this point you probably have had enough of the jabber. You're tired of reading and you want to see pics of "dead chit", "horn porn", the ol' "meat pole". Well tough, it isn't happening. Okay, so I lied. Be patient though, they are coming.
The pass is behind us now and we are closing in on our destination. As the range starts to widen, we start to realize the abundance of caribou. They are all around, hundreds...no thousands of them. They are everywhere. And they are ripe for the pickings too, but only if thou has a bow. We do not. No sir'ee, we are packing in the five miles, a requirement for hunters using a firearm. As we idle on along, it is noticeable several of the bow hunters have taken some nice looking bou. I hope Rich and I can duplicate. We head just a few more miles north to I little place known as Galbriath Lake, nestled in the foothills of the Brooks, just beyond the pass. This place is no big secret, in fact it is a very popular place to hunt, and for good reason...the caribou like it here.
A good North Slope hunt requires a good base camp. One that beckons comfort; cots, heaters and good protection from the elements. Nothing beats a good wall tent or GP tent. Rich has a Hex tent that will be perfect for the evening. It doesn't take long to get camp erected.
The sun settles south of the Brooks. I know it is bone cold outside, but I don't let it bother me as I snuggle deep into my cold weather bag and shut my eyes. In the morning, the work begins.
There was no rush getting up and at it the next morning. Rich and I didn't start our hike in until roughly 10 a.m. Unlike the last time I trekked in for the 5 mile hunt, this time I found the walking much more pleasurable. I've never been on the "Slope" in October, only late August and September. Factoid...if you come up in August and September conditions are wet and icy, bugs will drive you insane and the walking is tough. Not true in October. Snow has filled in all the gaps between the ankle biting tussocks and the tundra is completely frozen. We make record breaking time covering ground on our magnesium snow shoes.
We check our GPS's to see how far from the road we are. Four miles...one more to go. I screen the land in front of me with my binos. What is this I see? Bear, no, caribou, no...ahh, a single wolf, about a mile out. I hope he is still there when we cross the red tape. He isn't.
Rich and I bring out the GPS's again. This time we are good. We both read 5.2 miles. Interesting how cold it is, yet we manage to find running water. We find a nice level area for the tent...this will be home. The ceiling falls and the fog settles in.
We glass what we can until it is no longer possible. A Mountain House to dine on and we hit the sack. It is early still, but conditions aren't right and it is too cold to stand around.
Rich is a retired Air Force Chief and a survival instructor by trade. He now enjoys the pleasure of self-employment as a very gifted taxidermist. He turns a half a century old this week and has hunted for as long as he can remember. The guy is a tank and his seasoned background makes hunting with him a hoot. Each night, to make the time pass, he'd dig into his bag of stories and begin to tell me "lies". The man can tell some stories.
Morning finds us crawling out of our bags at 9:30. Our boots are frozen and my water bottles are in bad shape. One Nalgene bottle is completely frozen, the other, very slushy. It takes awhile for our boots to thaw. Rich enjoys hot coffee and oatmeal, neither of which I favor. I resort to my frozen breakfast bar and water slush. Rich tells me I might enjoy winter hunting more if I start the morning off with something hot. What does he know?
The first of the caribou start rolling over the hills.
I'm looking for "Big Papa". It is an all or nothing hunt for me. Rich starts the hunt with a similar attitude.
When you commit to a rifle hunt on the slope, you have two choices. Walk in and out every day (10 miles a day can quickly add up to 30, sometimes 60) and spend most of your time walking through the corridor instead of hunting outside of it OR you can pack a camp in. A little slower getting in and out, but more efficient hunting if you ask me. If you choose the latter and are successful, you are pretty much guaranteed a minimum of 20 boot miles. That gets camp 5 miles in, a heavy load of caribou out, then another 5 miles in to retrieve camp and what remains of your bou, generally a little meat, antlers and the cape.
Two years ago, Rich and a buddy of his both took great bulls. They had just dropped a heavy load of meat off at the truck and were going back out to camp to overnight and walk back to the road the following morning. Upon arrival to camp though, they found their tent shredded and their caribou capes turned to confetti. They only thing salvageable were a few camp articles and their antlers. The day was old, fog was creeping in and they had no shelter. The end result found them headed back to the truck. I guess it doesn't take a survival instructor to make a gee-whiz decision like that.
I bring up to Rich the possibility of him taking a smaller bull and using the cape from it to marry with his big bull from two years ago. His answer, "No Way".
Later that morning, he wanders off from camp to get a closer look at some bulls rolling in. I stay behind, as I have other things on my mind. Other things like nature. I have this "rumbley in my tumbley" and head off to take care of business.
A few minutes later, I am back at the tent strapping on my snow-shoes and pack. The adrenaline is flowing and I am in a hurry. I've just spotted a string of caribou headed in this general direction, but a few ridges over. Just as I get ready to set afoot, I see the silhouette of Rich headed towards me.
"Did you see them," I asked.
"What do you mean," said Rich, "I shot one. You didn't hear me shoot?"
"Uh, no," I replied.
He laughed when I told him what I was up to.
I explained to him where I was headed. He wished me luck and told me he would be over tending to his kill the rest of the evening.
My short trip to further investigate the caribou headed this was short lived. I climbed over a number of ridges to find their whereabouts, but instead found "nadda". At the higher elevations the atmosphere was eerie. The light from the sun filtered through the dense clouds only barely.
During my 1.5 mile walk from camp I cut a set of fresh wolverine tracks, my first ever. I thought how cool it would be to see the feisty critter on a day like today. Figuring the caribou I spotted earlier took a alternative route, I returned to camp and then on to Rich's kill site.
Rich had already removed the front shoulder and rear ham from the right side of the animal, as well as both backstraps. He was just starting to tackle the left side when I showed up. Figuring the young bull was still in good condition for a photo-opp, I snapped off a few exposures of Rich and his beautiful winter bull.
[ 10-15-2004, 21:05: Message edited by: Ovis ]
Upon my arrival to Fairbanks, I spent two days visiting and catching up on all the gossip in the company of great friends. Early morning on the 3td arrived and Rich, my partner for the trip, arrived at my hotel. We loaded the truck up with all my gear, topped off coffee cups and started the 8 hour trip south to Valdez. It was good to be back in the presence of the land I love. Icy road conditions made for a slow trip, but it did permit ample opportunity to leisurely take in the scenery.
Arriving at one of the few pay phones between points A and B, I called my air taxi up to verify our rendezvous.
"Yah, we got you down in the books, but it could be two to three days before we may be able to get the plane up," spoke the pilot. "Damn squalls have us sitting tight. If you want, get yourself a room in Valdez and we'll give you a jingle when there is a window of opportunity."
When you plan so much time and effort in a hunt like this, the last thing you want to hear is "Mother Nature" is playing havoc with your long awaited hunting spree. I hung the phone up, but not before telling the pilot we would continue on to Valdez and give him a call once we got there. As many will tell you, in Alaska, if you don't like the weather...wait 5 minutes. I guess, I was hoping for a miracle, but the outcome wasn't looking good.
About an hour and a half north of Valdez, Rich and I started thinking seriously about what to do. We both agreed we definitely didn't want to spend days upon days waiting for the weather to lift. I suggested finding a water taxi at the boat harbor to take us out. Rich liked the idea, but thought if it was too nasty to fly it would likely be too nasty to hunt. My other suggestion...turn the truck around and head for none other than the "Top of the World" for a late season caribou hunt. Not much of an adventure hunt, but it beat sitting in a hotel room watching cable TV. We both agreed on the idea and Rich flipped a "U-E" 7 hours into the trip.
We swung back by the pay phone at the "Hub", called the pilot up and told him of our plans. "I don't blame you," he said. "I'd have done the same."
It was late that evening when we arrived back to our origin. I checked back into the same hotel and rested up for 6 hours before Rich was back in the parking lot and we were headed out again, this time in the opposite direction.
Here at Hunttalk, many of you have showed interest in the Dalton/Haul Road Hunt. Well, this is it people. I'll try to illustrate it the best I can, so that you it may help you decide if this is a hunt you would like to do.
A hunt on the Haul Road never starts off without a pit stop to the Hill-Top gas station, just north of Fairbanks. This isn't your typical gas station though. This is the first of three major "Greasy Spoons" along the 400+ mile journey. The other two are located at Coldfoot and Deadhorse. This is authentic truck driver food where omelets are made with 1/2 dozen eggs and a brick of cheese and small burgers start off at a 1/2 pound. Tasty stuff, but will definitely clog the old arteries. I recommend the Combination Omelet.
4a.m. and we are on our way to the "Slope". The road, despite much of it being paved since my last trip up 3 years ago, is a complete sheet of ice. Rich runs the little "Toy" in four-wheel drive and at a snails pace...35 mph to be exact.
We stretch our legs and relieve ourselves at the Yukon River bridge and then continue our way on to Coldfoot. We fuel up and grab one of those burgers I was telling you about. I opt for the small burger being the sissy guy I am.
Last hot, greasy meal for a few days.Back in the truck and we putter on up to the pass...Atigun pass. It's a good thing to run chains here. The steep grade ascends several thousand feet in just a short distance. The first thing I notice when I drive through the pass is not the jaw dropping beauty or the dall sheep. Nope, instead I affix my eyes to the heavily dimpled guard rail that is the only thing that divides you from the ride of your life. Honestly, I think most of the damage isn't due to vehicles suddenly becoming airborne, rather DOT bangs them up with the snow plows. If guard rails could talk though.
At this point you probably have had enough of the jabber. You're tired of reading and you want to see pics of "dead chit", "horn porn", the ol' "meat pole". Well tough, it isn't happening. Okay, so I lied. Be patient though, they are coming.
The pass is behind us now and we are closing in on our destination. As the range starts to widen, we start to realize the abundance of caribou. They are all around, hundreds...no thousands of them. They are everywhere. And they are ripe for the pickings too, but only if thou has a bow. We do not. No sir'ee, we are packing in the five miles, a requirement for hunters using a firearm. As we idle on along, it is noticeable several of the bow hunters have taken some nice looking bou. I hope Rich and I can duplicate. We head just a few more miles north to I little place known as Galbriath Lake, nestled in the foothills of the Brooks, just beyond the pass. This place is no big secret, in fact it is a very popular place to hunt, and for good reason...the caribou like it here.
A good North Slope hunt requires a good base camp. One that beckons comfort; cots, heaters and good protection from the elements. Nothing beats a good wall tent or GP tent. Rich has a Hex tent that will be perfect for the evening. It doesn't take long to get camp erected.
The sun settles south of the Brooks. I know it is bone cold outside, but I don't let it bother me as I snuggle deep into my cold weather bag and shut my eyes. In the morning, the work begins.
There was no rush getting up and at it the next morning. Rich and I didn't start our hike in until roughly 10 a.m. Unlike the last time I trekked in for the 5 mile hunt, this time I found the walking much more pleasurable. I've never been on the "Slope" in October, only late August and September. Factoid...if you come up in August and September conditions are wet and icy, bugs will drive you insane and the walking is tough. Not true in October. Snow has filled in all the gaps between the ankle biting tussocks and the tundra is completely frozen. We make record breaking time covering ground on our magnesium snow shoes.
We check our GPS's to see how far from the road we are. Four miles...one more to go. I screen the land in front of me with my binos. What is this I see? Bear, no, caribou, no...ahh, a single wolf, about a mile out. I hope he is still there when we cross the red tape. He isn't.
Rich and I bring out the GPS's again. This time we are good. We both read 5.2 miles. Interesting how cold it is, yet we manage to find running water. We find a nice level area for the tent...this will be home. The ceiling falls and the fog settles in.
We glass what we can until it is no longer possible. A Mountain House to dine on and we hit the sack. It is early still, but conditions aren't right and it is too cold to stand around.
Rich is a retired Air Force Chief and a survival instructor by trade. He now enjoys the pleasure of self-employment as a very gifted taxidermist. He turns a half a century old this week and has hunted for as long as he can remember. The guy is a tank and his seasoned background makes hunting with him a hoot. Each night, to make the time pass, he'd dig into his bag of stories and begin to tell me "lies". The man can tell some stories.
Morning finds us crawling out of our bags at 9:30. Our boots are frozen and my water bottles are in bad shape. One Nalgene bottle is completely frozen, the other, very slushy. It takes awhile for our boots to thaw. Rich enjoys hot coffee and oatmeal, neither of which I favor. I resort to my frozen breakfast bar and water slush. Rich tells me I might enjoy winter hunting more if I start the morning off with something hot. What does he know?
The first of the caribou start rolling over the hills.
I'm looking for "Big Papa". It is an all or nothing hunt for me. Rich starts the hunt with a similar attitude.
When you commit to a rifle hunt on the slope, you have two choices. Walk in and out every day (10 miles a day can quickly add up to 30, sometimes 60) and spend most of your time walking through the corridor instead of hunting outside of it OR you can pack a camp in. A little slower getting in and out, but more efficient hunting if you ask me. If you choose the latter and are successful, you are pretty much guaranteed a minimum of 20 boot miles. That gets camp 5 miles in, a heavy load of caribou out, then another 5 miles in to retrieve camp and what remains of your bou, generally a little meat, antlers and the cape.
Two years ago, Rich and a buddy of his both took great bulls. They had just dropped a heavy load of meat off at the truck and were going back out to camp to overnight and walk back to the road the following morning. Upon arrival to camp though, they found their tent shredded and their caribou capes turned to confetti. They only thing salvageable were a few camp articles and their antlers. The day was old, fog was creeping in and they had no shelter. The end result found them headed back to the truck. I guess it doesn't take a survival instructor to make a gee-whiz decision like that.
I bring up to Rich the possibility of him taking a smaller bull and using the cape from it to marry with his big bull from two years ago. His answer, "No Way".
Later that morning, he wanders off from camp to get a closer look at some bulls rolling in. I stay behind, as I have other things on my mind. Other things like nature. I have this "rumbley in my tumbley" and head off to take care of business.
A few minutes later, I am back at the tent strapping on my snow-shoes and pack. The adrenaline is flowing and I am in a hurry. I've just spotted a string of caribou headed in this general direction, but a few ridges over. Just as I get ready to set afoot, I see the silhouette of Rich headed towards me.
"Did you see them," I asked.
"What do you mean," said Rich, "I shot one. You didn't hear me shoot?"
"Uh, no," I replied.
He laughed when I told him what I was up to.
I explained to him where I was headed. He wished me luck and told me he would be over tending to his kill the rest of the evening.
My short trip to further investigate the caribou headed this was short lived. I climbed over a number of ridges to find their whereabouts, but instead found "nadda". At the higher elevations the atmosphere was eerie. The light from the sun filtered through the dense clouds only barely.
During my 1.5 mile walk from camp I cut a set of fresh wolverine tracks, my first ever. I thought how cool it would be to see the feisty critter on a day like today. Figuring the caribou I spotted earlier took a alternative route, I returned to camp and then on to Rich's kill site.
Rich had already removed the front shoulder and rear ham from the right side of the animal, as well as both backstraps. He was just starting to tackle the left side when I showed up. Figuring the young bull was still in good condition for a photo-opp, I snapped off a few exposures of Rich and his beautiful winter bull.
[ 10-15-2004, 21:05: Message edited by: Ovis ]
