If you've watched the Outdoor Channel recently, I'm sure you're familiar with the new show "Realtree Roadtrips" with Michael Waddell.  Michael has the enviable job of "road tripping" all over North America hunting everything from doves in Mexico to moose in the Yukon.  Now, I don't know about you but that sounds like something I could get real used to!  Unfortunately I haven't been able to convince anyone to pay me to go hunting...at least not yet...but I have been fortunate enough to go on several wonderful trips.  While each and every hunt is a unique experience, all have paled in comparison to my recent road trip for Quebec Labrador caribou.
 
Some time ago I was enjoying another episode of Mr. Waddell's season on the television when the phone rang.  "We should totally do that!" my good buddy Nate Reed proclaimed.  It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about but it seemed that he was watching the same program.  That week's road trip was to northern Quebec Canada hunting the vast herds of caribou during their annual migration.  After watching the herds of bulls with wide, sweeping racks file past the hunters one after another, it didn't take me long to agree; we were ready to "Road Trip".

As the time neared for the first leg of our road trip, hurricane Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast.  Even though we were heading to the far north, our 11 hour ride to Montreal revealed that Katrina would affect our road trip as well.  Upon reaching the registration trailer of Voyages Nouveau-Quebec, the charter company that would fly us to Schefferville and our outfitter, we learned that one of the bush planes had crashed and the pilot was lost.  Sudden and violent weather conditions had ceased all flights in and out of the north country.    Stuck at the Holiday Inn Dorval, all we could do was watch the French speaking weather channel and pray for good weather.  While we were all anxious to get to the bush we were simultaneously content to wait for safe flying conditions. 

Two days in Montreal and an extra over-night stay in Schefferville passed before we finally arrived at the main headquarters of Norpaq Adventures.   Welcomed with a warm but quick greeting the staff, already stressed from the weather delays, hustled to get us registered, secure our licenses, weigh and load our gear and strap us into our web seats for the flight into the bush.  Within minutes we were taxiing into open water and after warming the Otter's huge engine we roared off the water and headed north toward the remote outpost camps.

Peering out the small plane window the scenery was spectacular.  The landscape has a bleak desolate appearance that is uniquely beautiful.  Barren rock-strewn ridges covered in lichen and moss all dotted with short, red brush were scarred by the hundreds of caribou trails hammered into the earth from years of migration.  Every ridge is surrounded by shimmering lakes and streams that all seem to interconnect.  From the air there appears to be more water than dry land.  After nearly two hours of slipping from one day dream to another the plane started to descend.  We passed over a huge rock ridge when the unmistakable white and blue contrast of camp buildings caught our attention; our home away from home.  We gently touched down and glided to a stop in front of the small camp.  As the door of the plane opened we were greeted by a stocky, thick-bearded man who quietly offered a hand shake before turning around to carry each of us piggyback to shore.  One by one, bag after bag; Martin unloaded five of us and all our gear onto the beach.  Once all the gear was unloaded, our French Canadian host showed us to our "cabin".  A tubular metal frame wrapped in blue and white tarps seemed to be somewhat insufficient for the weather we had already experienced, but in his best broken English, Martin reassured us that this cabin had seen ten years of brutal Canadian weather and was still standing.  A small fuel oil stove for heat and propane cook stove surrounded by four bunk beds would prove to be quite comfortable and homey in the days to come.

Once settled in our accommodations, we all quickly changed into our hunting gear and waited for Martin to drop each group off at different hot spots around the lake.  That afternoon my dad and I hunted the "Bone Yard", a small bald knob that bordered the lake and offered good bowhunting opportunities.  A small group of short spruce trees offered the only cover on the knob but from that vantage point you had great view of the approaching herds.  Once spotted, you could move into the cover along the lake and wait in ambush.  My dad, who chose to hunt with his trusty rifle, walked to a huge boulder on the far side of the Bone Yard which offered a much more open view of the tundra.  From our positions we figured we could spot the caribou and call to each other before having to take a shot.  After nearly three hours of pure anticipation with no encounters I saw my first caribou.  As I lifted my binoculars I about choked&six caribou bulls emerged from the brush and the one bring up the rear was an absolute monster!  As if playing follow the leader, the magnificent grey animals, all still in velvet, snaked their way along the lake's edge.  I desperately tried to get my dad's attention...one of us needed to take this bull for sure.  After several futile attempts to call in the strong wind I decided I better get to the lake's edge before they passed by without opportunity.  I scurried down between the rocks and boulders to a large group of trees.  As I readied my gear I got an eerie feeling...I peeked over my shoulder to see the caribou meandering across the open tundra mere yards from my original hiding spot.  Frantically, I turned, ranged the distance to the lead bull and drew my bow.  Arms shaking, breath heavy, I waited for the giant to appear behind the others.  As he stepped into view I struggled to steady my longest pin on the huge bull's chest.  I squeezed the trigger and watched the arrow sail harmlessly over the monster's back.  At 74.5 yards my excitement and the steep uphill angle had deceived me.  The bulls, unaware of my presence, kept their brisk pace and crested the hill.  Without hesitation I sprinted to my dad's rock outcropping and urged him to give chase.  As he took after my giant I noticed another small herd approaching from the opposite direction.  I whistled at my Dad and motioned to the oncoming herd.  He quickly changed direction and darted downhill to close the distance.  From the outcropping I could see Dad getting into shooting position and Wham!  The first bull spun around in a circle and ran only a short distance.   Suddenly another crack of the rifle split the silence...I looked to see the largest bull in the herd drop on the spot.  It felt like a tennis match, looking first to dad's position then to the caribou while he picked off two of the largest bulls in the group.  An eleven hour drive, three nights in hotels, nearly five hours of flights and Dad tagged out in 3 minutes.  He harvested two gorgeous velvet bulls; the first had a big shovel, wide sweeping beams and nice bezes.  The second was an exceptional bull with huge double shovels and incredible top points...surely a record book candidate.  After many handshakes, and snapshots we began the job of caping and quartering dad's trophies and packing them to the boat.   When we reached camp we learned that Nate had scored early as well on a super bull...a very exciting, successful first day.

The action seemed to pick up right where it left off the following morning.  Kenny Roberts, a longtime friend, decided to bowhunt the Bone Yard with me.  While we had several good stalks, none were successful.  However, on the other end of the lake, Kenny's dad, Ken Sr., and Nate filled their tags with three more dandy caribou bulls.  The time was running thin and pressure was building...only the bowhunters had yet to score.  After another unsuccessful day of bowhunting I decided to borrow my Dad's rifle.  Kenny and I assumed our now familiar hide in the Bone Yard and just as choreographed, the herds approached as I guided Kenny into position.  Kenny came to full draw as the caribou passed within two yards of his hiding spot.  When the bull at the rear of the parade passed, Kenny released sending the arrow through the bull's shoulders.  The herd scampered off only a short distance and stopped while the harem king fell to the ground.  Finally, we had archery success!  Our teamwork had finally put us into position.  We broke out the cameras and shared some high fives when I noticed two huge bulls sneaking through the trees.  They were headed for the same spot my dad had hunted several days earlier.  I quickly grabbed the rifle and ran directly toward the big rock.  As I neared the crest of the ridge I began to belly crawl.  Sneaking into position, I could see the tops of the bulls' antlers only 150 yards away.  I slowly poked the barrel over the edge of the hill and studied them in the scope.  The second bull was huge...he had incredible width and long beams covered in dark chocolate velvet.  I knew this was the one I wanted.  I positioned the crosshairs on his shoulder and hammered the trigger.  The water just above the bull's shoulder erupted into the air...I had missed!  I quickly racked another shell and took aim.  This time breathing out and squeezing the trigger the bull collapsed on the tundra.  Kenny and I had taken two great bulls in about five minutes; hours of boredom interrupted by seconds of intense excitement! We quickly called Martin and asked him to bring my bow.  After loading the two caribou in the boat, we returned to our lookout and within minutes the stalk was on again.  Kenny moved into the same position he had earlier and arrowed another large bull at 45 yards. 

Now, the pressure was on!  I had the only open tag left and only two days to hunt.  I questioned myself, "Should I use dad's rifle or continue with my bow"?  I decided to stick with my bow as Kenny, with video camera in hand, and I jumped into the boat headed again for the Bone Yard.  Moments after getting to our hideout, the skies exploded!  Gale force winds with hail and sleet kept us and the caribou hunkered in the trees all day; dawn to dusk, no caribou.  The weather had turned sour but I stubbornly decided to take my bow on the final morning.  Martin urged us to try a new spot so we set up on a point overlooking a good lake crossing.  All week while fishing the guys had seen several herds crossing to this point.  With our hopes high we perched on the hill only to see huge herds of caribou moving along the far shorelines.  With about an hour of hunting left, Kenny could take no more and demanded we take our chances on the far shore.  He called on the radio and asked Nate to bring the rifle and take us to a spot, yet to be hunted, on the opposite side of the lake.  As Nate dropped us off at our new destination a large herd with several nice bulls started to swim across the lake nearly half a mile away.  Instantly, Kenny and I started running to intercept them.  As we crashed through the brush and evergreen trees we would periodically check the herd's position.  We finally reached a point where we could clearly see the herd as they approached the shore.  One after another cow, calves and small bulls climbed onto the wet rocks and shook off on the bank.  I grabbed the trunk of a small spruce and steadied the crosshairs.  As one of the big bulls worked his way up the rocky shore I gently squeezed the trigger, remembering my earlier miss.  At the report of the rifle, caribou exploded out of the water.  In the maze of grey and white I was unsure if I had connected.  Slowly and quietly Kenny and I snuck toward the rocky water exit.  As we kept walking and walking, I kept thinking "it was too far...I shot low".  We crept up on the spot where the caribou disappeared when I saw a huge velvet-covered beam sticking in the air.  You want to talk about pressure reliever...the bull had dropped on the bank just out of view.  The 400 yard shot had taken the giant through the heart...by far my best rifle shot ever!  Nate soon arrived and the celebration was on; photos and video of the huge bull with wide sweeping antlers, huge bez points and great tops. 

The boat ride to camp proved to be the most relaxing all week.  I just absorbed the scenery and the caribou migrating the shoreline with amazement; such a beautiful place in such a rugged part of the world.  As we packed up to head home I couldn't help but feel a little emotional.  Wondering when you'll experience another migration, catch lake trout on nearly every cast or see the northern lights in utter brilliance is overwhelming...but if it is up to me, there will be another "Road Trip" to the north country in my very near future.