By Chad Stearns
A wise man once told me something about hunting: " The hunt itself is the reward, any trophy you harvest is simply a bonus". It seems in today's rush for more, bigger, better, people lose sight of what is really important. In hunting circles, how high the trophy will place in the record books and whether the hunter uses a firearm or archery tackle takes precedence over the adventure and the experiences surrounding the hunt.
As a young man in a hurry to conquer the hunting world with my bow, I had to be reminded of that basic lesson. The wise man I mentioned is my dad, and never did the lesson he taught me several years ago hold more truth than on a Canadian hunting adventure in Newfoundland.
Along the eastern coast of Canada lies the island province of Newfoundland; a vast expanse of rugged granite mountains surrounded by moss-covered bogs and dark tangled evergreen forests. It is often regarded as the sportsman's paradise boasting record-book size black bears, incredible fishing and the highest moose density in North America. Newfoundland is also the home to one of the most unique trophy animals on the continent, the Woodland Caribou.
The Woodland subspecies of caribou is unique because it can only be found on the island of Newfoundland. Confined to the island, they do not migrate like other caribou, and prefer to live in thick Spruce and Juniper forests. Their antlers and body-size are somewhat smaller than other caribou, but their flowing white manes and mahogany-colored racks make beautiful trophies.
In 1998, a good friend of mine, Paul Vaicunas, made the trek to Newfoundland in pursuit of Woodland Caribou. He hunted with Ron Hicks of Snowshoe Lake Hunting & Fishing and returned with stories, pictures, and video footage of woodland stags that made me green with envy.
Not long after his successful trip, I contacted Ron Hicks and booked a similar hunting adventure. My dad (Mick), Tom Neff, Bob Koepsell, Dan Potter, Ken Roberts and I started making plans for our upcoming adventure. Through several phone conversations with Ron and myriads of questions we determined that our best opportunity for record-sized stags would be mid-October, the peak of the rut. We rented a 28-foot RV, borrowed a 10-foot enclosed trailer, made reservations on the Ocean Ferry from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland, and analyzed every detail of the 1500-mile journey.
Months of summer archery practice soon passed, and it was time to head for the distant island. With our excitement levels peaked and a trailer full of gear, we climbed into our home on wheels and headed east. After 35 hours of driving, stopping only for fuel, and a 6-hour ocean crossing we arrived in Newfoundland. We met Ron and John Hicks, owners of Snowshoe Lake Hunting & Fishing, at their home, loaded our gear into their trucks and made the bumpy 2-hour trip to our home away from home nestled along Snowshoe Lake. That evening, we got settled in, met our hunting guides, prepared our gear for the morning hunt and got some much needed sleep.
The pre-dawn wake-up call sounded the start of our first day of caribou hunting. My dad and I would be hunting together in a plateau area near Wolf Mountain, while the others would hunt up near the mountain's peak. We started our first day walking the flats in search of small groups of caribou. I immediately noticed how difficult it was to walk on the spongy, tundra-like ground. The moss covering would give way under foot, occasionally exposing holes in the rocks and sending us crashing to the ground. It didn't take long for our legs and lungs to ache from the chore of simply walking. The rest of the day proved to be a challenge continuing the brisk pace through the tangled footing and seeing only 2 caribou.
My dad and I returned to camp somewhat somber about the uneventful day only to find our four other partners overwhelmed with excitement. As we walked into the cabin, all four hunters had stories of huge stags, close encounters and multiple shot opportunities. Dan explained how he had scored first, arrowing a great stag with a huge shovel and long main beams. As they were heading off the mountain, Dan noticed the stag moving in their direction. He quickly maneuvered into position and waited in ambush for the caribou. As the stag came into view, Dan raised up, drew his bow and released. The arrow hit the stag a little far back, piercing the liver, which resulted in a long track, but the shot proved to be fatal. Bob excitedly told a story of calling out ranges with his laser rangefinder while Ken and Tom (Mort) both launched missing shots at a huge stag. Mort also had an interesting encounter when the stag he was stalking thought he was a caribou cow. He had crawled out into a bog trying to get within bow range when the huge stag stopped, looked directly at him, turned and walked to within 10 feet! The giant stag swayed his head left to right, pawing at the ground while the saliva trickled from his mouth. In a panic, Mort jumped up, yanked his bow to full draw and flung an arrow at the confused giant, which simply spun around and trotted off unscathed. Listening to the guys' stories peaked our excitement for the next day's hunt; little did we know that Mother Nature was about to strike.
That night, the anticipation of hunting with the other guys on Wolf Mountain made it difficult to sleep. I envisioned how the hunt would take place, how big my caribou would be and what I would hunt next. However, rather than waking to a crisp autumn morning, my sleep was interrupted by driving rain. As we prepared for the day our guide kept mumbling, "it's not a good day for hunting." Not wanting to sacrifice a day sitting in the cabin, we donned our rain gear and proceeded to the top of Wolf Mountain anyway. As we tried to glass for caribou from our high vantage point it was raining so hard the binoculars were of no use; we couldn't see 50 yards. We decided to do more walking and try to find some caribou. We spent several hours walking all around the mountain with no luck as the weather intensified. As we came over a small rise, I spotted some caribou in the junipers. I quietly tried to stop the group, but with the noise from the wind and rain, our guide, Ron, couldn't hear and kept walking. As he reached the top of the rise caribou scattered everywhere, including an enormous stag. They ran to the next ridge and the majestic stag stood guard until his harem made it to safety then dropped into the next valley. As I hastily made a plan to pursue the giant, Ron suggested we get off the mountain saying "that will be a tough one to walk away from". I objected, arguing that it was only 3 o'clock and we should not let this opportunity get away. Ron wouldn't listen, he was very nervous and insisted we leave immediately. The rain persisted, fog had rolled in surrounding us and the temperature had dropped dramatically. Ron then took out his compass, got his bearing, and took off downhill.
We resumed our march through the fog and rain, making our way down the mountain. We walked for approximately an hour looking for the trail we had walked up that morning when we came to a wide river we had not seen earlier. As I questioned Ron about our location he said, "I have never seen this brook before, but we need to find somewhere to get across." I suddenly realized we were in trouble; Ron had no idea where we were, he had no map, no radio, the weather was getting worse, and darkness was approaching. I suggested we walk back in the direction we came, get our bearings and locate the trail down. Ron refused in a panic stating, "we needed to hurry and find another way off this mountain." He took off recklessly crashing through the bush, refusing to listen to either my dad or me. We tried to explain that we could stop and build a fire using Birch bark and we'd be fine, but to no avail, Ron pushed on at a dangerous pace. As we rushed to keep up with Ron, I took a nasty fall on the slimy wet rocks. As I climbed back to my feet, I noticed my bow was broken. My dream of the perfect hunt had just become my worst nightmare. My thoughts changed from world-record caribou to prayers for a safe return home. Every stream we had easily stepped over that morning was now a violent raging rapid from the relentless rainfall. We searched for places to cross and argued many times over the safety of such attempts. As darkness swallowed the mountain, we came to a narrow spot in the swollen brook that was our only hope of crossing. We cut a long pole and used it to vault over the white water one at a time. Once safely on the downhill side of the brook, we found the trail and managed to make our way off Wolf Mountain and back to camp. We had been walking non-stop since 3 o'clock and it was now almost midnight; we were out of water, we were exhausted, we were lucky! As we returned to camp our anxious partners were relieved at our return. We shared similar stories about the miserable conditions and the treacherous decent off the mountain. Everyone had struggled getting across the angry streams and we were just happy that everyone was safe.
After a restless night, I half-heartedly prepared my still damp gear for the day not knowing what to expect. My goal to harvest a record stag with my bow was shattered, my confidence in our guide was gone, and I would have to use a rifle for the remainder of the hunt. I felt somewhat defeated and just wanted to finish the hunt and get home. We headed back to Wolf Mountain, up the same trail; to the area we had hunted the prior morning. We spent the morning glassing seeing only cows and small bulls, so after lunch we decided to change locations.
As we neared our new vantage point we spotted a good stag on the ridge following several cows. We quickly crawled to the ridge-top to get a better look at the stag. As I watched him through the scope he looked incredible. He had golden brown double shovels with huge bez tines and his brilliant white mane waved in the stiff wind. I quickly decided I would be happy with him. Just as I prepared to shoot he turned quartering away at about 100 yards. I struggled to hold the crosshairs on his far shoulder while gently squeezing the trigger. The muzzle roared sending the stag lunging forward and sprinting wildly to my left. I knew I had hit him but in the excitement, I rushed two more shots before he disappeared behind a small juniper thicket. I quickly took up the trail as my dad circled ahead to look for sign. Seconds felt like hours as I scoured the tundra for blood. Suddenly, my dad's voice rang out in success. I hurried in his direction and as I approached the beautiful stag I was overwhelmed simultaneously with excitement and disappointment; a feeling I've never experienced on past adventures. I had harvested a great Woodland Caribou with my dad there to share in the experience, yet my desire to accomplish this with a bow and my frustration with our dangerous encounter the day prior had somehow tainted the experience.
Over the next three days, Mother Nature continued to punish Wolf Mountain and our chances. Bob, who had made several stalks with his bow on huge stags only to have them spoiled, took a great stag with over twenty points late in the hunt with his rifle. The driving rain, sleet, and occasional snow squall also tested Mort's patience until finally on the last day, he resorted to his rifle, harvesting a burly stag that was estimated at 8-1/2 years old. Dad, having been roughed up by our decent some days earlier, also turned to his rifle. He made several stalks on different caribou when finally on Thursday afternoon, he made a clean one-shot kill on a beautiful stag. Ken, being forever the optimist, made good on his goal by shooting one of the largest stags in the group with his bow on the last afternoon. My dad, also having a moose tag in his pocket, managed to take a huge cow moose on the last morning, rounding out the adventure. We had taken six gorgeous Woodland stags and one moose and while everyone was pleased and appreciative for the trophies they had harvested, things had definitely turned out different than we expected.
After returning home and sharing our experiences with our families, friends and each other, my disappointment slowly changed to feelings of accomplishment. We had traveled over 3000 miles to a land many people have never heard of and experienced things most people only dream of doing. Now as I look at the photos and reflect on that trip, I can hear my dad reminding me, "the hunt is the reward, the trophy is simply a bonus." I will never look at my Woodland Caribou displayed proudly in my living room and think he's not big enough or ever regret taking him with a rifle. Rather, I will always be reminded of my closest hunting friends and the incredible adventure and excitement we shared in Newfoundland.
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