A fly-in wilderness hunt in British Columbia with his father four decades ago still sparks wonderful memories.
Oh, how the years have slipped away. More than forty years have passed since that frosty morning in late September found us transferring our hunting gear and supplies from the back of Dad’s pickup to a small bush plane on a gravel landing strip in a remote area of northern British Columbia. This would be my dad’s first real wilderness hunt.
It had been a hard sell, convincing my dad to accompany me on a wilderness hunt, especially when planes were involved. He hated flying, even in big commercial jets, so when he looked at the little single-engine plane perched on its big “tundra tires,” I could see he was more than a little distressed. Thinking it was probably best not to give him too much more time to dwell on the situation, we quickly loaded our gear and stuffed him in the plane.
Our family tended to be a pretty tough crowd, where good-natured ribbing was the norm, and any chance to get a dig in was rarely squandered. Realizing that I had a rare opportunity before me, I pointed at the fabric skin of the fuselage, and poked it with my finger. My dad watched as the skin moved in and out with the pressure of my finger and I said, “Huh…it’s cloth!” At that moment the engine roared, and we were off.
About 45 minutes later we circled the drop-off point high in the Northern Rockies and the pilot set the plane down as pretty as you please on a gravel bar next to a crystal-clear mountain stream. We quickly unloaded the gear and minutes later the little plane departed. We were alone in God’s country, with nine days of hunting ahead of us.
You must remember that when this hunt took place and the plane left, you were on your own. There were no cell phones, no GPS, no satellite phones for the working class. If something went wrong you had to tough it out until the plane flew back to get you…weather permitting.
The main purpose of our hunt was to target a couple of the big bull moose that northern British Columbia is famous for, but I had also purchased sheep, mountain goat, and grizzly tags just in case an opportunity presented itself. In those days big-game draws were rare and most big-game licenses were available over the counter.
We quickly moved all our gear up into a small clearing about a dozen feet above the creek and set up camp so that we could do a bit of scouting and glass the area, and make a battle plan for the next day. Our hunt had been planned to hit the rut, and it was obvious we had timed things perfectly, as we soon located fresh rubs and several fresh rut pits within a few hundred yards of our camp.
I climbed up onto a small knoll a quarter-mile downstream and immediately noticed a small lake set back into the spruce trees a short distance away. It looked like an ideal place to hunt the next day, and my suspicions were quickly confirmed when I raised my binocular and a couple of dark spots on the lake’s shoreline turned into two cows and a decent-sized bull.
The scenery was absolutely breathtaking, and I could tell my father was suitably impressed as he took it all in. Our glassing didn’t turn up any more moose, but we did see a herd of about 30 mountain goats on slope a couple of miles upstream, and a bunch of stone sheep in a small basin directly above us. It was a heck of a good start for our first day in what appeared to be a hunter’s Shangri-La.
Back at camp we spent an hour gathering firewood to last a few days and as the light faded, we cooked a couple of steaks over the coals of the fire and got our gear ready for the next morning. Later we enjoyed a sundowner next to the fire and listened to a couple of wolves howl in the distance. Anticipating the next day could be a busy one, we hit the sack early.
The thermometer tied on my pack read 25 F the next morning, as I crawled out of the warmth of my sleeping bag. The little Coleman stove soon had the coffee perking, and we quickly downed a greasy breakfast of bacon and eggs, grabbed our rifles and day packs and headed off toward the little lake we had found the previous evening.
As we got closer to the lake, I marveled at the moose trails that were two feet deep in places, and all of the fresh sign indicated that the area had to be absolutely filthy with moose. So, not unexpectedly, when we were a few hundred yards from the lake I could see a couple of moose on the shoreline ahead, so we stopped and carefully glassed the area. A couple of moose soon turned into eight moose, including three bulls, a decent bull with a spread in the high 40s, and two young satellite bulls whose rutting enthusiasm made up for what they lacked in the antler department.
As it was our first morning and it was obvious there were a lot of moose In the area, we backed quietly out of the area and spent the rest of the day exploring and glassing. Toward the end of the day, we spotted a big bull about half a mile in the other direction from camp. It was too late in the afternoon to try and get closer, so we called it a day and headed back to camp.
The next morning, we decided to split up as my dad wanted to try and get a better look at the bull we had spotted the previous afternoon, and I would make my way back down to the little lake. We would meet back at camp after the morning hunt and make a plan, which would hopefully involve quartering a bull.
Now familiar with the route, it didn’t take long for me to sneak back to the lake. Once again, there were a few moose puddling around at the edge of the lake, including several cows and calves, and the two young bulls we had seen previously. I did not see the bigger bull, but I could hear the odd twig break and saw flashes of movement back in the spruce trees. I waited for a bit to see if the other moose would move out to where I could get a glimpse of them, but nothing happened, so I decided to call and see if that got any reaction. I let go with a couple of grunts and instantly had a bull reply and could hear it moving in my direction. I saw the flash of a palm and figured it was probably the bigger bull from the previous morning, but out came a different bull, a bigger bull.
This bull had nice wide palms, lots of points, and was definitely over 50 inches, so I wasted no time in sending a Partition on the way. The Nosler did its job, punching through both lungs and, in true moose fashion, the bull thought about things for a few moments and then did a slow-motion pirouette and toppled to the ground.
After gutting the bull, I made my way back to camp and found my dad was already there and had made some lunch. He had seen the bull he was looking for and decided he would take it, given the opportunity, as it was an older bull with antlers that carried a lot of mass. Unfortunately, the bull was way up the side of the mountain and would be too difficult to pack out, so when he heard me shoot, he decided to head back to camp.
We spent the rest of the day quartering my bull and getting the quarters out and hung in some trees near the creek. In the evening, we decided to try calling the bull my dad was after. Perhaps we could convince it to move closer to the creek, where packing the big ungulate out would be less onerous.
The following morning was crisp and clear, and felt very moosey. As luck would have it, not two hundred yards from camp stood a nice big bull on the gravel bar the plane had landed on. It was a nice big bull with heavy antlers and my dad was pretty certain it was the same bull he had been focusing on. Moments later the big bull was down, and our moose hunting was officially over.
We spent most of the next day cleaning up the quarters of our two bulls and bagging them with cheesecloth. In the late afternoon we did a bit of fishing and caught a couple of nice trout for dinner. After doing the dishes we made ourselves a drink and sat around glassing. I looked at the ridge right above camp and was just in time to count seven Stone rams as they walked over the top and into the basin behind. I knew exactly what I would be doing in the morning.
We left camp at first light, and after about three hours of steady climbing we made it to the ridge above camp. Using some big rocks as cover, I peeked into the basin and could see the rams were bedded down in the shale on the far side. With my spotting scope I could tell that two of the rams were legal full curls and decided to go for it.
My dad decided he was not up to any more climbing and said he would stay behind while I attempted the stalk. Not wanting him to overdo it, I said that was absolutely okay, as sheep were small, and I could easily handle the pack out with the horns and meat if I got lucky.
The stalk was pretty much textbook. I dropped down below the ridgeline and then circled around the backside of the basin, checking periodically to make sure the rams had not decided to move and to keep track of where I was. I pinpointed a specific bump on the ridge that appeared to be above where the rams were bedded and when I figured I was in the right spot I slowly inched up and peered over the edge.
The rams were still there, bedded down and looking off across the basin. I figured they were about 250 yards away, but I would have to wait until they stood up before shooting. The two legal rams were about the same size, but the one ram had the classic Stone sheep coloring with a light-colored head and upper neck, with dark shoulders. That was the ram I wanted, so I settled in with a good rest and waited for the ram to get up.
I only had to wait about fifteen minutes before the rams started to fidget and they began to get up. When my ram stood, I was ready, and when the .300 Weatherby barked he dropped and slid a few feet in the shale and stopped. His companions paused for a few seconds and then trotted off around the basin and disappeared over the far ridge.
I had my first sheep. Dad couldn’t complete the stalk with me, but when I got back to him with a pack full of meat and the lovely amber-colored horns, I found out that he had been able to watch the whole thing go down through his binocular.
I spent the next day skinning, fleshing, and salting the cape of my ram and that evening we had an extremely memorable meal of sheep ribs cooked over the coals of our fire. It was an outstanding meal and one that neither of us would ever forget.
As luck would have it, the pilot dropped in the next day to check on us and see how we were getting along. Sadly, the pilot said that there was a chance the weather was going to change, with rain and flurries a possibility. Since a couple of extra flights were needed to get us and all of the moose meat out, the prudent course of action would be to do the flying while the weather was still decent.
It was a fantastic hunt, but at the time I certainly had no way of knowing that some forty-plus years later I would be looking back and considering it to be my greatest hunt. Getting a Stone ram on my own certainly rates right up there as one of my best hunts, and my dad and I both taking a big bull moose on the hunt would have been a fantastic hunt in and of itself.
As the years have gone by and life’s unexpected challenges and curve balls have occurred for both of us, as they do for everyone, my perception of that hunt we shared together has changed. The experience also taught me that you should never put things off to do in the future, because you simply do not know what the future holds.
My father passed away two years ago. After that great hunt we shared, he never again went on another true wilderness hunt, and it was really the last time that we got to share that sort of experience together, just the two of us. Time restraints due to career paths, and later, health issues that both of my parents had to deal with, combined in such a way that they prevented any further opportunities for us to experience another hunt together, let alone another hunt of that magnitude.
I have been on lots of great hunts, and I hope I have a few more ahead of me. But for now, at least, I must rate that hunt with my father all those years ago as my greatest hunt.
