Slam’s assistants, Finn and his two friends, were lifelong Labrador residents at home in the wilds. More so, they were the type of men you could trust. My gut instincts were strong on this. First thing in the morning, we were to head north again, much farther north, and our safety was in their hands. Thus I felt better as the guides left for their cabin.
After dark Finn drove his machine back to our cabin to check on us, and immediately he rolled it over and over, down a steep bank and into the woods. He was drunk, very drunk, but unhurt. It’s funny how you often hear of that combination. Obviously, he liked the drink a bit too much, but I could still tell he was the man to count on when daylight came. Some folks are hard to get a feel for, but Finn was solid, I could tell, and I did not doubt he would be ready in the morning. It seemed the success or failure of our trip, which now appeared to be about more than simply filling a caribou tag, really depended on Finn.
Morning dawned with an overcast sky and a fine mist of freezing rain. After fueling up, our caravan of snow machines headed north at a fast pace. We had a long trek to get to a small river, the southern border of our legal hunting territory. For miles and miles we saw nothing but spruce, rock, and snow. Then we topped a small rise, and the river was within sight, but barely.
A couple of hundred caribou, many white-maned mature bulls with wide, flaring racks, their bodies crammed against each other, hot breath steaming in the cold air, blocked our view of the river. They were all on our side of the water. In a second they bolted, a mass of caribou moving through the sparsely wooded bank of the river. So many huge racks in motion, like an alder thicket had up and slid into the forest. It was a truly impressive sight.
Then they were gone. Like a dream.
A small bridge crossed the stream, but there was not a single animal to be seen on the other side, our hunting territory. I was almost relieved. With four guides and eight hunters, it might have been an ugly scene of unrestrained shooting. A few of the foreign hunters had wild looks in their eyes and fingers on triggers. Slam had made no comments regarding shooting protocol or gun safety.
I assumed we would split up and at least some of us stay near the river. It only seemed logical. We’d just seen a couple of hundred caribou, many having trophy racks.
Slam got in the lead machine. Like the star in a Western movie, he raised his hand and motioned forward. With no hesitation, the machines accelerated single file, straight north, as if possessed by the devil. And I suppose we were.
I was riding on the back of one machine driven by my cousin, holding on for dear life due to the pace. I soon spotted a lone caribou. No one else saw it, and I was helpless to stop whatever it was that we were doing.
It was difficult to understand what was happen- ing. It seemed insane. As my uncle Bert (rest his soul) would have added with a smile, it was also crazy. To this day I can’t understand the rationale of that moment.
The storm came on stronger, the light mist now a hard sleet with wind, weather fitting for the land God gave to Cain. The wrath of a petulant God seemed to surround us. So we went very far, at a fast pace, into the teeth of it all. We had jumped into the Abyss seemingly without a clue why.
Slam obviously thought we were headed to a caribou mecca. Why else pass up what we’d witnessed? A few difficult hours later, we turned off the machines and had long views in every direction of the vastness of northern Labrador. It was magnificent wilderness. There were no caribou to be seen.
A fine snow was falling, like at Christmas. This far north the trees were few, scattered with glacial erratics across the white landscape. My attention was immediately drawn to one large, angular standing stone. If alone, I likely would have stood in silence before it. Some things, although difficult to explain, are still real.
I was distracted by the commotion of our group, our small space of human auras and machines in this open land. Slam seemed perplexed and paced around. Then we were back on the machines for the return marathon south. The entire affair seemed a lost cause, and worse, there was a pervasive sense of madness about it.
Back at the cabin by dusk, we were tired, cold to the verge of hypothermia, and frustrated by the day’s events. But we soon had a roaring fire in the woodstove with beer and good food spread on the table. Slam did pack in some fine grub. He was a bit crazy, had already lied to me, and obviously was not knowledgeable about caribou hunting, but he was entertaining and likable in an odd way. We drank beer. He drank whiskey. The other guides left for their cabin long before Slam did. They had heard his stories before. Ours were virgin ears for the taking. Beer and good food can do wonders for a down soul.
The next day I discreetly suggested to Finn that the caravan split up. As to the overall situation of the venture, our facial expressions already communicated better than words.
At one point, Finn instructed me to go with him, and he left the main trail and casually guided his machine through the forest of scattered spruce to a small valley with perhaps a 60-yard view before the woods thickened on the opposite side. He said to wait there, as it was a traditional caribou crossing, while he made a wide circle around the hill to the east, scouting for fresh tracks.
Once the sound of his machine fad- ed into the distance, I was alone with the spruce trees, three feet of snow, and the good vibes one gets on a deer stand that “feels right.” I felt real good. I was focused. The caribou would come. Not long afterwards, I heard other snow machines on the main trail, out of sight a couple of hundred yards behind me. The noise got louder, then stopped. I was confused. Slam and the others were supposedly miles away. I stood there in the snow and silence pondering the significance of those sounds.
Then I heard a sound that gave me a chill. Slam’s voice penetrated the frozen air. It couldn’t be, but it was. Soon Slam materialized, moving through the spruce and followed by two hunters, single file, pumping their knees in the deep snow as they walked in Finn’s snowmobile tracks. Which led them right to me.
Expletives filled my brain. Slam walked up to me, sweating and dazed. He was the head guide, but I said “What the hell are you doing here?” and he looked at me oddly and then marched straight into the forest ahead of me, followed by the two hunters, both with puzzled looks on their faces. What briefly appeared so perfect was now so absolutely screwed up.
I backtracked to the main trail. If caribou moved through this area now, with those hunters wandering around somewhere out there, any shots fired might become friendly fire, to use the imaginative terminology of the U.S. Army.
I waited back at the main trail. Finn came back from his foray, stopped his machine, looked over the lineup of snowmobiles, Slam’s in front, shook his head, and said a very bad word with true conviction. No explanation was needed. The rest of the trip was full of wilderness, empty of caribou. Although the country appeared without life, ptarmigan flushed here and there, and once we glimpsed a large black wolf moving fast across a frozen lake.
Our hunt was over. We shot no caribou. We had unrealistic expectations and should have known better. Although the experience had more than its share of headaches and disappointments, the land itself puts a hold on you, the expanses that seem to continue forever, a feel of wilderness not yet defiled by man. I may never again sign on for a winter caribou hunt, but I do know I want to get back to the country. Something, not caribou, is out there I need to find.
Frederick Prince was born and raised in northeastern Pennsylvania dairy country. Since 1985 he has taught Human Anatomy & Physiology and Cell Biology at Plymouth State University in New Hampshire
