October 2005, my pal and I found
ourselves secreted along a rolling hillside, huddled on the tundra
just south of the Arctic Circle, watching a herd of caribou a mile
distant. The herd had probably 100 or more animals, a mix of bulls,
cows and yearlings. A wide racked bull with a heavy white mane was in
the middle of the pack and drew my buddy's attention...
The wind blew and a spit of
rain hit our faces as the herd ate up the ground with that long,
loping gait that only caribou have. I peeked over my shoulder to see
my friend sitting off to my left. I pulled the binoculars to my eyes,
the animals now less than 400 yards. My partner whispers that when
the herd is in range, the huge bull in the middle was his pick.
I propped my elbows on my knees
and spied the herd through the glasses. 200 yards, 150 yards,
120...Arthur had tossed his backpack in front of him and took a prone
position using the pack to steady his muzzleloader. I focused through
the lenses on the white maned bull. Just as a smaller bull cleared and I
anticipated the shot...The distinctive “crack-boom” of the
muzzleloader shattered the silence of the tundra and filled the air
with sulfur and smoke followed by the solid thud of the slug hitting
home. The massive bull took the full effect of the shot. His legs
wobbled and he immediately hit the ground and came to rest among the
boulders and moss as the report of the shot echoed across unending landscape.
I hopped to my feet as Arthur
stood up and gathered himself. There was no back slapping or fist
pumping, just a heart felt handshake. I'm sure we had a couple of
words, but most of all, I remember the deep, wide grin across my
pal's face and his rosy cheeks. The smile was infectious and I
returned with a grin and laughter of my own. We made our way to the
downed bull, jumping from boulder to boulder and tip toeing on the
spongy ground, not quite frozen, not quite thawed, so typical of this
part of the world.
We stood there in the middle of
nowhere, admiring the magnificent bull, the huge antlers, the
beautiful coat, the landscape, the colors of the arctic autumn, all
of it...Soaking in the moment, taking it all in. We didn't exchange
any words, just a glance back and forth and we both knew this was a
magic place, something special, something to be revered. The two of
us got to work on making meat, still quiet, but knowing we were
blessed to be where we were and to be able to share the experience
with each other.
My pal passed away, suddenly
and unexpectedly last week, far too young and far too soon. But, I
hope that someday when I'm finally called home that we can once again sit on
a cold, October hillside, watch a herd of caribou and their bouncing
antlers and smile with the breeze in our faces. Arthur Ashcraft was a good man, a hunting partner
and an even better friend and he will be deeply missed.
