A wide "Broomstick" Bull turned right and headed down a trail that led to me. I didn't want him. I wanted one of the ones with top points and there were several. My problem was I couldn't draw without the Broomstick seeing my movement.

The Broomstick stopped and looked back at the others. The instant he looked back, I took advantage of the situation and came to full draw, hoping for a shot opportunity. But I couldn't shoot yet because the other Bulls were all clumped up together. The Broomstick walked closer and I waited at full draw.

Suddenly the Bulls saw George, and they all spooked and started in my direction. Aware of the disturbance, but not in any real hurry, the Broomstick trotted towards me. One of the big Bulls charged up on my left, and would pass very close to me. I swung my bow to shoot. It was only two yards away. Whoops, the Broomstick bumped into my right side and knocked me off balance. My drawn bow yanked itself back to its undrawn position. My release was still on the string so my right arm was yanked with it. Another big Bull ran by, ten yards to my right. I jumped to my feet, but it was moving away and the shot was too risky to take. All the Bulls disappeared over the hilltop.

Bowhunting for Caribou is a true adventure and this hunt was one of the best I've ever been on. We were bowhunting in far north Quebec in pursuit of Quebec Labrador Caribou. Our outfitter, Arthur Talion of James Bay Adventures, scheduled Fred and I to video our hunt on do it yourself bowhunt at a lake camp. We met the other hunters at Arthur's headquarters and we all struck up an instant friendship. We got along super, so well in fact that I even volunteered to cook. When we bought groceries I insisted that we got basics only, no meat. Which is how I like it--we eat what we shoot.

The lake camp housing was a large wood frame tent with a wood burning stove and bunk beds. Our group was George Steiner from Connecticut, Kim Sutterfield and Kurt Zurawski from Michigan, George Machasick and Fred Lutger from Illinois and myself, Robert Hoague from Texas.

In a do it yourself hunting camp, there are chores to do: washing dishes, cooking, lugging firewood, packing out the meat, and in general: co-operating in a situation where the quarters are cramped and the weather uncooperative. It changes from clear skies to rain. . .to foggy. . .to cold--almost every day. In a good hunting camp, everyone pulls their load. In a bad one, some don't. This camp was exceptional. We all got along great.

The hunt began the afternoon we arrived. Since Fred had bagged his Caribou on our hunt before this one, it was my turn to hunt and Fred's to video. The first afternoon we saw a few Caribou, in spite of the constant rain, high wind and heavy fog. We walked a good many miles checking out the area. Back in camp nobody had a Caribou but the day was saved when the lake trout started biting.

In the morning I wanted to sleep in. Fred left to scope out the area, hoping to find a good spot. He woke me at 10:00.

"Lets go. I found the Caribou."

He was right. We walked to a valley of alders that was riddled with Caribou trails. We stopped by a Cedar tree. Right away, two cows and a Bull came out of a large Black Spruce patch, down hill. The trail they were on led our way. I snuck up to about twenty yards from the trail. I ducked down in the alders and got out an arrow and hooked it up. I snapped on my release and looked up. Somehow the Bull was already in perfect position. He hadn't looked like he was covering as much ground as he actually was. In an instant, the trio was by me and gone, but there was no time to ponder my mishap. The biggest bull imaginable came over the rise with two other wide and high ones. I slipped through the Alders, but couldn't intercept them. But he didn't escape Fred's video camera. Later on, Arthur Talion saw the footage and said it was the biggest Bull he had ever seen.

The rain and wind continued, but the Caribou, or I, always selected the wrong trail. Near the days end I made a ground blind in a Cedar tree at the base of a steep hill. The hill had several trails that the majority of the Caribou had used as they traversed the valley. The Cedar tree looked to be the right place.

When we arrived at the valley the next morning George glassed a group of Bulls in the Black Spruce and left to stalk them. A cow and Bull came down the first trail uphill from my blind, a little too far away. A few minutes later another Bull came but that didn't work out either.

We finally had a lull in the activity late in the afternoon. I decided to get some target practice, and got a six-inch swatch of blaze orange fabric out of my backpack and tied of it to an alder. I walked of 20 and 35 yards. . .and shot the eyes out of it.

So far most of the Caribou had crossed uphill from my Cedar tree blind. The hill was steep and I wanted to be certain that I knew the distances, because shooting uphill can be tricky. I paced off the distance from my blind to the Caribou trails and hung florescent tape markers at 20, 35 and 45 yards. Fred called out to me and I looked around. Another nice bull was topping the South ridge.

I ran to my blind and the bull came on down. He stopped uphill from me. A Cedar limb was in the way so I leaned to my left and put my 35 yard pin on his lung area. My arrow sailed way over his back. As he ran off, I remembered I hadn't looked at my distance marker. He had stopped right by my 20 yard marker. Ugggg.

There was no time to mull over my goof up. A new group came over the South ridge, two hundred yards away. I counted fourteen Bulls. I glassed the biggest one. He was huge: big double shovels, big bezes, width, length and lots of long points on top--all in full velvet. His mane was long and white. I wanted him bad.

The Caribou picked their way in my direction. To the North, the valley joined a saddle. The Bulls filed by 80 yards uphill from me (well out of range) and headed down to the saddle (which was much closer to me). They stopped. My Bull was hemmed in by several others. In a moment the Caribou slowly fanned out. Suddenly, mine stood alone.

I glanced at my 45 yard marker to see how it compared to the yardage from me to the humongus Bull. The distance was the same! I drew. I made a mental check of my shooting form. I didn't want to mess up this once in a lifetime opportunity. My bow was back all the way. My pin was right on his vitals. Everything was perfect. I touched my release with a feather touch and saw my arrow disappear in the Bull's rib cage. A fine shot, right in the boiler room. The Bull bolted and all the Caribou ran over the top of the saddle.

I knew I had double lunged the Bull and it would go down in seconds--and close by, too. Without any doubt, it was already over. So I ran after him. When I topped the saddle, the group was in the open, standing at the edge of a dense area of Black Spruce, looking in my direction. They instantly disappeared into the trees. I went after them and glimpsed Caribou moving through the Black Spruce ahead. I hesitated. In my excitement, I had left my backpack. I considered getting it. But I knew my Bull couldn't possibly go far and surely I wouldn't need it. I expected my trophy to be lying a short distance ahead. But he wasn't.

Quickly, I circled to another trail, and another, and another. Before long the daylight began fading fast and I realized I would have to abandon the search until morning. I circled wide to locate our lake so I wouldn't lose my bearings in the dark.

At the shore, I turned right, toward camp. The lakeside terrain got ugly: boulders, lichen, sink holes, and barely penetrable undergrowth. When I sank to my waist in a sink hole I decided to move further from the shore. On the way, I realized something was following me. It was a large dark object, not clearly discernible in the darkness. The only animals I knew the area held were Caribou, Wolves, Bears and hunters. It wasn't a hunter. . . or a Caribou. . .and it was too large to be a wolf.

The object was large and bulky--about the size of a refrigerator and solid black--and very bear looking. Not good news. I felt a chill all over. That wasn't good, either. I was in no position to get myself scared. I forced it out of my mind. I just shoved the possibility of fear out of my thoughts. This was no situation for panic. After a while I didn't see the bear any more. But I had another problem. I was on the wrong lake and didn't know it.

Time passed and I pressed on. In spite of the cold temperature I was soaked with sweat, worn out, muddy, and cold. My pack had emergency supplies, but I didn't have it with me. Finally, I heard a faint shout in the distance--from the wrong direction, according to my bearings. I hollered at the top of my lungs and slugged off towards the dim sound.

I've bowhunted since I was eight and I know what to do when I shoot something. I know when to wait and when my hit is good enough that I don't have to wait. And I sure know better than to go into uncharted wilderness without a flashlight, fire starter and rain slicker. But that afternoon I broke all my own rules. I paid for it by strenuously slogging through mud and boulders and made myself very late to supper--and I was the camp cook. But Kurt had boiled up spaghetti noodles and sauce. Fred said he had my shot on video. We have an agreement that we never play our footage until it goes to master so we didn't look at the footage. Anyway, I didn't need to see it. I knew I had a perfect hit.

I was completely exhausted and slept like the dead. In the morning I overslept and got to the saddle a little bit after everyone else. They were waiting for me.

"I found your Bull," Fred said. Something in his tone of voice told me he had something up his sleeve.

"Where is it?" I said.

"I'm not going to tell you where," he answered.

Immediately, I turned to Kim Sutterfield. "Where is it?" I asked him. Surely Kim wouldn't joke with me.

"He won't tell me either," Kim said.

Fred smiled. "I'll give you a hint." I looked at him, anxiously.

"You can see him from here."

Eighty yards away, straight down hill from the saddles' ridge, I saw the points of my Caribou's tops, jutting out of the alders. He had separated from the other bulls and dropped on the run, but his body was hidden in the alders. We shot four rolls of film. Kim capped him out. Everyone helped pack out the meat. That night I cooked a major feed for six: Caribou back strap in gravy and mashed potatoes.

There are other thrilling stories of this bowhunt. Kurt Zurawski made a three yard shot on a nice Bull that dropped within sight of where my Bull's had went down. Veteran caribouhunter Kim Suitterfield bow bagged his biggest Bull ever. George Machasick successfully stalked two big Bulls in his Black Spruce area. And George Steiner got his Bull two hours before the plane came to pick us up.