My First Caribou Hunt

My first Caribou hunt….. many, many years ago.

My first caribou hunt was a wild adventure that taught me as much about hunting as it did about patience and respect for the land. None of us—me, Jerry, or Justin—had hunted caribou before, so preparing was both exciting and daunting. We pored over maps and followed word-of-mouth tips, finally settling on a spot north of a mine in the rugged hills of North Central British Columbia.

covered my friends face to protect as he may not have wanted to be pictured, there was lots of caribou

We loaded Jerry’s pickup and utility trailer to the brim with three quads, fuel, and gear for a 10-hour drive from Prince George, followed by a 60-mile quad ride into stunning mountains and plateaus. Setting up base camp took half a day, but with a wall tent, airtight heater, and a BBQ, we had all the comforts of home in the unforgiving northern wilds. That first night, sipping rum and Cokes, we buzzed with anticipation, studying maps and Google Earth images to plan our hunt. We decided to take an old mining trail above the treeline to scout our stomping grounds for the next 10 days.

At daybreak, we wolfed down breakfast, loaded our quads with day packs and rifles, and rode 30 miles up a steep, boulder-strewn trail. The last mile tested our quads, but reaching the plateau felt like stepping into caribou paradise—miles of low-growing plants, perfect for their grazing. We parked the quads below a small hill and climbed up for a look. Within 10 minutes, we spotted what looked like grey boulders in the distance. A quick check through binoculars revealed a small herd: two bulls, two cows, one bull sporting wide, legal antlers.

After a heated round of paper, rock, scissors, Jerry won the shot. The open terrain made stalking tricky, so we split up. Jerry and Justin took a small dip to the left for cover, while I swung wide to the right to cut off any escape. Moving slowly to keep our nerves in check, we stalked the bull. Halfway through my loop, two shots rang out. Peering over a ditch, I saw a wolverine sprinting toward me in high gear. I raised my rifle, ready for trouble, but it wisely veered left and vanished into the valley. Crisis averted, I scanned with my binoculars and saw Jerry and Justin approaching the downed bull.

Rushing over, I was struck by the magnificence of the caribou. Jerry recounted their stalk: the dip kept them hidden, and at 150 yards, the cow spotted them, alerting the herd. But Jerry was ready, his .300 Sako Ultra Mag trained behind the bull’s shoulder. As it turned broadside, he fired, dropping it clean. A second shot, two inches from the first, sealed the deal. The bull’s nearly symmetrical antlers made it a fine trophy, and pre-rut, it promised excellent meat.

Covered my friends faces as they may not have wanted to be pictured

After photos and field dressing, we laid the meat to cool and kept hunting. Over the next few hours, we spotted over 100 caribou—some so curious they nearly walked up to our quads. We checked several herds but found no legal bulls that matched our standards. A silver-tipped grizzly patrolling the tundra added to the day’s thrills. As evening neared, we crossed a rock outcropping and spotted a herd of 15 caribou emerging from a valley. Spotting scopes revealed a decent bull, and with darkness closing in, Justin took the lead. We ditched the quads and stalked on foot, closing to 300 yards. Justin set up behind boulders, but his first .270 Winchester shot missed. Chambering another round, he fired again, and the bull tipped over. Though not as symmetrical as Jerry’s, it was a fine animal with tall antlers.

Loading both caribou onto our quads in the freezing dusk was a challenge, and the 30-mile descent in the dark pushed us to the limit. It was past midnight when we reached camp, but the airtight stove and a splash of rum warmed us up fast. Morning brought sore muscles and the task of hanging the meat and dressing the heads. Over lunch, Jerry opted to stay back to finish the prep, while Justin and I headed up for another hunt.

In a new section of the mountains, we spotted a herd of 25 caribou, including a massive bull—his huge antlers and prime condition marked him as the king of the group. Their position atop a steep hill ruled out a quad approach, so we climbed on foot. An hour later, sweating and breathless, we peeked over the ridge, only to find the herd gone. They’d slipped away during our ascent. Determined, we hiked for over an hour, finally spotting 15 caribou perched on a near-vertical cliff, moving with ease on terrain we couldn’t dream of hunting. Watching them feed on sparse growth, I felt awe at their ability to evade danger.

We ran into a few scattered cows on the way back to the quads, but no legal bulls appeared. Over cold beers, we shared the story with Jerry. Though I didn’t bag a caribou that trip, the memories of that first hunt—chasing a magnificent animal with good friends in the mountains of northern BC will stay with me for the rest of my life.

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Lyman Miller