Dead Caribou Bags Hunter
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DEAD CARIBOU’S REVENGE
SEPT. 8, 1997
It’s beyond belief that a dead caribou could bag a hunter. That’s right, a dead caribou. No, it was not food poisoning. Bang! It got the hunter. No, not the hunter who shot the caribou, but the one who carried its’ antlers down off the mountain.
After completing a successful weeks hunt on a remote lake in southwest Alaska where Bob Mills, his two sons, Mike and Joe, Clint Ball, Mike Rosa, my son Scott and I, we returned to my cabin on Lake Aleknagik, Alaska. Bob and his sons then left on a plane from Dillingham, heading back home with their caribou. Bob and Joe were going back to Michigan and Mike was returning to his home in Anchorage. Clint, Mike, Scott, and I were then planning to hunt for a week out of my cabin. We hoped to find moose, caribou, and a grizzly bear.
It was a wet morning as we left the cabin. Mark Vingoe, my partner in the cabin, decided he would rather stay in out of the rain and sleep in, so we left him there. We jumped in my boat and headed down the lake east of the cabin, toward the lower part of Jackknife Mountain. We traveled a couple of miles to an open part on the tundra where Mark shot a moose the year before. We hunted that lower area until about 11:45 a.m. without any luck. We met back at the boat to decide what to do next.
" Did you guys see that bull caribou lying down up there on the mountain." I asked.
"Yes", they said they had seen it.
I asked if they wanted to go get it and they were all for it. We headed up the alder covered side of the mountain. After climbing through the alders, tall grass and brush for about an hour, we had second thoughts about our decision. The continued rain didn’t make it any nicer.
It was about 2:00 when we came out in the opening near the top of the mountain. Scott and Mike headed east toward where we had seen the bull. Clint and I went northwest up the mountain farther, with a good view of the area where Scott and Mike were headed. We had not gone over a couple hundred yards uphill when we spotted the bull caribou. He was angling toward us away from Scott and Mike. We whistled and got Scott’s attention. Our hand signals didn’t make much sense to him, but when we started to run northward, he and Mike got the "message" that we saw something. In just a couple minutes we heard several shots, from two different rifles. Clint and I circled the top of the hill we were on, and then headed toward Scott and Mike.
When we saw them they were standing over the bull, which was of modest size. Mike and I set to work dressing it out. Both of them had hit it, but Mike was tagging it. Scott and Clint started glassing the area across the north side of the mountain. Down in the lower part of the drainage they spotted 9 bulls that were feeding, running in circles and feeding again. They also had two other bulls spotted, one of which was a trophy size animal.
Mike and I made short work of dressing out the animal. Within a half hour we had it quartered, the tenderloins, neck, and rib meat removed.
We sat for a few minutes watching the nine run around and then disappear into the woods on the lower end of the drainage. Scott and Clint decided to try and cut off the trophy bull and his companion that were headed in the same direction the nine had gone. They were not as swift as the bulls and didn’t get close enough to shoot. Back they came. We thanked them for the entertainment and chided them for being too slow. Maybe it was a good thing, as packing out another animal for the distance we had to, would not be fun.
It was now 5:00 pm and we were ready to head down the mountain. Scott and Mike each had a hindquarter and front quarter in their pack. Clint had the remainder of the meat in his pack and I had the daypacks and the antlers on my shoulders. Of course we each carried our own rifles. I was not at all enthusiastic about carrying the antlers through neither the thick alders nor the tall grass, which prohibited us from seeing the ground on which we were stepping. The going was difficult and wet. I led the way, trying to find the best way through the alders and brush. At times there was no alternative, but to go directly through thick alders and tall grass. More than once, Clint had to unhook the antlers from alder limbs so I could get through. Sometimes I dragged the antlers and other times they were on my shoulders. There was no good way to carry them. However, it was a hazard for the guys packing out the heavy meat load they had on their backs. The most treacherous areas were those where the grass was so high you could not see the ground on steep downhill slopes. You didn’t know if a hole was awaiting your foot or if not a hole, then maybe a stone or uneven surface. It is a wonder someone didn’t break a leg. We did go slowly out of common sense and necessity.
At about 6:30 pm we finally got off the mountain and were onto the tundra and lower woods area. We were wet through and through both from the rain and sweating. What a big relief to get out of the alders, brush, tall grass, and off the steep of the mountain. We walked around the edge of a small park and up a hill in a semi –wooded open area. Scott and I had hunted this area earlier in the morning. I decided it was time to take a rest. Scott, Clint and Mike were a little ways behind me with the heavy meat packs. I took hold of my 375 mag with my right hand just below the front sight and set the butt of the rifle on the tundra in front of my right leg. I took hold of the antlers resting on my left shoulder with my left hand and started lifting them off. One of the tines caught in my left pants leg so I twisted to the left to see what the problem was and the next thing I knew I heard a bang and I was lying on my back. My right arm hurt like hell. I grabbed it with my left hand and I felt the bones move. The first thing that went through my mind was that the arm was broken and I had blown an artery. I yelled at Scott, saying, "I need a tourniquet." Scott was about 30 yards behind me and he dropped his pack, as did Clint and Mike who were behind him and they came running toward me. My next thought was, "am I going to die here?"
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About the Book
Dead Caribou Bags Hunter contains seventeen true stories of hunting and fishing in Alaska. The humorous and near death happenings make for enjoyable as well as riveting reading.
Hair raising encounters with grizzly bears, how a dead caribou bags the hunter, hunters spending three days and three nights walking over 50 miles across Alaskan wilds, while searchers fly the skies looking for them, falling through the ice three times while alone on a remote lake, makes for exciting reading.
What happens in Nome pubs during the Iditarod, eating eels, the similarity between ant and human behavior, springtime and animal antics, getting a full tan while "stopping to smell the roses," while hunting bear, and a quick way to tell an Alaskan mosquito from an airplane will cause the reader to smile, if not laugh out loud.
While the stories detail successful hunting and fishing trips, they also show the awesome beauty of Alaska through pictures.
There were no hunting or fishing guides used.
About the Author
Every since he was 12 years old, Keith Evans has been hunting and fishing.
In those early years the wild game and fish harvested by Keith and his brother, Red, were a needed supplement for the five children and mother in the family.
As a boy, Keith read stories by his favorite author, Jack London. Keith vowed that someday he would go to Alaska to hunt and fish.
After taking early retirement in Michigan., he accepted a school administrative position in Alaska, the fall of 1988.
In his book: Dead Caribou Bags Hunter, he shares his experiences from 1988 to 2000, which describe seventeen hunting and fishing adventures. He is lucky to be alive.