Barren - Land Bulls

A gray sky grew darker, and we weren't half way to the shoreline of Jolly Lake, where the inconspicuous comfort of an aluminum skiff awaited us. Once aboard, a fifteen-minute ride meant camp, a warm supper and a sleeping bag. It was approaching 7 o'clock, I had a caribou head and cape draped over my shoulders, underneath that was my rifle and daypack, and I could hardly keep up with my hunting partner, Tony Aeschliman, and our guide, Dan Matheson.

We'd been walking since about 3 p.m. in a near constant drizzle, Dan in the lead, racing over the spongy ground to beat total darkness, taking compass readings now and then. His pack frame was laden with straps and steaks. Tony, with my other cape and antlers on his back, plodded steadily along the muddy ridges and across soaking bogs with a slight swagger, antlers slowly rocking from side to side like a big bull moose asserting dominance over lesser specimens.

We were running late and Dan was irritated. Constantly one ridge or one bog behind, I stopped to cool and catch my breath three times for each of his one. I understood the irritation--he was wet, tired and hungry, I hadn't been very pleasant that afternoon, and we should've been in camp an hour ago. I took advantage of some luck on day four of an otherwise luckless five-day hunt and had put us behind schedule.

"We're almost there," Dan said when I caught up to the pair at their last rest stop some time before 8 o'clock. "The boat's down off the end of that ridge. I'll go drop my pack off and come back and help you carry something."

Tony walked with me, knowing I'd appreciate the company.

Seven years had passed since I visited Northwest Territories to hunt spring black bears on the shore of Great Slave Lake. Hemmed by an evergreen forest, the lake is second in size only to NWT's Great Bear Lake, and among the largest bodies of water in North America. The Slavey clan and other native peoples called the region home long before French trappers showed up in Canada. The hub of commerce, nearby Yellowknife is the region's jumping-off point for all forms of tourism.

Beyond a thinning tree line to the north are the barren lands, pockets and bumps and pools and marsh and sucking tundra you can't walk across. A winter road, passable during the coldest months when the snow is deep and hard, carries men and trucks to diamond mines and the region's wealth. Gas and minerals also provide a life for locals; as recently as five years ago, you could have included gold on that list.

However, a notable portion of Yellowknife's economy comes by way of a different treasure: central barren-ground caribou. Intrepid sportsmen come to the NWT for a shot at a big hook-antlered bull. Beginning in August and ending some time before snow cloaks the tundra, thousands of dollars are spent by hundreds of hunters who pass through Yellowknife to board float planes on their way toward the Arctic Circle. There they will live in tent cabins and share the changing colors of the tundra with grizzly bears and wolves.