The Bearded One

"We will find musk ox," said Eddie. "Caribou are not here yet."

We'd taken a Twin Otter south across Queen Maud Gulf (the ship's hull still resides in the frigid waters of Cambridge Bay). Camp was perched on a bluff over the Ellice River, a broad, slow-moving Arctic channel navigable by aluminum skiff an hour by outboard from the mouth. A gauntlet of low falls, boiling with the backs of spawning Arctic char, lake trout and grayling, mark the end of travel seven miles upstream from camp. The Ellice flows into Queen Maud Gulf, a sometimes choppy thirty miles south of Melbourne Island. Eddie had stashed a four-wheeler and a small shelter on Melbourne, whose 200 square miles typically hold both caribou and musk ox.

A short hike from the Otter, we found a clump of well-furnished plywood huts. Dean, Ron, Dick and I threw our duffel to one; Linda and Diana claimed the smaller of the two. A third shed accommodated the cook, Bill, and served as a dining area. All were heated with oil.

We grabbed a snack, then checked zero on the rifles. I carried a new 40-X Ti from Remington's Custom Shop. A titanium receiver kept weight to around six pounds, despite a twenty-seven-inch stainless barrel. Chambered in .300 Ultra Mag, it was more rifle than I needed. After adjusting the 1.7-10X scope, I was pleased as could be. From prone, the rifle centered a three-round group the size of a half-dollar just above the bullseye. I was using Power Level I ammo, with 150-grain Core-Lokts at about 2,700 fps. These mild loads match .30-06 performance. Power Level II loads duplicate that of a .300 Winchester Magnum. I fired a few Power Level III full-throttle rounds to assess point of impact. The 180-grain Core-Lokt Ultras struck just an inch and a half higher. I fired fifteen of the mild cartridges to get a feel for the rifle, figuring that five was plenty for the hunt.

Then we joined Bill for caribou steak, potatoes and canned vegetables, with bannock and salad, then coffee, fruit and cookies to finish. We hit the sack early. Foam mattresses on wooden bunks cradled us as Arctic winds howled outside. The fog that had stranded us in Cambridge Bay dissipated in the blow.

Linda and I paired up with Eddie for the first day. We ply passages west of the river's mouth. Eddie takes care to keep the hull and 115-horse Yamaha off rocks and sand. Dennis, his twenty-one-year-old assistant, watches and learns. Spray spatters the windshield as the craft noses into the waves. We're thankful for the tarp overhead. Eddie's boat is a home-shop project.

"Friends and I finished it in two weeks," he tells us.

Community spirit--with barges that arrive once a year--powers Cambridge Bay. Linda and I recall the funeral for a local custodian that shut the bank and post office during our stay. The land is harsh; you don't get far alone. It is also vast and unpeopled; you come to savor human contact.

It is midday, and we've seen one musk ox--a huge bull across the river from camp at dawn. My 10x32 binocular revealed only a heavy boss. Both horns had been broken off.

As the skiff cleaves the sea, terns wheel. Canada and white-fronted geese battle the wind. A seal breaks the surface. We coast into a small bay at mid-morning, hike to a rocky knob and glass.