The Bearded One

"Caribou," says Eddie. It's just a speck but worth a closer look. We sneak to within rifle range and spot four more. The biggest is a young bull. Typically, the Bathurst herd has moved north by this time, Eddie informs us. However, the caribou have recently diminished in number, and they're arriving ever later on the lower Ellice. They have not come yet.

On a small island, a few yards from shore, we spy musk ox. Beaching, Eddie and I sneak behind a convenient hill to within 100 yards. We can't see both horns, so we circle crosswind. A saddle above the animals reveals a herd of twenty-odd musk ox. On the far north end, a bedded bull shows the bulk and shaggy blond hump of an old patriarch. Crawling through rocks just above the beach, we come within seventy yards.

"Big one," Eddie whispers. The boss looks wide; the tips sweep up to the eyes. "Wait till he rises."

As I sling up, another bull spots us. Then another and another. One walks behind our target. I now imagine the great animal getting up, turning and walking away behind his herd mates. "As soon as he's clear, I'd like to shoot," I whisper. My crosswire rests, almost still, on the scapula. Eddie considers the idea, then nods.

The other bull takes his time, but at last he moves clear. The trigger breaks; the bullet's thwuck blends with the rifle's report, and the musk ox rolls over. After chambering a follow-up round, I wait, then walk up and fire a finisher. Musk ox bulls can weigh as much as young elk. The chest, twenty-eight inches deep, is protected by massive bone. My 150-grain Core-Lokt has broken the shoulder, anchoring the bull.

Linda and Dennis join us; the rest of the herd moves off slowly. Musk ox can be hard to approach within arrow range because in many places you have no cover. A rifle shot comes easily, though, and the rest of the herd commonly pays no attention. Most musk ox have little contact with people.

Eddie and Dennis expertly skin the bull. Musk ox hides are traditional floor coverings in igloos. For cold-weather clothing, Inuit prefer caribou. The hides are typically left untanned--just scraped very clean. They're then sewn into garments.

"We keep them outside to preserve the hair," said an Inuit woman, who in Cambridge Bay showed us lovely examples of caribou parkas. "Usually, one is worn hair-side-out. But on very cold days, we wear two, the inner parka with hair next to the skin."

By the end of the second day we've all found mature musk ox bulls. Diana and Dean killed a pair at 200 yards with a .30-06 and a .300 Ultra Mag. Ron and Dick used 7mm Remington Magnums, again at about 200 yards. Multiple shots were the rule. Even when fatally hit, the musk ox proved sturdy.

Alas, the Inuit cannot deliver caribou. The animals have apparently hung up in the south. Diana, then Dean and Linda, brave long ATV trips across bumpy tundra, probing west to find scattered resident bands. They return, after all-day poundings of up to 100 kilometers, with mediocre antlers. One day, Ron and I, with Eddie and his compatriot George, head into the gulf and motor east through moderate swells. Our mission: round White Bear Point to slide between Perry Island and the mainland. It's ninety kilometers one way.

A couple of hours out, swinging wide to avoid the reef off the point, Eddie beaches the skiff on a small island. We climb the rocks, past cairns erected long ago by Inuit for stashing meat. Piling rocks over kills kept bears, wolves and foxes off them until the snow allowed retrieval by sled.