High River Gun Grab

Check out the full, Broken Trust, documentary on the RCMP gun grab in High River. All gun owners should watch this. http://www.sunnewsnetwork.ca/video/featured/straight-talk-and-hard-news/868018287001/full-documentary-broken-trust-gun-grab-at-high-river/2923814901001

Too Close for Comfort

Too Close for Comfort

By Vanessa Harrop

Sitting in the Dueling Stone Outfitters booth at the 2011 SCI Convention in Reno, I was telling Jarrett Dueling about my dream to take a big old mountain grizzly bear. As luck would have it, Jarrett had an opening and suggested that I come to the Yukon that fall and check out an old burn in a remote corner of his outfitting concession. I’d be the first bear hunter ever in the area and it wasn’t long before we set about making plans.

Since my partner TJ had guided for Jarrett in the past, he suggested that TJ be my guide on this hunt. My thoughts immediately turned to a previous bear hunt TJ had guided me on. That hunt resulted with a three-year-old black bear climbing into our blind and having a stare down with me from just 12 inches away. Hopefully this hunt wouldn’t be a repeat performance.

It took two long days on the Alaska Highway to get from Calgary to Whitehorse and then, after a last night in a comfortable bed, we departed Whitehorse and headed up the pot-hole infested North Canol Road. The old World War II vehicles, abandoned during the construction of the Alaska Highway, dotted the road and were a stark reminder of just how remote the region was. After eight long hours of driving and one ferry ride, we made it to a picturesque little lake quite literally in the middle of nowhere. The remainder of our journey to camp would be done by float plane.

Before I knew it, we were fully loaded and strapped in the Otter for take-off.  My nose was pressed tight to the window and as the float broke free from the surface of the lake, we left all traces of civilization behind. I looked behind me and saw Jet, my pack dog for the adventure, comfortably sitting on one of the passenger seats checking out the view. A few minutes later, the plane made a sharp bank to the left and I saw the little lake that was to be home for the next two weeks. The pilot executed another perfect landing.

As the Otter taxied down the tiny lake, the realization came over me that it was just TJ, Jet and I on a small lake in the vast Yukon wilderness, with no other humans around for miles; no computers, no email, no cell phones. Pure Heaven! As I watched the Otter lift off the lake, I had a feeling that this was going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

Our plan at the time was to set up the wall tent as quickly as possible so that our gear didn’t get wet. “Quick” turned out to be a relative term. After struggling with the support poles for what seemed an eternity, my arms were quivering; it was time to take a brief break. In between guzzling water and wiping the sweat from my brow, I gazed across the lake, scanning for any signs of life. At the same moment, TJ pointed across the lake to what appeared to be a huge grizzly. A quick look through the binoculars confirmed our suspicion. His hulking body lumbered along the water’s edge, every now and then stopping to eat some berries or turn a rock in search of a tasty morsel. He was safe for now, however, as Yukon law required us to wait six hours before hunting. That night I couldn’t help but dream of that big bruin rambling along the lake’s edge.

I rose early the next morning in anticipation of the day ahead. After being crammed in a truck for so many days, it was very enjoyable to finally be able to stretch our legs. The landscape was scarred with a labyrinth of caribou trails and we spent the day making our way slowly along them, glassing the surrounding landscape. The palate of colors used to paint the fall landscape was amazing and even though we couldn’t locate the big bear, we saw lots of sign of his presence. My spirits were running high and it didn’t take much convincing to crawl in my sleeping bag that night. Nothing brings on a deep restful sleep better than a long day of fresh air and hiking.

The next morning I was awoken bright and early by the nudge of a very cold, wet nose. My eyelids fluttered open to see a black and white face staring at me. With a wag of his tail, Jet let me know that we had lollygagged in bed long enough and it was time to get hunting. After a quick breakfast and coffee, we got our packs ready. I completed a quick inventory: rifle – check, ammo – check, binoculars – check, tags and licenses – check.

We all piled into the 10’ inflatable raft; TJ at the helm, glassing to the right, I was glassing to the left and Jet had his eyes peeled towards the bow of the boat. All angles were covered. When we reached the end of the lake, TJ had suggested that we hit land and head up one of the ridges where we could get a better view of the area.

After an hour of tough climbing, we spotted two bull moose feeding in a beautiful meadow near the top of the ridge. At last, some wildlife! Jarrett’s area contains some of the best moose in the Yukon and as we watched the huge velvet-covered antlers sway to and fro as the big bull fed, I knew I’d be returning one day with a moose tag in my pocket but today it was bears we were after.

We pushed on further and as we crested the ridge, we were treated to the sight of a pristine glacier lake. I wrestled my pack off my back and sank down to my knees. Drinking in my beautiful surroundings, I turned and noticed TJ and Jet gorging themselves on big fat juicy blueberries. Not only were berries plentiful in the area but so was the bear scat. Jarrett was right; this was the perfect habitat for bears. TJ pulled out the spotting scope and found a grizzly bear on the ridge about 900 yards away. He felt it was a good bear but wanted to get a closer look to be certain.

We set off in a line; TJ in the lead, Jet at heel and me taking up the rear. My heart pounded rapidly. The adrenalin rush had set in. Each snap of a branch stopped us in our tracks. Every sense was at full alert. We made it to the base of a boulder-covered hump and dropped our packs.  TJ told Jet to stay and just to be safe, looped his leash around TJ’s pack. He looked over to me; I loaded my rifle and put the safety on. Belly crawling to the top of the hump, we hoped to see the bear, 100 or so yards away. I looked in the direction of where we’d last seen the big bear but saw nothing but willows and buck brush.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my right eye, I spotted movement. There he was working his way out of the bushes, not 40 yards from us. His beautiful golden hair shone bright in the afternoon sun. His head was so large it looked out of place on his body.

In one fluid movement I nudged TJ and then quickly positioned my rifle up on a rock. Every fibre of my being was vibrating and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing at full attention. I had him fully in my sights. He was slowly making his way along an old caribou trail, on a direct course toward us.  My heart was pounding so loudly I feared the bear would hear it. I was trying desperately to control my breathing. I kept thinking, “If only he’d turn for a broad-side shot”.  He was getting closer. I wished with all my might that he would just turn ever so slightly and expose his shoulder. Then he turned slightly.

 “Take him in the shoulder,” TJ whispered.

The bear took another step and I no longer had his shoulder in the crosshairs. All I could see was his giant noggin in the scope. I chanted to myself:   “patience… breath… patience... breath”.

Suddenly, he was no longer in my sights. How did that happen?  I looked at TJ in absolute horror, shrugging my shoulders and whispering “where’d he go!?”  What we hadn’t realized was that there was a dip in the trail he was on. Squatted behind a rock, I swivelled my body to the right in a blind attempt to approximate the bear’s location. I caught TJ out of the corner of my eye popping up and down like a mole in a Whack-A-Mole game, filming every little bit he could capture.  He whispered “get ready, he’s caught our wind.” 

I stayed crouched behind the rock, waiting for the go ahead but all I heard was “He’s continuing on the trail.” 

My heart sank...what were we going to do? TJ popped up again for a quick look. As he came down, he looked me in the eye and whispered, “he’s nine yards away, your rifle is pointed directly at him...you are going to have to stand up and end this now!”

Breathing in deeply, I attempted to calm any nerves I had left. A complete calm enveloped me. Knowing what needed to be done; I glanced over to TJ and gave the nod.  In one swift movement, I rose and brought the rifle to my shoulder. My eyes met the giant grizzly’s and we exchanged glares. I controlled my breath and my finger gently squeezed the trigger on the .338. The rifle belched, and I could see the hide on the bear’s right shoulder ripple at the impact of the 225 grain bullet. He spun around and ran full tilt down the ridge and into the trees. TJ yelled, “Reload! Reload!”  I rushed to reload and got the bear back in my sights just in time to see him tumble head over heels over the crest of the ridge.

You couldn’t have wiped the smile off my face if you tried. Adrenaline was once again coursing through my veins and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. It dawned on me that I had just taken a giant grizzly bear at a mere nine yards; 27 feet; 324 inches.  I felt confident in the shot but we were going to have to follow his trail over a steep side-hill, surrounded by willows, buck bush and burned trees; not exactly the safest place to go in after a potentially wounded bear.

TJ dropped the video camera in favour of a rifle. We cautiously walked in, parallel to one another, rifles pointed in the direction where we last saw the bear. TJ spotted him first. He glanced over to me with a big smile and walked in confidently seeing that the bear had truly expired.

I jumped up and gave TJ a big hug! I had my dream bear and what a bear he was! I bent down and lifted his paw and saw that it was the same size as my head. One swift swipe of his paw and my head would have been a bowling ball. We took our time skinning the big bear out and it was about three hours later when we rolled the 100 pound hide up and stuffed it into TJ’s pack.

I reflected on the events of the day during the long hike back to the raft. I was proud of myself. I’d taken one of North America’s most dangerous predators at only nine yards and I’d been able to remain calm and collected. What an amazing hunt!

It’s a bit ironic that I’d spent countless hours shooting at long ranges to prepare myself for the hunt when in reality, it should have been short range shooting that I was practicing. That may just have been a little too close for comfort.

 

 

Spring Bear Hunt

Just received this from our friends at SCI

Folks:

I know it may affect you directly, but our Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources is proposing to bring back the spring bear hunt in parts of Northern Ontario. We need all the support we can get on this....

Get onto the site and vote for reintroduction of spring bear hunt and pass this along to as many hunters as you can. Let’s not let the antis decide this for us.

http://www.torontosun.com/2013/11/14/ontario-bringing-back-spring-bear-huntSee More

Melissa Bachman

It's encouraging seeing hunters rallying in support of Melissa Bachman....now if we could only hold those in our own ranks to the same standards when they start bashing on other hunters and imposing their personal ethics. Anti hunters are a concern....but hunters publically bashing other hunters will be the end of our great heritage!

EHD confirmed in Alberta deer and antelope

 I was working down in the region when these deer started showing up and it appeared that EHD was to blame and it seems tests have confirmed it. Hopefully it was just a result of the unseasonably warm fall and not a sign of things to come.

http://www.healthywildlife.ca/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/EHD-in-Alberta-2013.pdf

Great Pacific Adventure

Great Pacific Adventure

By T.J. Schwanky

 

 

There are many towns and cities across British Columbia that claim to be the salmon capitol of the world but I’m not sure you’d find a place more deserving than Prince Rupert. This quaint little costal town has been the hub of salmon fishing activity since the late 1800s when countless commercial canneries dotted the nearby shorelines. While a profitable commercial fishery still exists in the region, it’s sport fishing now, however, that brings most fishermen to Prince Rupert. For some reason, I’d never fished this region so when SCI supporter, Jamie Hunt of Great Pacific Salmon Lodge suggested we come up and check out his new lodge, Vanessa and I jumped at the opportunity. We managed to talk a few friends into joining us and Jamie gave us run of the lodge. We’d be his only guests for four days.

 

Vanessa and I arrived a day early which gave us the opportunity to check out the town and enjoy some of the local fare. Right along the waterfront adjacent to our hotel was the Cow Bay Shopping District. This historic part of town offers a number of great shops and fabulous restaurants; the highlight of which was dinner at the Cow Bay Café. This tiny little restaurant is world renown for their fusion cuisine and reservations are an absolute must. The town is also rife with totem poles and being real fans of these Native monuments, Vanessa and I took a few hours to go check them out. Many were brought over from Vancouver Island and the Queen Charlottes many years ago and they are unquestionably some of the most incredible totem poles I’ve ever seen.

 

Spending a day in town was a great way to acclimate to the West Coast pace but we were ready to go fishing the following day. Great Pacific Salmon Lodge is the only lodge right in Prince Rupert. It is located on a sleepy little island directly across from town so despite Prince Rupert only being a few minute boat ride away, you still feel like you are in a wilderness setting. The lodge itself is a converted house and it offers all of the amenities, including a chef that offers up some of the most incredible West Coast cuisine. Jamie has a fleet of three well-appointed boats with guides and also offers a service for anglers wishing to utilize their own boats and fish on their own.

 

The first day found us heading north for a couple of hours and as we rounded the corner of a particularly rocky point, our guide, Matt Anderson, pointed to a steep rock wall. “We’ll start there.”

 

Matt worked quickly to set up a couple rods with cut-plug herring and in no time both downrigger cables were singing in the morning breeze. We were right at the tail end of the Chinook run and Coho could be seen jumping everywhere but Matt figured if we put our time in that we could still pick up some monster Chinook. Vanessa really had her heart set on catching a Tyee and of course there were the bragging rights that went along with hooking the biggest fish.

 

Just as Matt was heading back to grab the steering wheel, the first rod began to bounce. Vanessa picked it up out of the holder and under Matt’s careful supervision, reeled down until it was tight and then she set the hook hard and began feverishly reeling. In no time she had our first fish of the trip to the boat; a fat eight pound Coho.  For the next 30 minutes or so, we caught and released another half dozen Coho when Matt suddenly said, “Oh no.”

 

On the horizon, water spouts could be seen rising out of the water. They were moving ever closer and even this prairie boy knew that a pod of killer whales was on the way. I was actually pretty thrilled to see some whales but little did I realize that a pod of orcas moving through the fishing grounds is similar to a pack of wolves invading your favourite moose swamp. The whales passed beside and under the boat and Vanessa and I jockeyed for position to gain the best view for our cameras. We could feel the spray on our faces as the whales surfaced. Once the exhilaration of seeing them so close ended, however, the realization that our hotspot was now devoid of salmon became all too clear. Matt suggested we head out to deeper water and try our luck for halibut.

 

We enjoyed a great afternoon of halibut fishing and decided to head back to the lodge about 4:00 in the afternoon. Fishing camps with buddies are always a great time and this was no different. There were plenty of tales of the ones that got away and plenty too of the ones brought to the scale. Everyone had a great day, although it seemed the killer whales had made their presence known right down the coast. After an incredible meal of fresh Dungeness crab, we enjoyed an evening on the deck, watching the sun go down on Prince Rupert.

 

We were up early the next morning and Matt wanted to head right back to where we had started the day before and this time the horizon was clear of water spouts. It didn’t take long for Vanessa to hook into her first Chinook, a 24 pound beauty. I followed shortly after with a 26 pounder and then a number of boats started to slowly move in on our position. We’d had the spot all to ourselves but it was hard to hide the excitement of catching the big fish on the single-action reels. We continued to work the steep wall with cut plug but the action definitely slowed. A few of the boats around us were boating big fish and you could see Matt’s frustration was growing. He asked Vanessa to reel one of the rods in.

 

Matt rummaged through a tackle tray and pulled out a big Atomic plug. “Let’s try something different.”

 

It didn’t take long for the plug to hook up with a couple fat Coho but when the rod doubled over and the line began to sing as it spooled off the reel, we knew it wasn’t another Coho. Vanessa grabbed the rod and tried to get her palm on the spool without the wildly spinning handles removing the skin from her knuckles. This fish was different than any other we’d hooked so far and it led us on a wild chase down the rocky shoreline. Each time Vanessa would gain a few feet of precious line, the huge fish would take a few yards. While I’m sure it took no more than 15 or 20 minutes for Vanessa to get the big Chinook boat side, it seemed an eternity.  We all let out a big sigh of relief as Matt slipped the net under the behemoth. Vanessa had her Tyee and then some.

 

While we never did top the weight of Vanessa’s Atomic salmon, several more Tyee came to the boat and by the end of the third day we had caught several hundred fish I’m sure. Most went back to complete their journey up the nearby rivers to spawn, we did manage to bring home nearly 150 pounds of processed salmon and halibut. It had been several years since I’d last fished the Coast but this trip definitely reignited a passion for fishing these monsters of the West Coast. I will definitely be going back to fish with Jamie and the great crew at Great Pacific Salmon Lodge.

 

For more information on booking your own Great Pacific adventure, Contact Great Pacific Salmon Lodge, Jamie Hunt, at 1-855-227-4775 or check them out on-line at www.greatpacificsalmonlodge.com

It's only a broken arm!

Vanessa has had a tough season this year, taking a fall on a goat hunt in October and badly breaking her arm. She ended up in surgery three weeks later and I don't think anyone figured she'd be hunting this fall. But, despite broken arm and all, Vanessa knocked this big boy down at 542 yards yesterday afternoon. The Creedmoor draws blood!!!!!!

New Zealand Adventure

Hunting, New Zealand Style

By T.J. Schwanky

 

Selecting an outfitter for a hunt can be a daunting task, especially when you are wandering around the Safari Club International convention and there are roughly 44 of them offering similar services. This is the dilemma we faced a couple years ago when trying to book our New Zealand hunt.  We did have a few very definite criterion that eliminated a few but there were still quite a number to choose from. We definitely wanted to hunt the South Island and we wanted to do a free-range hunt without the use of helicopters. We preferred a small operation with some very personal service and we wanted a good opportunity to take some mature animals. After that we were pretty open to anything. I've learned from years of traveling that it's good to know what you want but also be open minded enough to hear what is realistic. Vanessa and I spent the better part of three days meeting and chatting with outfitters and at the end of it all, there was one that really stood out. Gerald and Sue Telford are, as my Mom would say, just nice folks and in the end, that was the deciding factor on who we booked with. There were many others that offered similar hunts but we just really liked them and a trip was arranged for the following year.

We had a pretty long wish list that included a red stag, chamois and tahr for me and fallow deer, arapowa ram and tahr for Vanessa. New Zealand has no native land mammals and everything that walks on four legs can be traced back to early settlers bringing them over on ships, primarily from England. As there are no predators, save for ferrets and weasels in New Zealand, larger animals flourish and can only be controlled through hunting.  It truly is a hunter's paradise with a very unique list of huntable species.  There are no specified hunting seasons, no licences are required and there are no limits on harvest numbers, yet they still can't keep up with exploding populations. We booked 10 days of hunting with Gerald and Sue. They felt checking off everything on our list wouldn't be an issue.

Getting from Canada to New Zealand is relatively painless now that there are direct flights from Vancouver to Auckland and New Zealand is a super gun friendly country so taking your own rifle along is not a problem at all. As we knew we could face some long-range shots, especially for the tahr and chamois, we chose to take my Rocky Mountain Rifle chambered in 270WSM. It wears a Zeiss 4.5-14x44 Conquest with Rapid Z 800 and both Vanessa and I were very comfortable shooting it out to 500 yards and spent the month before the hunt doing a lot of long-range shooting. While Gerald also caters to bow hunters and enjoys extremely high success rates, he felt with the long wish list that we had, that being able to shoot 400 yards would definitely stack the odds in our favour.

We arrived a couple days early in Wanaka to give us some time to get over the jet lag that 17 hours of flying can cause and after a couple easy hikes and checking the zero on our rifles, we were off hunting. Gerald was tied up for the first couple days so he teamed us up with a young guide by the name of Duncan. The plan was to hunt Arapowa ram first as Gerald felt it would be the toughest animal to get. While these sheep closely resemble their domestic cousins, they have been feral for centuries and are indeed very wild and challenging to hunt. In fact, after a long day in the mountains we only managed to spot a couple small rams. Exhausted from the long day of hiking, Duncan suggested we head to another area to try and located a big red stag that Gerald had tried unsuccessfully to get a hunter on earlier in the season. It was a long shot but we were game.

After a strenuous climb, we arrived at a beautiful meadow tucked away deep in the trees. The rut was pretty well over and in the strong wind, it's not like we could have heard the distant roar of a stag anyhow. Duncan spotted them first. There were four cows or hinds as they are called and one small stag. I studied them carefully through the binoculars and suddenly another stag walked into view. I looked to Duncan for direction but he seemed somewhat unimpressed. "Is that good stag?" I whispered.

 

"A really good one."

It was in fact the stag that Gerald had tried to take earlier in the year. Duncan whispered something about it only being the first day. I'd seen all I needed to see and after having Duncan reassure me one more time that it was indeed a tremendous trophy, I leveled the crosshairs on the big bull's shoulder at just over 200 yards. The shot rocked him hard and after taking a couple steps forward, he careened backward and slid down the steep slope. The stag was an absolutely magnificent free-range specimen and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. First day or not, I couldn’t have been happier.

The following day, Duncan suggested we head higher into the mountains in search of chamois. While a diminutive trophy, chamois inhabit the most inhospitable terrain imaginable. Mountain goats would get a case of vertigo trying to follow in their footsteps. A very steep road led us to the top of the mountain and the plan was to check out several long ridges and then drop several thousand feet to a road below, hopefully with a chamois in our pack.

 

We spotted several female chamois after hiking a short distance. There were a few small males in the area but nothing that interested us. Then, Duncan spotted a good male across a steep canyon and as the rut was just beginning, he suggested we get closer to the females with the hopes the buck would come to check them out. It took a couple hours to make our way down the steep cliff and as if on cue, the buck began moving our way. An hour later, he was standing broadside at 165 yards. It was an easy shot and as the crosshairs settled just behind his shoulder, I had no doubt of the outcome as I tightened up on the trigger.  Rocks exploded just above the chamois and he scrambled down the cliff and quickly disappeared. I'd shot high. The six-hour hike to the bottom of the mountain couldn't have been longer.

There were still a couple of hours of daylight left when we reached the bottom and Duncan suggested we go take a look for an Arapowa ram.  We were both surprised when after walking only a short distance, we spotted a lone ram at just under 400 yards. With light fading fast and no way to get closer, Vanessa found a comfortable shooting position and gave us a thumbs up. With one well-placed shot she sent the big ram tumbling down the hill. She had her Arapowa ram, a unique trophy indeed.

 

The following day, Gerald took over the guiding duties and promised us an easier day than the previous two. The break sounded welcome. At first light, we were overlooking a steep drainage where Gerald felt there was likely to be a good fallow buck. It didn't take us long to locate a young buck in the heavy cover below. With the rut in full swing, Gerald felt that there had to be more fallow deer nearby. After an hour or so, a big buck suddenly appeared and aggressively ran the little buck off. I could tell by the way Gerald's face lit up that it was indeed a good one. Vanessa slipped a round into the 270 and waited for the big buck to offer a suitable shot. Finally, at 312 yards, he stopped and turned broadside. At the shot, the buck simply began walking up the hill apparently unscathed. But, after a few steps he began to falter and tipped over backwards, the victim of a perfect heart shot.

 

The following day, Gerald suggested we try for chamois again. We headed to a new area and after a short drive, struck off of on foot. After checking out a couple very steep drainages, Gerald spotted a good buck on the opposite side of a particularly nasty canyon. The problem was that he was over 400 yards away and there was no way of getting closer. With the miss two days previous still weighing heavy on my mind, my confidence was shaken but with a little coaxing from Gerald, I found a semi-comfortable shooting position and everything felt good. I was well practiced at ranges well beyond that of the chamois and I gave Gerald a nod. As the last echo of the shot reverberated through the steep canyon, I heard Gerald say, "Good shot." It took us over two hour and some very precarious climbing to get to the downed chamois and I must admit that a great feeling of redemption came over me.

 

There were no tahr in the region we were hunting, so the following day we drove three hours northwest to a sprawling sheep station and that evening we did a short climb and put a couple really good bulls to bed. Originally from the Himalayas, tahr are right at home in the steep mountains of the South Island. It was still early in the season and the bulls were just beginning to grow their lush, long hair coats. Just before dark we located one bull that absolutely glistened in the setting sun. His coat was magnificent compared to all the other bulls and he sported a very impressive set of horns. Vanessa nicknamed him Puffy and he was the focus of attention for the following day.

 

We were up early the following morning and we located the group of bulls not far from where we had put them to bed. It was going to be an arduous 2,000-foot climb but with the tahr in sight, adrenaline carried us up the mountain. After a few hours of playing hide and seek in the dips and folds, Puffy appeared directly above us, about 300 yards away. Vanessa found a comfortable shooting spot, extended the legs on the bipod and found the big bull in her scope. Gerald confirmed that it was indeed the bull we were after and told Vanessa to shoot when she was ready. As the bull stepped onto a rocky outcropping, Vanessa seized the opportunity and placed a perfect shot right in his heart. We were back to camp for lunch.

 

We had seen some more tahr on an adjacent mountain and Gerald suggested we head out late that afternoon and try to put one to bed for the following day. After lunch, we climbed about 500 feet up the mountain and glassed for a while. Then Gerald suggested we climb a bit more. Vanessa gave me one of those looks. We knew that our scouting mission was actually a hunt and for the next few hours, Gerald urged us up the mountain, a couple hundred feet at a time. Soon, we had gained a couple thousand feet and were near where we had seen tahr earlier. Darkness was coming on fast and Gerald suggested we do one last climb to a small copse of trees, from where we would glass until dark. Just as we reached the trees, Gerald hit the dirt and trained his binoculars on the opposite slope. I desperately searched for the focus of his attention but couldn't find it. "It’s a good bull. Take him," Gerald said matter-of-factly. Vanessa had the camera pointed across the valley. "I've got him," she said confidently.

 

Still desperately searching, I finally saw moment high on the slope. I looked through the binoculars and the rangefinder said 326 yards. As if on autopilot, I extended the legs on the bipod and found a comfortable spot in the dirt. Gerald urged me to hurry, as the bull would soon disappear over the ridge. Just as I found him in the scope, the bull paused and the 300 yard crosshair settled high on his shoulder. The report of the rifle surprised me but I had no doubt that the 130 grain bullet had found its mark. The big tahr ran a few steps and then tumbled several hundred yards down the hill. It was well after dark when we staggered back into camp. While Gerald said he had taken two tahr at once several times, this was the first time he'd had hunters do it on two separate mountains on the same day.

 

In six days we had taken six great animals so Gerald suggested we take a day off and then over the course of the next few days, he treated us to some long-range rabbit hunting, Vanessa took a couple of big mature Merriam's turkey and we enjoyed an incredible night of possum hunting. The best way to describe New Zealand is a very target-rich environment.

 

For more information, contact:

Telford Fishing and Hunting Services

http://flyfishhunt.co.nz/

Late Season Sheep Hunting

Late-season sheep hunting at its best...... -20 temperatures, a blizzard that dropped over a foot of snow, dehydration, lack of food and good times with a good buddy . No rams but did see a few. Dropped 9 pounds in four days. Had one hell of a scary trip out in some country that is best only accessed in the summer. One more kick at the cat tomorrow and the 2013 sheep season is a wrap.

Gana River Dall Sheep

No Country For Old Men

By T.J. Schwanky

 

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they have to come to terms with their own mortality. For many, this epiphany comes with the loss of a close loved one and for others, a bad accident or other near-death experience brings with it the realization that they won’t live forever. And, as I sat in the rocky creek bottom, sweat stinging my eyes, I too was beginning to realize that I was old. I was hunting the Mackenzie Mountains for Dall sheep with Gana River Outfitters and it was day 5 or 6, I don’t remember exactly but I was exhausted. We’d covered well over 40 miles already, including moving camp three times and the 80 pound pack was taking its toll. We were in the process of yet another big move with full packs, hoping that a look over the 3,000 foot ridge to the north would yield the ever elusive rams we sought. Trevor Shulist, my guide, mumbled something about setting the record for the most miles that he’d ever covered on a backpack hunt. It was a record I was pleased not to hold but it seemed the sheep had other plans.

I was half way through my 50th year of life, with 26 of those years spent chasing sheep in the mountains of Alberta, British Columbia and the Yukon. I’d been fortunate to take a handful of rams during those years and I’d been along on another dozen or so successful kills. The mountains had been good to me but then again, time has a way of erasing the hardships. My Stone ram had come on day 18 of a 14-day hunt but I didn’t remember it as being that bad. I’d suffered severe frostbite on my feet on a bighorn hunt in Alberta but my feet only bothered me when it got cold outside. It really wasn’t that bad. But, this hunt seemed different. I was physically drained and mentally exhausted. I was feeling old.  I was feeling wore out. Trevor made a move to get up. I grunted as I brought the big pack to my shoulder. I felt as if I were just entering a 12-step program for addiction as I mumbled to myself, “One step at a time.”

Perhaps the words were somewhat prophetic. Sheep hunting is an addiction to me. I wondered how much longer my body would allow me to pursue my passion. Turning 50 is not all it’s cracked up to be. You are too young to get a discount at the buffets in Vegas, there is no monthly government check and not everything works like it used to. Foreplay begins with a glass of water and a blue pill and somehow polyester pants and shoes with Velcro laces seem fashionable. I pulled the waistband of my pants a little closer to my armpits and trudged on.

Backpack sheep hunts are an endeavour for the young. Old bodies aren’t meant to carry big loads for days on end. They are better suited to a stroll around the golf course or sitting on a lawn chair waiting for a fish to take a bait.  “Watch out,” Trevor called back to me over the sound of another 700 pound rock sliding out from beneath his feet. I could see he wasn’t impressed. There didn’t appear to be a solid piece of footing on the entire mountainside.

It was late afternoon when we reached the base of the ridge. Black clouds building in the west threatened of impending rain. Trevor and I hurried to set our tents up. Flat spots on the rocky creek bottom were at a premium so we settled for “not too rocky” in our choice of locations. The first raindrops of the trip began to fall. “You want anything to eat?” Trevor asked.

“Not really but we better.” I knew we would be stuck in our tents for a long time if the storm settled in. A crack of thunder from the west reconfirmed my thoughts.

It’s funny but I never really tire of eating meals from a foil pouch. Some years I’m sure I ingest 50 or 60 of them over the course of the season but I treat each one as a gourmet dining experience. Food is definitely a necessity on a backpack trip and I long ago learned that your body cannot afford to skip one. Food was the last thing on my mind at that moment but my body needed fuel and I dug through the nylon bag, examining each package as carefully as I’d study the menu at a fancy French restaurant. “Lasagne tonight,” I proclaimed. Trevor laughed.

The rain was falling at a steady pace now. I lapped up my lasagne and crawled into the confines of my tent. Little did I know that it would become home for the next 18 hours. The rain continued throughout the night and the occasional clap of thunder and blinding flash of lightning was a stark reminder that we were at the mercy of the elements; and time was running out on the hunt. I huddled in my down sleeping bag and said a silent prayer that the morning would bring improved weather. It did not!

It wasn’t until around three in the afternoon that the weather broke enough for us to emerge from our tents. We discussed our options and seeing as it was light until midnight, we decided to head north over a high ridge and see where our travels took us. It was all unexplored territory but with only a couple days remaining, it was the only country left to look at. While neither of us said it, we both knew that it could be a long time until we saw our cozy little camp again.

Our journey took us up and over three ridges and several miles to the north before we finally spotted some rams. There were seven of them but all appeared to be fairly young. They were spread out across a grassy ridge and we both agreed that it was quite possible that additional rams remained unseen. Getting closer for a better look, however, was out of the question. There was absolutely no way to approach unseen. We hadn’t come this far to screw it up now. There were two additional basins to the east still to check out so we decided that was our best option. We both agreed the rams we were looking at weren’t likely to go far.

We had to side hill our way around a mountain to reach the next basin. Walking on the steep, unstable slopes had become routine and one barely even noticed when a rock of several hundred pounds would slip out beneath your feet. It was one foot after the other on a slope covered in 200-pound marbles. I was almost surprised every time my foot came to rest on a rock that didn’t move. It was nearly 11:00 pm when we reached a shale saddle on the far side of the mountain. Trevor picked up several rams in his binoculars right away. I quickly found them in mine too. There were five in total and they were rapidly disappearing from sight. One of the rams looked mature but that was all either of us could tell. It was going to take another three hour journey around yet another unstable mountain to get a better look at them.

With twilight nearly upon us, neither Trevor nor I were keen on following the rams nor were we keen on making the four-hour journey back to camp. We looked around for a soft spot in the rocks and resigned ourselves to a long cold night on the mountain. Neither of us had our sleeping bags so we donned every piece of clothing we had with us and bedded down on the cold ground beneath a tarp. I’ve never had a good night’s sleep on one of these impromptu camping adventures and this night was to be no different and somewhere around 4:00 am, we were both shivering so bad that we knew we had to get up. I facetiously asked Trevor if he’d slept well. “I did not!” was all he replied.

After some calisthenics and hot tea, we loaded up our gear and started around the next mountain for a look into the basin where the rams had headed the evening before. The journey took a couple hours but we soon found ourselves overlooking seven rams, about 500 yards below. One ram was definitely worth a closer look and we soon had the spotting scope set up. Trevor took the first look and I could tell it was not what he was hoping to see. “Here you take a look,” he said while passing me the spotting scope.

As I focused on the ram, I could see that he was easily full curl and likely stretched the tape to 36 inches. “Eight?” I whispered.

“Yup”

It was a ram that I’d have not given a second glance on day two or three of the hunt but here it was day seven and we had a two day pack out. Basically we had one more day to hunt. “What do you think?” I asked Trevor?

“Your call but just answer yourself one question….is that the ram you came all the way up here to kill?”

I handed the scope back to Trevor. “Let’s go see if we can find those rams we saw yesterday.”

It was late in the afternoon on day seven before we were finally looking at the object of our quest; a big, old Dall sheep ram. My Zeiss binoculars read 479 yards. I’d been shooting out to 600 yards all summer and as I settled the 500 yard crosshair low on the ram’s shoulder, I couldn’t believe how good everything felt. The crosshair was rock solid on the perfectly broadside ram. The world around me disappeared. I caressed the trigger with my index finger, knowing that a scant two pounds of pressure would cause it to unleash the firing pin and set in motion a series of events that would be catastrophic for one of us. If my aim was true, the results of the 140-grain bullet striking the ram’s shoulder would be devastating. If my aim wasn’t true, the past seven days of blood and sweat would have been in vain. I felt as though the weight of the world rested on my shoulders and I’d placed it there.

Trevor’s voice snapped me out of my trance. “Wadda ya think? Trevor asked.

What did I think indeed. After some 26 years of hunting sheep and nearly four decades of chasing big game, I’ve come to understand that not only is it important to learn when to take the shot, it’s equally, if not more important to know when not to take the shot. My mind had been like a computer from the first moment we spotted the ram, computing the angle, distance, wind speed and host of other variables. If there is one thing that long-range shooting has taught me, it’s to be patient and to assess all of the variables. A stiff breeze caressed the back of my neck. “I think we should wait,” I responded.

While I was well practiced at the range, there were two things working against me: the wind and the severe angle of the shot, both of which can drastically affect your point of impact. There were three rams in total and they were right in the middle of a basin that more closely resembled the dark side of the moon than quality sheep range. There were a few scattered patches of grass here and there but both Trevor and I felt the rams had to move. And, no matter which direction they went, it put us in a position for a better shot.

While we were content to wait, time was running out quickly. Trevor and I sat on the Dall rams for the remainder of the day and they never left the safety of the basin. I put the crosshairs on the big boy several times but I just had a nagging feeling that I should wait. So just before dark we elected to make the long descent to camp. Neither of us was in any condition to spend another night on the mountain but the prospect of another long climb back to the basin in the morning didn’t thrill us either. Common sense finally overruled desire and we descended to the tents several thousand feet below. It was a restless night in the tent as I constantly second guessed my decision.

We were up early the next morning and overlooking the basin once again. The rams had moved closer to the ridge on the east side of the basin so we decided to make our way around the mountain and hopefully intercept them as they ascended the ridge. It took us nearly three hours to reach the ridge above them and much to our relief, they were still in the bottom, right at the base of the ridge. The rangefinder now read 391 yards. I was feeling much more confident. We assessed the situation and decided to make our way down the ridge as far as we could without being detected.

It was a couple hours later when the largest ram, the object of our attention, started to climb the ridge. He was coming up further to the north than we had anticipated but we were pinned down and just had to let things play out. I kept track of the ram through the binoculars. He was 371 yards when I felt the wind brush the back of my neck. The ram came to attention a few seconds later. Steadying the rifle on a rock, I found the ram in the scope and placed the 350 yards crosshair high on his shoulder. While not shooting had been the right decision till now, the time had come to shoot or the ram would be gone. At the report of the 270WSM, the ram literally flipped over in the air and landed with all four feet pointing skyward.

Sitting in the comfort of my office chair writing this story, I have to admit that the hunt really wasn’t that bad. Sure, it took us two days to get the ram and camp down to the river bottom where Bill could pick us up with the Super Cub and sure Trevor strained his back so badly on the pack out that he was forced to miss the next hunt because he basically couldn’t walk but honestly it wasn’t that bad...not for a young guy like me anyhow. It’s funny how time has a way of taking the harsh realities of hunts gone by and leaving only those fond memories in the grey recesses of our minds. I’m already planning this season’s backpack adventures. The polyester pants and Velcro shoes are just going to have to wait and I’ve never really liked golf anyhow.

 

 

The author hunted Dall sheep in 2010 with Gana River Outfitters, www.ganariver.com. He used a Rocky Mountain Rifle Thinhorn chambered in 270WSM and topped with a Zeiss 4.5-14x44 Conquest scope with Rapid Z 800 reticle. He was shooting Winchester Supreme ammunition with 140-grain Accubond bullets. He also used a set of Zeiss 10x45 Victory binoculars with integrated rangefinder

 

Tough as Nails

Well, we were supposed to be goat hunting this week but Vanessa took a very innocent looking fall on the way into goat camp and ended up breaking both her radius and ulna on her left arm. She was wearing a 55 pound pack at the time which likely caused the break. We fashioned a splint out of some branches and a tensor, made a sling out of one of my shirts and loaded her up with Tylenol before beginning the long journey out. We had a 2.5 hike through some very steep and very nasty terrain, then a one-hour quad ride on a very rough and sketchy trail, then 16 kms in the truck on a rough logging trail and finally a three hour drive on pavement to the hospital. She was one tough cookie and took it all in stride.

It just goes to show, however, that one needs to be prepared for the worst when out hunting because things can.....and will go wrong. Knowledge of first aid is critical, as is having the right gear with you paramount. It's a very bad injury that will require surgery but as always, it could have been worse.

Hunt report from Azerbaijan

Hunt: Tur in Azerbaijan
Dates: Sept 5-11, 2013
Outfitter: Bryan Martin, Asian Mountain Outfitters
Gear: RMR 270WSM, 130 grain GMX, Zeiss 4.5-14x44 with Rapid Z 800

We flew to Baku via Frankfurt and all flights were good other than when we arrived in Baku, our guns didn't. We spent one night in Baku and then drove 5 hours to Sheki the following morning where we stayed at a small guest house. Mirbala made arrangements to have our guns delivered the following day. They arrived around 10:00am and we made plans to head to the mountains. I was hunting with my buddy Pat in one camp and the other two hunters would be heading for another camp.

Our journey began in the back of an old Russian truck that took us two hours up a rough creek bed where our guides were waiting with four horses. We loaded the horses and made the four hour trek up to base camp at 8,000 feet. It was comprised of several small nylon tents and a permanent rock structure which served as both kitchen and dining area. We got settled in that afternoon and prepared for our hunt the following day.

We all left camp together at around 7:30am and climbed to around 12,000 feet, where we ridge walked about five or six miles in search of tur. Around noon we found a band of good looking rams but they were in some very nasty terrain. We played cat and mouse with them for most of the afternoon but were unable to get close enough for a shot. Late in the afternoon, the rams moved into a canyon and our guides figured we could get above them and hopefully get a shot. After some very scary traversing of a ridge, we got above the tur but they were over 500 yards and the shot was about 60 degrees downhill. Our guides were confident that even if we missed the shot that the tur would run uphill. Pat graciously offered me the shot at the huge ram that was likely in the 38" range. I ended up holding for 350 yards and hit just slightly low, sending the tur fleeing, not uphill but for the opposite side of the valley. Our day was over. We arrived back in camp long after dark and after a quick supper fell fast to sleep.

The following morning the wind had shifted and our guides seemed very concerned that the weather was about to change so we elected to split up, with me heading back where we had been the previous day and Pat heading to another mountain range the opposite direction.

It was around noon when we spotted a group of tur on a distant mountain and my guides figured they were worth checking out. There were about a dozen and all were quite young save for one very old broomed ram. They were is some nasty cliffs and approaching them was going to be impossible, until the fog rolled in that is. We took advantage of the cover and dropped about 1,500 feet elevation at a very rapid pace, stopping to hide only when the fog disappeared. Amazingly, we got within range of the rams without being detected and I was offered an easy broadside shot at the biggest ram. I put him down almost instantly with the 130 grain bullet.

I was determined to get to my downed trophy so for the next hour we cut out foot holds in the shale, scaled waterfalls and moved across cliffs. One slip meant a nasty fall of about 2,000 feet and certain death. We got within about 50 yards of the downed ram and it seemed there was no way to get closer. My guides told me to stay put while the checked out a route. For the next hour they tried several different approaches. It was the most careful and nervous I'd seen them on the entire trip. Finally they told me that it was just too dangerous and that I should stay put. It was definitely a bitter sweet moment. I had my trophy of my dreams but I could not get to it and they were right, the chance of me slipping and falling to my death was real. I wedged myself behind a rock on the cliff and waited for them to return with my tur.

We took some photos with the head after climbing out of the canyon and then started the long journey back to camp. We arrived about 11:00pm and were shocked to see Pat had not returned. I waited until about midnight and then went to bed, figuring they'd be spending the night on the mountain but around 3:00am, I could hear Pat yelling outside. He too had been successful on a great ram.

The weather came in the next day so we just hung around camp and admired our trophies. The following day we descended to the river valley in the rain where the old Russian truck took us back to the guest house. We headed back to Baku the following day and spent a couple days touring before heading home.

This trip is definitely not for the faint of heart although drives can be organized for those not able to traverse some of the steeper country. One of the other hunters with us was 66 and he took a nice ram on a driven hunt but is was no walk in the park either. This is without a doubt one of the greatest hunting adventures there is. I have to give credit to Bryan as this hunt is one of the most organized I've ever been on and there wasn't a single time where things didn't go as promised. The people were absolutely wonderful and very knowledgeable and the food was really good. We had a cook in camp that prepared hot food both for breakfast and dinner every day. The gear was good too and we each had our own tent and the horses were incredibly tough. This hunt truly is a bargain in the world of sheep/goat hunting and I'd highly recommend it!

My tur was broomed and measured 32" and is 9.5 years old.

Tur-iffic Hunr

Just got back to Baku after one of the toughest hunts of my life. I'll share more details later but it was a great adventure!

Posted with Blogsy

Interesting thoughts on wolves

James Swan | August 14, 2013

All across North America, efforts are underway to restore wolf populations. Much of the press has painted a rosy picture of co-existing with wolves. For another opinion, I talked with ethologist Dr. Valerius Geist. Val has published 17 books on wildlife and large mammals (humans included) and served 27 years as a professor at the University of Calgary.

During some 50 years in the field, he had observed wolves on many occasions. “My early experiences with mainland wolves indicated that they were inquisitive, intelligent, but shy and cautious. During my academic career and four years into retirement I thought of wolves as harmless, echoing the words of many North American colleagues. I was wrong!”

He changed his mind when he retired to Vancouver Island in 1995, where he and his wife found themselves living with wolves as neighbors. He relayed some of his first-hand experience with them to me:

"The meadows and forests near our home contained about 120 blacktail deer and half a dozen large male black bears. In winter came some 60 to 80 trumpeter swans, large flocks of Canada geese, widgeons, mallards, and green-winged teal. Pheasants and ruffed grouse were not uncommon. In the fall of 1995 I saw one track of a lone wolf. Then in January 1999 my son and I tracked a pair of wolves in the snow. A pack arrived that summer. Within three months not a deer was to be seen, or tracked, in these meadows–even during the rut. We saw deer at night huddling against barns and houses, where deer had not been seen previously. For the first time deer moved into our garden and around our house. The damage to our fruit trees and roses skyrocketed. The trumpeter swans left. The tame geese and ducks avoided the outer meadows and lived only close to the barns. Pheasants and ruffed grouse vanished. The landscape looked empty, as if vacuumed of wildlife."

Eventually the wolves became even more of a problem. Geist explains: “These wolves progressively became bolder, seeking out human habitation, killing and maiming pets and livestock, and inspecting and confronting humans. No attacks on humans materialized by ‘our’ wolves after they began approaching us, for they were shot. A predator control officer trapped others.”

After the first “misbehavin’ pack” was eliminated, a second one moved into the area a couple years later, and a similar pattern unfolded. Geist found the behavior of both packs followed a similar seven-stage habituation pattern when wild food runs out and they are close to people.

1. Within the pack’s territory prey becomes scarce not only due to increased predation on native prey animals, but also by the prey evacuating home ranges en masse. Wolves increasingly visit garbage dumps at night.

2. Wolves in search of food begin to approach human habitations at night. Their presence is announced by frequent and loud barking of farm dogs.

3. The wolves appear in daylight and at some distance observe people doing their daily chores.

4. Small-bodied livestock and pets are attacked close to buildings, even during the day. The wolves preferentially pick on dogs and follow them right up to the verandas of homes. People out with dogs find themselves defending their dogs against wolves.

5. The wolves explore large livestock, leading to docked tails, slit ears, and hocks. Livestock may bolt through fences running for safety. Wolves become more brazen and cattle or horses may be killed close to houses and barns. Wolves may follow riders and surround them. They may mount verandas and look into windows.

6. Wolves turn their attention to people and approach, initially merely examining them closely. They may make hesitant, almost playful attacks, biting and tearing clothing, nipping at limbs and torso. They withdraw when confronted. They defend kills by moving towards people and growling and barking at them from 10 to 20 paces away.

7. Wolves attack people. These initial attacks are clumsy, as the wolves have not yet learned how to take down the new prey efficiently. Persons attacked can often escape because of the clumsiness of the attacks. A mature, courageous man may beat off or strangle an attacking wolf. However, against a wolf pack there is no defense.

Val met Dr. Robert Timm at the University of California at Davis, who has been studying coyotes targeting children in urban parks that act in virtually the same manner.

Geist’s habituation model has been translated into Swedish, Finnish, and German. It has become known in Finland as “Seven Steps to Heaven.”

“A century ago North America’s wildlife was largely decimated and that it took a lot of effort to bring wildlife back. When predators are scarce, and herbivores are abundant, wolves are well-fed. Consequently they are very large in body size, but also very shy of people. Wolves are seen rarely under such conditions, fostering the romantic image of wolves prevalent in North America today. However, when herbivore numbers decline while wolf numbers rise, we expect wolves to disperse and begin exploring for new prey. That’s when trouble begins,” Geist says.

Former Alaska wildlife biologist Mark McNay and others have established that there have been wolf attacks on people in Canada, historical and recent. On November 8, 2005, a 22-year-old geological engineering student at the University of Waterloo, Kenton Joel Carnegie, was killed by four wolves at Points North Landing in northern Saskatchewan. This was the first direct human fatality from a healthy wolf attack in North America in recent times to receive an investigation. Geist was an expert witness in the inquisition. Val says that the four wolves that attacked Carnegie had long been observed by others, were garbage-fed, and four days earlier attacked two employees of the camp who beat back the wolves.

Candice Berner, a 32-year-old school teacher, was killed on March 8, 2010 by wolves in the village of Chignik Lake on the Alaska Peninsula. These wolves were also habituated to garbage.

Val says that wolves learn differently than dogs:

"They learn by observing, and they also are insight learners. They can solve problems by observing, such as how to unlock a gate. In some studies of captive wolves researchers have found that wolves and coyotes not only learn to open their own cages, but those of others. With these intelligence traits wolves also develop an ability to assess the vulnerability of prey. For example, the sight of a human, walking boldly and carrying a firearm, will give them enough information to know that the potential prey is not vulnerable."

How did North American scientists ever conclude that wolves were no threat to people? Geist responds:

"They were unaware that starting in the 1800s, tens of thousands of trappers in Canada and Alaska were killing every wolf they could, legally and illegally, while predator control officers also removed wolves. Aerial poisoning and shooting campaigns were carried out and wolves were free to be killed by anybody. Little wonder wolves were scarce, very shy, attacks on people unheard of, livestock losses minimal, and wolf-borne diseases virtually escaped notice. In the absence of personal experience, they chose to disregard the accumulated experience of others from Asia and Europe."

I asked Val to look into his crystal ball and predict what he saw as the future fate of wolves for North America.

He said that wolves throughout North America will come into contact with millions of coyotes and feral dogs–the numbers of which are much higher than any previous time in history. The wolves will kill some of the dogs and coyotes, but others will breed resulting in hybrids. In short, pure-bred wolves in the wild will become a thing of the past.

His second prediction was on hydatid disease:

"The most important thing about the fate of wolves is hydatid disease. The threat scenario involves ranch dogs feasting on gut piles left by hunters or winter-killed elk and deer whose lungs and liver are infected with hydatid cysts. Deer and elk infected with cysts try to crowd in on private ranches trying to get away from wolves. A ranch dog gulping down the cysts will have mature tape worms in his gut within seven weeks or so and will then pass the deadly eggs in the ranch yard, kennel, veranda, and so on. People will bring infective eggs on their shoes into the house. Carpets and furniture will soon be hosting live, infective hydatid eggs. Children will be specially affected. Cysts take about a decade to mature. I will take at least another decade for cysts to grow to orange or grapefruit size in people. Nobody is facing up to the disease threat."

He added, “I do not think wolves have a happy future in the Lower 48.”

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