“Let’s try it right here,” whispered Larry Warren, owner and operator of Tuchodi River Outfitters in northern British Columbia. I thought he was joking, until he reached for his cow call. Out of reaction, I grabbed for mine, too.
“Go ahead, give it a try,” he smiled, tucking his call back into a shirt pocket. Gently biting down on the open-read call, I let out a seductive cow mew. Not sure if it was loud enough to penetrate the alders or carry across the big canyon, I wasn’t optimistic about hearing any reply, especially since we’d only left camp 10 minutes prior.
When a bull answered back, Larry shot me a wink. Then another bull bugled, followed by a third. “They’re not really fired-up yet, it’s a little early,” he noted in all seriousness. We were back on the trail, hiking further up the ridge.
The next call came 15 minutes later, overlooking a little draw which fed into the big one we’d just called to. Two more bulls fired back. We kept moving.
Reaching where Larry wanted to be, we sat, waiting for evening’s arrival. Taking in the rugged beauty in this section of the Rocky Mountains, I fell in love with the place.
When the time was right, Larry told me to let out a few cow calls. I did and six bulls bugled back. A set of estrous sounds got even more bulls talking, and before I knew it, Larry had pinpointed eleven bulls talking at once. “Now they’re starting to wake up,” he smirked through his bushy mustache, eyes peeking from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.
By nightfall we’d have over two dozen elk answer us, and during the last two hours of hunting, there wasn’t a period of more than two minutes when a bugle wasn’t heard. I didn’t want the moment to end.
Walking back to camp after that first evening of elk hunting, I knew sleep wouldn’t come easy. Never had I heard so many bugling bulls in one spot. When darkness fell, bulls began bugling all around camp. I stayed awake listening to bugling bulls all night long.
Soon we were in the saddle, heading into the mountains above camp. Immediately bulls bugled at every sound we made. Our first setup got four bulls bugling, three of which were coming in. A change in wind direction blew that set.
Hopping on the horses, we rode a few minutes into the next drainage. Calling from horseback, two bulls let out a bugle. An aggressive cow call found five bulls responding, which set off even more bugles in the distance.
Playing the wind, we made a move. No sooner had we got situated when a bull let out a scream. A subtle cow call got it and two other bulls to answer, and though we couldn’t see any of them through the thick brush, they were all within 100 yards.
Another soft mew and all three bulls answered back. This time cracking branches, heavy footsteps and grunts were within earshot.
At 30 yards a bull slipped into view. A nice six-point, head twisting and turning in an effort to maneuver the wide rack through the trees, it was too brushy for a shot.
Larry called, trying to pull the bull past me as I held at full draw. It worked, but it was too dense of cover to lace a broadhead through.
Hoping to stop the bull, I aggressively called. That’s when the second bull let out an earth-shattering bugle inside 40 yards. My attention shifted. Patches of light brown fur stood out against the dark, tangled underbrush. As the bull moved past, I reached full draw but couldn’t get a shot, then the third bull bugled.
Focusing on bull number three, I cow called again. All three bulls bugled, all within 40 yards. When bull number two whirled and came in, I didn’t hesitate. The shot hit the mark and the bull only went a short distance before expiring. Those two days marked the most elk I’d ever seen and heard on a single hunt. I’ll never forget it.
Moose Time
Two days later we were back in the saddle, this time heading into a high, desolate valley in search of Canadian moose. With the elevation gained, it felt more like we were going after sheep than moose, but the young guide, Josh Johnson, assured me we’d see moose.
“We usually start seeing them right down in this bowl,” he whispered as we tied off the horses to the only tree around. Crawling up to the edge of the ridge, we peeked into the little valley.
First a cow, then another, then a third. “There’s got to be a bull in here with this many cows,” Josh urged. More glassing and then a bull popped into view. Breaking out the spotting scope, Josh confirmed it he was a good bull.
Skirting around the backside of the ridge we were on, we cut the 800 yard distance to three hundred, but a couple of the cows were starting to feed away from us, and the bull was following. Low growing tundra grass tundra separated us from the group, and rather than risk being seen, Josh made a perfect sounding bull moose call with his mouth.
Immediately the bull looked our way, sniffed the air, and answered back. Grabbing a big, white limb, Josh held it horizontally above his head and let out another call. The bull started coming our direction but given the steep, brushy valley between us, we didn’t want it to come too close for fear of not being able to get a shot.
As the bull emerged from some brush into an opening on the opposite hillside, I nestled the .300 WSM into my pack for a solid rest. When the bull turned broadside, I touched the trigger. A day and a half of packing out meat ended our moose hunt. Tuchodi River was fast becoming a favorite place of mine.
Mountain Goat Monarch
During my years of living in Alaska I never had a chance to pursue the white ghosts of the highest pinnacles. I’d hunted Dall sheep many times and taken some nice rams where I lived in the Brooks Range, but mountain goats were an animal that eluded me, until now.
Following a day’s horseback ride, we pitched spike camp along the northeastern shores of Tuchodi Lake. Glassing the vertical, slate-covered cliffs surrounding us, we failed to see a goat. Then we broke out the spotting scopes.
What land we’d just been looking at through binoculars, revealed goats were up there when studied through the spotting scope. A reality check found me asking if I could even physically make it up to where they were.
“Don’t worry, those goats are only a last resort,” assured Richard, one of Tuchodi’s veteran goat guides. His words were a relief to hear.
An hour of glassing, right up until dark, and three goats had been spotted. From where we glassed the stalks looked pretty straight forward. Little did I know that by this time the following day, I’d be in the middle of the toughest hunt of my life.
Riding out of spike camp in the dark the following morning, an hour ride found us glassing with no sign of goats. “They’re up there,” shared Richard, looking through the spotting scope. “We just have to go find them.”
Tying off the horses, clothes were soon shed, water bottles refilled and packs cinched tight in preparation for the uphill climb. It took four hours of walking to break through the timber and rough country to where we could even start looking for goats. Another hour and we found what we were looking for, a white speck well over a mile away, in the bottom of a shaded canyon.
It was hot, in the mid-60s which was above normal for early October. This was hard on our bodies but good for hunting as it kept animals in the shade. Four hours after first spotting the goat, we were in a position to judge how big it was.
Richard put the billy between 9 1/2- and 10-inches. I didn’t care how big the horns were. It was a mature, gorgeous billy and I wanted it. I wasn’t sure my body could make it back into that rugged country a second time as I was dealing with back issues that were much worse than I’d thought.
Though every moment of the hunt was something special, it was tough. Bloody fingers, stinging legs and lungs that begged for more air made it hard.
The billy bedded down for a while, pinning us behind a spruce tree. When it got up and started feeding our direction, smiles washed across all faces. A half-hour later and the billy was closer, now inside 500 yards. Then it dropped into the creek bottom.
“Let’s stay put, it should come out right there,” Richard pointed at the near ridge. It was right where we saw the goat come out yesterday at this exact time. “These old billies are very predictable, we just have to be patient.”
After 45 minutes our patience grew thin. We knew the goat should have come out long ago. We talked, thought and talked some more. Then we agreed to hike across the open hillside and try to find the goat, fearing it had slipped up a draw we couldn’t see.
Gathering packs and spotting scopes, we poked our heads from behind the spruce tree we’d been hiding behind, and there it was. Glowing larger than life, a stunning, white mass of a goat, stood in the exact spot Richard said it’d come out.
The heavy shoulders and solid stature of the goat caught me off-guard. It appeared larger than I’d envisioned, and it seemed much closer than the 163 yards the rangefinder registered.
Slowly, quietly, we hunkered back down. Slipping the rifle off my shoulder and the pack from my back, I soon had a solid rest. Then the wind changed. “It’s smelling us,” urged Richard. “Take it now!”
Placing the amber dot of the Trijicon AccuPoint on the goat’s shoulder, I took a deep breath and let half of it out. The shot surprised me, but when the goat folded on the spot, a wave of emotions shot through my body. My mountain goat dream just became reality.
Approaching the stunning animal, its long, pure white pelage kept me speechless. But when Richard pulled the 10-1/2 inch horns out of the rocks, the silence was broken. It was a brute of a goat, surpassing even my wildest dreams.
Six hours later we made it back to the horses with the goat hide and all the meat. It was one of the most painful hunts of my life. I was never so happy to see a horse.
Leaving camp, the bush plane banked hard and I could see where the bull elk had fallen, along with the valley where our moose hunt unfolded. I even caught a glimpse of the granite peaks where the mountain goat had lived its life. It was a fitting end to one of the best hunting experiences of my life.
