Unseen Trophies
by Gary Olsen
Memories from the Far North
The sky was ablaze with color as the sun slowly descended behind the distant mountain peaks. The wind had died to a whisper, leaving a silence so intense that I could hear nothing but my own breathing and the beating of my heart. I sat alone on a ridge-top in the middle of the Alaska wilderness, drinking in the view like intoxicating wine. This would be my last opportunity to enjoy the pristine beauty and solitude of this amazing place before returning to civilization.
For the previous two weeks, I had been hunting caribou with my friends and fellow longbowmen, Mike Misch and Mike Carroll. Although we had numerous encounters with caribou, our tags remained unfilled. However, I felt privileged rather than discouraged or disappointed: To watch a sunset, unblemished by vapor trails from commercial jets, or smoke from industrial smokestacks. To gaze into a star-filled sky undimmed by the haze of city lights. To see the world as God created it, undisturbed by man-made clutter, noise or pollution.
Two days later, I was back home. When I returned to work, someone asked me how I did on my hunt. When I told him that we came home empty-handed, he made a statement I must have heard a hundred times from various people whenever I return from a hunt without a dead animal. He said it was a shame that I had to go all that way and waste all that time and money only to come home without a trophy to show for it. It always amazes me how many people feel that a hunt is a failure without a kill.
What is a trophy anyway? To me it is a symbol that represents the achievement of a difficult goal. If that goal were too easily reached, that symbol wouldn't be a trophy. Most people (including me) like to show off their trophies to impress people with their hunting prowess. I have taken several animals that are quite impressive. However, my greatest trophy goes virtually unnoticed: a small spike whitetail rack screwed to a board along with a 3-inch piece of wooden shaft with a Bear Razor Head attached. The rack is from my first bow kill. I was eighteen when I harvested that buck with a Bear Kodiak Hunter after seven years of failure. In the years since then, I have taken a lot of animals that are much more impressive, but I have never again been able to achieve the same level of excitement, elation and pride that I felt when I took that first buck.
For many years I've sought to harvest a Pope & Young class whitetail buck. Although I have come close a few times, I have yet to reach that goal. However, some people I know spent a weekend and several thousand dollars and came back from a commercial deer farm with two huge whitetail bucks. They managed to ambush these semi-tame deer as they came into a mechanical feeding station. Are these trophies? They are impressive to look at, but do they instill a sense of pride? Did these so-called hunters derive any sense of accomplishment from their actions? Do they even care, or are they only interested in impressing the people who view the mounted heads?
If I won a golfing tournament and received a trophy, I would feel great pride. But what if I wasn't even in the tournament? What if I just went down to the trophy store and bought a big, fancy trophy sure to attract attention and impress people? Would I feel good about myself, knowing that I hadn't earned it? Isn't that what's really important? What if I played in the tournament and worked just as hard as everyone else, but didn't win? Would I be disappointed? Sure, but I would feel good about myself for having given my best effort and for the enjoyment I derived from the competition. I like playing golf more than I like looking at a trophy sitting on a shelf collecting dust.
I've bowhunted Alaska eight times and only brought home one animal, a bull moose I was lucky enough to take on a hunt I described in the article, "Monarchs of Mystic Lake" (Traditional Bowhunter Dec/Jan 2000). Each trip was an unguided, wilderness hunt accessed by bush plane. I've also bowhunted in Ontario, Quebec, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and my home state of Michigan. I've been bowhunting for 40 years and during that time I've taken a lot of game, but the vast majority of the time I return home with no evidence of a trophy. However, I always return with "unseen trophies", memories of events or experiences so extraordinary that they achieve trophy status of their own. I'll attempt to illustrate by describing a few of the unseen trophies that I value just as much as the heads hanging on my wall.
On my first trip to Alaska, hunting buddy Mike Misch and I were hunting moose and caribou on the Alaska Peninsula. One day I was attempting to stalk a bull moose with a rack about 60 inches wide. I had closed the gap to fifty yards when the bull's keen ears detected my presence even though I was trying to creep silently through the brush. Instead of fleeing, the bull started toward me to investigate the source of the sound. His huge rack rocked from side to side and he uttered a loud grunt with each step as he plowed through the brush. I began to feel concerned for my physical safety. I felt like a cow on a railroad track with a train approaching. He continued to advance until we were staring eyeball to eyeball at five yards. At that range he looked like a mountain, but unfortunately, he was standing in high brush and presented nothing but his head and neck for a target. I'm not dumb enough to take that shot, so I stood shaking in my boots, waiting for something good to happen. Still as a statue, I could see every eyelash as I watched his eyes shift back and forth, scanning the terrain around me. I could hear his breathing and see his nostrils flare as he tested the wind for my scent. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest I was sure he could hear it. I was a lot closer than I ever wanted to be to a live moose. I wasn't sure if I should wait for a shot or look for an escape route. I waited and waited until he tired of the standoff. Not finding me enough of a threat to bother trampling into the turf, he retreated, but never gave me a clear shot. The image of that moment is indelibly etched in my mind, as much a trophy to me as a head on my wall.
A week later we were hit by a severe storm. With rain pelting us and winds gusting to 70 mph, we hunkered down in our tent on the open tundra. The storm destroyed our cook tent and over half the volume of our dome-style sleeping tent lay pressed flat against the ground. For the next two days, we crouched in the tiny bubble that remained, hoping and praying that it would hold together as the unrelenting wind pounded us. The only time we left our precarious sanctuary was to answer nature's call or when one or more of the 26 ropes holding the tent down gave way and needed to be repaired.
On another Alaska hunt, Mike and I were floating a wilderness river for moose. We each had our own raft, since it takes a whole raft to float out one moose. As we drifted along, we witnessed breathtaking panoramas around every bend of the river. We floated through rapids with white water boiling over boulders as big as my raft, our arms straining at the oars to avoid the hazards. One morning as we were floating along, we spotted a bull moose standing in the river, bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun. His rack's ivory tipped tines glistened in the sunlight as he watched us drift by a scant 10 yards away. He was a small but legal bull and presented me with an easy shot. I was looking for something bigger, but it was an unforgettable image that I filed away in my unseen trophy case.
Another time, we were hunting just south of the Arctic Circle when the temperature dropped to 20 degrees below zero. I felt awed by the power of nature as I watched massive ice flows pulled steadily along down the river valley by the relentless force of gravity. The roar of grinding ice could be heard for miles, rumbling like thunder as it scraped and gouged its way along the rocky shoreline. At the same time, I watched otters frolicking and lounging atop the churning ice. Occasionally, they would dive into the icy water and return a few moments later with a fish they would play with and eventually consume.
Two years later, I watched through the lens of my camcorder as a monster moose stepped in front of Mike. As the bull passed by at eleven yards, Mike drew his recurve and sent an arrow through the animal's heart. Instead of running, the bull whirled and lowered his rack to face us. For a few terrifying seconds, I thought we might be bulldozed into oblivion. Fortunately, the moose couldn't see us as we stood like statues in our makeshift blind. He soon turned around and ran 60 yards before collapsing.
The next day we experienced a similar scenario except this time I was in the shooting position. This moose was smaller than Mike's, but still a mature, legal bull. As I watched him approach, I decided not to take him. I didn't really want to shoot another moose unless it was bigger than the one on my wall at home. When the bull passed directly broadside, he stopped and presented a perfect shot opportunity. I came to full draw and said out loud, "You're dead, moose!" I then let down and watched him slowly walk away.
We had to return three days early from that hunt because of an approaching weather front. Our pilot dropped in unannounced and informed us that we had to get out immediately or we might be stuck for another week. We had to take an alternate return course to avoid an approaching thunderstorm. We circled to the north, flying between beautiful mountain peaks, sometimes only feet above the glistening, snow-covered slopes, enjoying a view of those mountains few people ever experience.
While hunting caribou above the Arctic Circle, Mike, his son Jody and I spent hours gazing into the night, mesmerized by the most spectacular light show you could imagine. When seen from the arctic, the aurora borealis sometimes fills half the sky with ever-changing waves of multicolored light. We fished for grayling in a stream with water so clear that I could see to the bottom of a pool twelve feet deep. We could see every fish in the pool, and watched grayling strike our lures as we caught and released one after another. We climbed up to a mountain peak where we could see fifty miles or more in every direction but did not see a single road, smoke stack, vehicle, or human being.
On another occasion, Mike Carroll joined us to hunt caribou on the Alaska Peninsula. We flew to camp in Super Cubs and landed on ridge tops so short and narrow I thought they were barely big enough for a family of mountain goats to stand on. On several occasions I watched caribou bulls with racks so large they boggled the mind wander past just out of bow range. One morning, I crawled on my hands and knees for two hours through ankle deep water trying to cross 400 yards of open tundra to get into bow range of four bedded caribou bulls. I inched my way along until I was close enough to hear them chewing their cud, but when I rose to take the shot, they spotted me and reached high gear before I came to full draw.
One night, we awoke to the unmistakable sound of a grizzly bear's deep, heavy, breathing within ten feet of our tent. I felt panic and fear, then a flood of relief when our maniacal screaming sent the bruin lumbering away.
On another moose hunt, Mike Carroll and I had the good fortune to witness a classic battle as two huge bulls engaged in a battle for supremacy with the victor winning the right to pass on his genes. As the two combatants approached each other, each bull would tilt his head first one way and then the other, displaying his rack. Then their racks would come together like claps of thunder, the sounds of the mighty blows echoing off the surrounding hills. Heads together, muscles rippling, they would push and shove each other like two bulldozers as they churned up the earth. Clouds of vapor belched into the frosty air from their nostrils. We gazed in awe at the amazing spectacle, unable to stalk any closer because of the bulls' location.
I've watched bald eagles soaring aloft, riding thermals and drifting easily across mountain valleys that would have taken me days to cross on foot. I've seen wolves running wild and free along rocky shorelines only to vanish when they discovered my presence. I've watched wolves feeding on moose carcasses and listened to their mournful songs at night. I've nervously watched grizzlies gobbling blueberries, or splashing upriver as they chased salmon, oblivious to my presence. I treasure all the "real" trophies I've collected over the years, but my unseen trophies hold even more value. These memories of the things I've seen, the places I've been, and the experiences, camaraderie and fellowship that I've shared with hunting partners are what really matter to me. Maybe I can't show them off or brag about them, but they will always be with me, safely tucked away in my mind and heart.
What did I bring back from those hunts? More than most could possibly imagine.
TIPS
Be Careful Out There! Anyone planning a hunt in Alaska should be prepared for anything. Take enough food and fuel to last a week longer than your planned stay. Bad weather can delay air traffic for days. Good rain gear and lots of warm clothing are a must. Hip boots are a necessity in most areas. You should take at least two sets of wool clothing. Sleeping bags and boots rated for sub-zero temperatures are a good idea. Avoid down, which is useless when wet. If you're hunting on your own like we were, a good quality tent is important too. Strong winds can rip an inferior tent to shreds. A 12 gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot or slugs is a good bet for protection when camping or packing meat in bear country.
When hunting in the wilderness, it's important to be aware of the hazards. Travel in pairs whenever possible. If you go out by yourself, be sure someone knows the exact route you intend to take. Carry a topographical map of the area and study it. Carry a compass and know how to use it. Make sure someone other than your bush pilot knows your camp's exact location. Always carry a survival kit and first-aid kit and know how to use them. Be aware of how to recognize and treat hypothermia. Be sure you know how to start a fire under cold, wet conditions. Candles make a good fire starter, and dead spruce twigs and birch bark will burn even when wet.
Never take unnecessary risks. Don't let the thrill of the chase outweigh common sense. The wilderness is beautiful and awe inspiring but unforgiving.
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