Primeval SOB | Field Ethos
By Jim Zumbo “Something’s coming,” I whispered to Lynn, my cameraman. Our horses, tied up nearby, snapped their…
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By Jim Zumbo
“Something’s coming,” I whispered to Lynn, my cameraman. Our horses, tied up nearby, snapped their heads up, ears alert, staring at the other side of the big spruce tree we were sitting under. Lynn and I were hunkered under the lower boughs waiting for a bedded bull moose to get up so we could judge his antlers. From our position, we could only see part of one palm. He was 250 yards away on the opposing mountain slope, lying in a clump of willows.
I eased my rifle up and settled it on my tripod rest. I was hunting Dall sheep, grizzlies, and moose. Whatever was coming might fit one of those categories. Lynn adjusted the big camera, made all the last-minute checks, and gave me the thumbs up. He was ready.
An animal suddenly bounded into view. What the fuck? It took a few seconds for my brain to grasp the enormity of the moment.
Son of a bitch; it was a wolverine. I couldn’t believe it. A wolverine is our home-grown version of the Tasmanian devil and honey badger—each are ferocious predators. They’re typically considered the most hated and despised animal in the northern portions of the US and Canada, especially by trappers and remote residents who live with a wolverine’s destructive habits. All the locals and especially the local guides hate them.
The animal closed to within 50 yards and stopped. It stood up and looked at us in prairie dog fashion. My scope was centered on his chest, and I thought: chip shot.
Lynn said the words I always want to hear when quarry presents itself and I’m ready to shoot.
“I’m on it,” he whispered.
I flipped the safety off and my finger lightly touched the trigger. For most of my adult life I’d always wanted to shoot a wolverine. Here it was, inviting the shot. I had a tag.
I held off.
“I’m on it,” Lynn whispered again, this time more loudly.
I still held off.
The wolverine had enough and dashed away.
“What the fuck happened”? Lynn said. “Why didn’t you shoot?” Lynn was clearly confused—so was I.
“I don’t know. I really don’t,” I tried explaining it to Lynn and to myself.
“Maybe it’s because we’re up here in this incredibly beautiful Yukon country in the middle of nowhere. It took us three days to get here via bush planes and horses. There’s not another human around. Somehow it didn’t seem right to shoot that wolverine. It represented everything wild in a place that screamed primeval.”
Later our Indian guide showed up. He’d been sitting under a nearby tree.
“See anything?” he asked.
“Nope, except for a bedded bull moose on the slope. We waited for him to stand up and when he did we saw his antlers. He wasn’t a shooter. Other than that we didn’t see a damned thing.”
A year later I hunted muskox in the Arctic. Camp was a plywood box with a makeshift ladder nailed to an outside wall. Since the box was the tallest structure in the flat tundra the Inuits commonly used it for an observation lookout. One afternoon they spotted a wolverine loping along and called me. I scrambled up the ladder and took a shot.
And I missed the son of a bitch.
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