The Toughest Hunt | Field Ethos
By Jim Zumbo There are two ways to hunt muskox. The most traditional is to pursue them in…
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By Jim Zumbo
There are two ways to hunt muskox.
The most traditional is to pursue them in late winter when the temps are 30 below or worse. You sit in a sled being towed by a half-crazed Inuit who races his snowmobile 80 miles an hour over frozen tundra, and you wonder why the hell you ever decided to hunt there. Holding on is essential because the maniac driving the machine doesn’t look back to check on you. If you fall off he might be 25 miles away before he discovers you’re gone, and that’s only because he stopped to take a piss. Or when he spies a herd of muskox, typically clustered together in a defensive position. Regulations dictate you cannot approach within a certain distance with the snowmobile. So you get off the sled and hike to the quarry.
Make no mistake. The ferocious gale-force winds and the utter remoteness of this region will test every cell of your body regardless of the state-of-the-art apparel you’re wearing. But when it’s over and you look at your bull you’ll have experienced one of the most life-threatening hunts on the planet, and you’ll respect the hell out of the guides. They’re so incredibly tough—quintessential survivors.
The other way is to hunt them in early fall. In the Arctic, that means the highs will be 40 or 50 degrees, maybe some snow or rain, and the muskox will be scattered on the bare ground tundra. They’ll be in the rut, with bulls challenging each other for the right to breed.
My first muskox hunt was in September. I flew into camp in a bush plane on floats, where I lived with several Inuit families. I slept in a plywood shack with a couple other hunters while the Inuits stayed in tents. They were there to gather food for the winter. They’d net and spear arctic char and shoot young cow caribou. I was there to shoot a muskox bull and a big caribou.
In no time I was on a first-name basis with an Inuit family. George, the head guide who is the village chief of Cambridge Bay, and his wife Mabel took me under their wing. Together with their children, I’d gather tundra cranberries, crawling around on the wet ground, picking the tiny berries while the children laughed and squealed as they tried to outpick each other. Brian, their son, was special. He was around 12 and we hit it off immediately.
On a fish-spearing trip to a series of rapids, I tagged along and took pictures. The Inuits expertly speared char in the frothy water, flinging the impaled fish up on the shore. They eagerly ate some of the fish raw, and when I was offered some I politely declined. I’d tried some of the raw fish earlier in camp where they hung on ropes to dry. I’m a big fan of sushi so I gave it a go. I quickly realized this was not remotely similar to sushi. Brian was with me when I tried it.
At the rapids, Brian disappeared into the tundra and came back with two big armfuls of willow twigs. In that part of the treeless Arctic it was the only wood around. He built a small fire out of the twigs that were as thick as pencils. Then he produced a small skillet, set it on the fire, and put in a chunk of butter, followed by a char fillet. In no time the fish was sizzling. When done, he eased it on a clean flat rock and handed it to me. It was, and still is, the best fish I’d ever had in my life. I was totally in awe of this young man.
When Brian caught a ground squirrel in a leghold trap, he proudly showed it to me and the rest of the kids.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“Gonna have my grandma cook it up.” I was excited. I’d get to watch Grandma expertly clean and cook a squirrel. I couldn’t wait.
When Brian disappeared into Grandma’s tent with the squirming squirrel dangling from the trap I heard Grandma’s rather loud voice.
“Brian! You let that poor thing go. You’re hurting it!”
The young man emerged from the tent with a disappointed look on his face and turned the squirrel loose. So much for squirrel soup.
I got my muskox and caribou and spent as much time as I could around the Inuit camp. I was fascinated by the women who expertly filleted char with traditional ulu knives. Each evening one of the families was responsible for dinner and everyone joined in. I was invited and was especially fond of the caribou stew and fresh bannock that Mabel prepared. It was wonderful.
As I got in the plane to leave, I said goodbye to the family. It was spitting snow and Mabel looked happy. “Soon it will be winter,” she said with a smile. Like I said, tough people.
I returned two years later for another caribou/muskox hunt. I couldn’t wait to see the family. I got out of the plane and was warmly welcomed, but Brian was missing.
“Where’s Brian?” I asked. There was a long silence and no one spoke.
Finally, George looked at me through teary eyes. “Snowmobile accident,” he said with a shrug. Suddenly the hunt I’d been so looking forward to was hollow and insignificant. Somehow I had to make it through the hunt and try to enjoy it.
It wasn’t easy.
