Our route picking continues to be refined and we are making decent time. At about the 2/3 mark in this direction we run into two dudes named Michael, also from Colorado, that had trekked out to intercept us as we were passing their camp. One carrying his gun, also suppressed - never wander unprepared, I assume. They simply wanna chat, they saw us with our bulls the day before yesterday and wanna hear about everything. I wolf down a peanut butter sandwich. We burn over 20 minutes chatting with them. They have one bull down. Have a couple more days to get another then they need to start the trek out of here to make flights.
They are full of life and stoked on everything. Yes they are at a different stage of their hunt, but it's a good reminder for me to re-align my brain a little. Yes, we're in the most miserable stage of one of the most mentally and physically challenging hunts available to the DIY hunter, but remember, how freaking awesome is this? Life can't get much better. Seriously.
We gain our ridge and work towards camp, watching some caribou on the hillside a half mile away to our left. All said we're at camp in just a hair under 5 hours and pack up as quickly as possible. Munch another sandwich. Filter some water. Bluffgruff's hide remains and we try to get weight/gear fairly even between us. Pack ended up around 65 lbs.
The final one. Actually, the final one. Give a good look around at our now barren home, nothing left but caribou bones and bits of head hide, and we head towards the truck for the final time. In my head it feels like such a momentous occasion. Spirits are high.
Not 15 minutes later, heading back down our ridge, we see a glassing tarp set up down on the hillside a little. It's set up to block the wind and therefore blocking our entire view of who is in there as we approach. That definitely wasn't there when we passed by an hour ago. Did the Michaels get bulll number 2? We're not even a half mile from their camp. The caribou we watched on the opposite hillside are gone.
Never heard a shot, but even unsuppressed shooting does not carry well on the tundra. Every hillside is functionally sound absorbing foam. As we finally pass around the side of the tarp there are those two infectious smiles again, one with a big lump in his lip, both with bloody hands, kneeling over small, gutted bull.
They give us the elevator pitch version of the story. There was a bull in that small group of caribou we were watching and the group made a mistake. Again, their relentless joy and optimism out here is such a breath of fresh air for my weary mind.
I keep looking at the lump in the one Michael's lip, my brain aching for the same thing. I can assure you, for those who have never partaken, there are few things on this planet as enjoyable as standing over a dead critter and throwing a massive wad of Copenhagen in your lip before you pull out your knife. Seriously. I've quit nicotine though, it's been over 9 months now. Squash the thought.
Final congrats and goodbye. Much slogging ahead.
