Muskox

              HOW NOT TO KILL A RECORD BOOK MUSKOX

I was slamming the bolt of my borrowed Browning A-Bolt 7mm Magnum back and forth, trying to dislodge the ice that was apparently stuck in the chamber. I threw in another round, hoping that the cartridge would successfully chamber. It didn't. About an eighth of an inch of the big belted case stuck out.

I looked up to see the nearby herd of Muskox milling around. It looked like they were ready to spook, with all the metallic clacking I was making. My Inuit guide,Pete Inukuk,looked miserable and helpless, glancing back and forth between me and the Muskox. And it was cold, bitter cold.

And so almost ended the most frustrating hunt of a hunt­filled lifetime. Never in my life have I been so stymied, cornered and thoroughly stomped by events and circumstances as on this most frustrating hunt.

It had all started when I ran into Pat Ackerman at the 1990 Elk Convention. I had long been a fan of the North, having lived in Anchorage during my Army days and having made two military forays into the Arctic while there. I had later hunted sheep, caribou, moose and brown bear but had never returned to the true wintertime North. When he presented me with the idea of a March (still winter there) Arctic hunt for Muskox, I was intrigued.

I discussed the idea with Charlie Edwards of Salt Lake City, an old time hunting buddy. Charlie hunts with one rifle, an old Browning Medallion 7mm Rem Mag, while I am a confirmed muzzleloading hunter. In fact, at the time I was president of White Muzzleloading Systems, a relatively new but innovative maker of fine muzzleloading hunting rifles.

I would use the Muskox hunt to see if my newly designed Super 91 in-line rifle and SuperSlug slip-fit bullets would stand up to the rigors of Arctic hunting. It would also earn my Company some good footage of Super 91, Super Slug and Muskox, possibly for video advertising.

Pat cinched the deal when he told me of the new area he would be sending me to. It had never before been hunted by dudes, although the Inuits hunted meat there, and might possibly harbor some huge Muskox. When I checked the muzzleloading record book and saw that a new Muskox record was not impossible, I became downright hungry for the hunt.

I spent the winter of 92-93 working with my personal Super 91. This was an early one, the fourth off the production line, in 50(.504) caliber for the White 50(.503) SuperSlug. I chose the 600 grain version of this big caliber, and developed an accurate load with 120 grains of Pyrodex P. I also equipped the rifle with a Burris 1 X 4 variable scope  plus a Lyman 57-A peep. I sighted both in at 125 yards. I would use the peep in case the scope somehow failed.

I chronographed the 120 grain load at 1350 fps and found that it was 3 inches high at 75 and 14 inches low at 200 yards. Energy at the muzzle was well over a ton, while velocity and energy at 200 yards were over 1000 fps and 1100 ft lbs, more than enough for Muskox.

I threw 200 shots downrange that wintr, trying to do it in the worst possible weather. Since I live in Roosevelt, Utah, high in Utah's Uintah mountains, this wasn't hard. I found that the rifle was reliable down to 30 below. Best, I discovered that qroups didn't chanqe with the cold, at least not enough to matter.

This is Coppermine, NWT. About 500 Inuit live here. If you look close, you can see caribou legs sticking out of the snow to the right of and behind the power pole. They are dog food.

Charlie and I left for the Arctic in early March, on Delta Air/lines, We switched to Canada Air at Edmonton then Air Canada at Yellowknife for the final leg to Coppermine, on the banks of the frozen Barrents Sea. The flights were uneventful, just colder and colder as we flew into the north.

It was fun to see the clothing of the people change from citified duds to the practical cold weather gear of the north. I was especially tickled when a few Inuit ladies made the last leg with us dressed in their colorful long parkas with fur trim.

We were met at Coppermine by Fred Webb of Webb Quivvik. He was a bluff, hearty man who moved us right along. It wasn't long before he had us in Arctic clothing, ready for the trail. We were to travel by snowmobile and sled to the spike camps. It would be cold. 'Put on everything you've got," he said.

I opened my guncase last. This was a short breakdown case that I'd carried all over the US and Canadian North without trouble. I noted a big dent in one end as I opened it. Inside was the worst mess I could imagine. Someone on one of the airlines had thrown the case hard enough that the compartments holding the heavier action had broken through and allowed the trigger to forcefully strike the stock. The stock was badly gouged but the trigger was fractured, broken right in half.

I was heartsick. I guess I turned a little green because several of the group rushed over to see what was up. Everyone was kind and comforting but there wasn't an extra Dayton-Traistor trigger amongst the bunch. And I has such confidence in the case that I had neglected to bring an extra rifle.

Charley offered me his extra rifle, a newer Browning in his beloved 7mm Remington caliber. There was nothing else to do than accept and get on with it. I packed up the Super 91 and my muzzleloading gear and Fred stored them in anticipation of my return.

Touph break" he said, "I understand your frustration. Good PR is mighty hard to buy sometimes. "

I spent the next seven hours on a bone crunching ride out to spike camp. My guide, a 25 year old Inuit, Pete Inukuk, didn't spare the horses as we rushed over the pack ice of the Barrents Straight, then turned up into the low mountains of the coast.

            I discovered that the Arctic didn't sport much snow. It wasn't anymore than a few inches deep except where the wind had piled it, big ugly rocks stuck up out of it everywhere, and we hit every one of them. We finally arrived at spike camp along towards evening. The camp consisted of a wall tent and Coleman stove, with four inch thick foam and huge, thick Arctic Bags to sleep in. We spent the next few hours shoveling a pit in a snowbank in the downwind lee of a hill and putting up the tent. The weather was cold, 35-40 below, but the wind was soft and blowsy.

           We discovered that there was not much food in camp. The Inuits, good as they were in their cold element, were certainly not gourmet cooks. Supper was a bland stew, made from the freshly killed caribou whose carcass lay outside in the snow.

During the night, the wind got up a good blow. The next morning it was howling and the Inuit declared this a good day to lay around camp and wait for the blow to subside.

            I had to have a look outside and found I couldn't see three feet because of blowing snow in the air. I returned to the tent, where we remained for the next three days. We spent most of our time in the big bags, reading everything we could get our hands on, telling stories and lies and sleeping. Twice a day, we would eat caribou stew. It became apparent that our guides had expected good weather and a short hunt so didn’t bring much food. There was a real crisis when they ran out of tea.

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 The storm finally subsided on Thursday, the fourth day of a seven day hunt. We finally got out hunting, traveling in pairs and staying  together most of the time, the Inuits on the snow machines and we dudes bouncing along in the sleds.

Late in the afternoon, Henry, Charly’s guide, who was obviously the more experienced of the two Inuits, spotted a herd of seven bulls. We parked the sleds well out of sight and made a stalk. Charlie had won first toss. I was carrying my 8mm Hi-8 video camera, trying to protect the batteries from the cold and not having much success. I did get a good video of us riding the sleds, a few scenes in camp and Charley knocking off his bull with a 70 yard shot to the neck.

We were surprised at the size of Charlies bull. According to my tape it would score well up in the Boone and Crockett record book. We hadn't expected such a good animal, even with all the hype.

On the way back to camp, Henry’s snowmobile quit. Engine just froze up and wouldn't start. Henry and Pete hooked the two sleds to the one snowmobile and we went for camp. It was slow and thankfully not near as bumpy as one on one. We walked up most of the hills and made it back to camp well after dark.

               We tasted Muskox backstrap that night. It was tough and chewey but the flavor was wonderful. The Inuit chewed it right down, their jaw muscles bulging. It was a hint of how tough they really were.

After supper, Henry politely asked if he could borrow Pete's snow machine and roared off, headed back to Coppermine and a new engine. Coppermine was a hundred miles away and the wind was beginning to blow again. It continued to blow through the night, howling as never before. Henry showed up about daylight looking frozen but with a replacement engine strapped to the back of the snowmobile.

We spent the rest of the day in the tent. The wind was master once again. Another small caribou bit the dust and we ate more backstrap. All the books in camp were read by everyone. There was nothing more to talk about.

Saturday dawned clear and cold. No wind but 50 below. We were out early, fixing the downed snowmobile. Henry did the engine exchange barehanded while we dudes stood around in Eddie Bauer’s best trying to stay warm. Then we went hunting.

We ran into a herd of 22 animals before noon. We had been joined by a bow hunter and guide. The Inuit decided the bow hunter would get first chance at the bulls. He stalked to within 40-50 yards, then discovered that it was so cold that his bow had lost its cast. He borrowed Charley's old rifle and put down a bull near as big as Charley's with a single shot.

The herd ran off on the shot, with Pete and I in close trail. Although they look pretty clumsy, Muskox can run pretty well and pretty far. We followed them for about three miles before they stopped. We left the snowmobile and sled behind some big rocks and put on a sneak.

We got to within 150 yards, a decent shot for any modern rifle. We looked over the herd. The biggest bull was a standout, with marble white bosses and steeply up-curled tips. I'd been studying the record books before the hunt and recognized this one as being as big as any in the pictures. I ruefully shouldered the borrowed Browning, wishing for my Super 91, knowing that a shot this close with a muzzleloader would likely get me a place way high in the muzzleloading record book, if not a new first place. I jacked a round into the chamber only to discover that the cartridge would not go all the way in. I whacked the bolt handle as hard as I could but only succeeded in denting the brass case. Pete looked away in embarrassment.

This would have been the muzzleloading record Muskox if  the airlines had not broken my Super 91. As it is, it scores high up in the SCI book.

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This is where this story started.

            The borrowed Browning still wouldn't chamber a round. I pulled the bolt and peeked into the chamber but it was too dark to see anything. I tried more slamming and another round but only managed to dent the case shoulder again. It was apparent that ice was stuck in the chamber.

I said so to Pete. He turned and walked away with me close behind. Far across the valley, I could see the others working on their downed Muskox. It dawned on me that Charley's old faithful rifle was available for the price of a snowmobile ride. I tossed Pete the jammed rifle. "Go get Charley’s rifle," I said, "it's the same caliber as this one"

Pete's face lit up and he ran for the snowmobile and was off like a shot. I had intended to go with him but ended up watching the Muskox mill around and then settle down to feeding. It was a bright, sunny day, about 40 below.

Fifteen minutes later Pete was back with the old step barreled Browning across his back. I tried a round and it chambered just fine.

I had kept the big bull in sight and now just waited for him to separate from the herd so I wouldn't hit another animal. Once again I wished for the Super 91. Fat Chance! The bull stepped away from the herd as they ambled along. They were grazing on lichens, pawing at the snow. I shot for the near ribs on the left as he quartered away, aiming for the opposite shoulder. He went down in a heap.

The bright March sun was dimming with haze and dark by the time we got him skinned and quartered. We made the fifty mile trip back to camp in the dark. By the time we arrived, the wind was blowing at a good clip. and it was near midnight.

The Inuit advised a short night's sleep then home to Coppermine the next day. It was a mistake I wouldn't ever care to repeat.

    .   The wind was almost howling when we awakened that last morning. The plane was due to take us back to the lower 48 the next day so there wasn't much to do but to pack up and leave. The Inuit seemed quite confident that we would be OK.

At least the wind was at our back as we traveled towards the coast and the ice pack. Unfortunately, it blew harder and harder as we traveled and visibility was soon less than 100 feet and eventually less than 10. Pete and I were following in the rear, with the more experienced Henry in front with Charley.

  I suddenly realized that Pete was wandering. We were in the heart of the mountain country. I knew there was a certain pass we had to make or get rimrocked. It soon became obvious that Pete was lost.

             He stopped and came back to tell me so. I could hardly hear him over the roaring wind. He waved me back to the sled, indicated a nearby snowbank then unhooked and zipped off on his snow machine. The wind caught me as I stumbled to the sled and sent me rolling fanny over teakettle. It was blowing at least 100 miles an hour. I suddenly realized that the snowbank was a place to burrow into and save my hide if he didn't make it back. I also realized that he was the one in trouble and not me. I had the sled, all the food and warm gear and he was wandering around in a freezing, blinding windstorm. The wind chill factor must have been terribly low.