By the same token, of the few types of big game animals that call the place home, caribou have proven most interesting to watch and hunt. To be sure, this denizen of the North fascinates me. How the great herds manage to not only survive but also to thrive in such a scant and hard land is a marvel of nature. The grace of this animal among North American big game is unparalleled in my humble opinion, and to witness how even the largest bulls seem to float over the barrens with ease is uncanny. To see a wave of many hundreds of animals navigate a river and then glide to the top of a nearby hill seemingly without effort is a sight to behold. Without question, there are more challenging species to hunt on the North American continent, species higher on the preference scale and which demand more from those who carry gun or bow, but few are as impressive in body or carry such regal antlers. When all is said and done, the caribou is a most worthwhile and impressive quarry.

After numerous trips to other regions that resulted in several "respectable" bulls that fell short of the trophy mark, I began looking for an opportunity to find a caribou to challenge the record books. When Harvey Calden-who operates several outpost hunting camps in northern Labrador-invited me to join him at his fishing camp at Umiakovik Lake, I had great hopes that opportunity might be knocking.

Schefferville is the undisputed caribou hunting capitol of Quebec. Literally thousands of hunters pass through the abandoned mining town annually on their way to lodges and tent camps scattered across the northern barrens. Like many other outfitters, Calden used Schefferville as a gathering and jumping-off point, primarily due to the infrastructure designed to handle so many hunters. But instead of places along the George River, the Caniapiskau and Tunulik, the Korok and Baleine, Calden's territory is across the border along the north coast of Labrador, more than two hours and a world away by float plane.

If the landscape of northern Quebec is unique, northern Labrador is more so. Umiakovik Lake, the main base camp, is located just a few miles inland from the North Atlantic coast. It is a basin of water so clear schools of arctic char can be seen along the shore from several hundred feet above. The lake is located at the base of rugged hills that plummet knife-like through the crystalline waters. It is a stunning location, but its beauty cannot parallel in grandeur what lies farther north.

The mountains surrounding Umiakovik Lake are actually the southern reaches of the Torngats. Geographically, these mountains date back 3,600 million years and are some of the oldest exposed rock on the planet. They are also the tallest mountains east of the Mississippi and they rise above the North Atlantic like a great barrier, challenging all who enter. Along the immediate coast, fjords cut deep into the mainland, some 50 miles or more, and icebergs can be seen drifting upon ocean currents. The area has been home to indigenous people for more than 6,000 years and was visited by Vikings over 1,000 years ago. The first European settlements began in the 1700s at places called Hebron and Ramah. Though abandoned in the 1960s under government consolidation program, the first pre-fabricated buildings on the North American continent, brought over from Germany by Moravian missionaries, still stand at Hebron, now a national historic site. It is a lonely yet beautiful place, and to visit and stroll through the grounds is to step back in time.

Inland from the coast and stretching to the Arctic Circle, there is little but vast, rolling barrens, airplane and low-arctic tundra, spinney eskers, and lesser mountains that remain covered with snow and ice nine months out of the year. yet it, too, has a stark, perhaps foreboding, beauty that is unparalleled. I had seen and hunted and fished wilderness areas before, but nothing quite like this.

So special is the place, the Newfoundland government had for decades been discussing turning some 8,500 square kilometers of the remote wilderness into a national park, perhaps by the turn of the century. In 1994, however, a multibillion-dollar nickel and copper discovery at Voisey's Bay south of Nain has threatened the status of the region and has made the issue that much more complicated. Where once environmentalists, native associations and governments were embroiled in a struggle for control, a powerful business lobby has joined the fray. Mining operations have already begun at Voisey's Bay, and the company is seeking a compromise that would allow sections of the future park to be mined if additional ore deposits are found. The final outcome is unknown, and perhaps is still years away.

The day after my arrival at base camp, Harvey set his Cessna down on the placid waters of Anne Lake, about an hour's flight north from Umiakovik Lake. A tiny, one-room outpost dwelling would serve as the base of operations for the next several days. Though small, it had stout walls and a solid roof, and over the next week it would prove snug and warm even under torrential downpours, snow and wind. Inside were four bunks, a gas stove for cooking and other basic amenities in the heart of caribou country. As of two years ago, biologists conservatively estimated that 700,000 caribou call northern Quebec and Labrador home, perhaps three times higher that the ideal carrying capacity of the vast territory. That aside, Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom has separated the gigantic herd into three sub-herds, perhaps as a way to ease demand and pressure on available habitat. Those sub-herds are known as the Korok herd, George River herd and the Leaf River herd, the largest of the three. The George and Leaf river herds are migratory, but remain in northern Quebec, primarily south west of Ungava Bay. The Korok herd, the smallest of the sub-herds, numbers somewhere around 25,000 animals. That may seem like a great number, but they are scattered along the eastern shore of Ungava Bay to the Labrador coast, including throughout the Torngats-an area larger that Massachusetts. What sets members of this herd apart from the others, however, is not their numbers but their behavior. They are basically sedentary, remaining within their general area throughout the year.

Because the camp is so far north and off the beaten track, the costs of establishing it and hunting these animals are much higher than usual. For that reason, Calden is the only outfitter on the Labrador side of the Torngats. Thus, this has never been heavily hunted and is known to contain an unusual number of large, trophy-sized bulls, many of them record book quality. In fact, in the past two years, five SCI Record Book heads over 400 points have been taken from the area, the largest measuring 416 6/8 points. (The SCI minimum is 300.) I felt hopeful of my chances to take a trophy that t could compete for a place within those pages.

On past caribou hunts, success was often the result of glassing and waiting, of being at the right crossing point at the right time, perhaps followed by a careful stalk once a bull worth taking was spotted. Access to hunted areas was often by boat. I expected it would be the same here, but I quickly learned otherwise. Powerful binoculars are important for scanning the open barrens and hillsides, and for judging headgear, especially when hunting with muzzleloaders as I was. But to find worthwhile bulls, hiking is the name of the game. Starting the very first day, Roland Berry, my Newfoundland guide, and I covered miles each trip out. This would become a daily routine.

In some ways, these caribou are no different that their cousins across the border. Warm temperatures affect movement, particularly with larger bulls. The more unseasonable the temperature, the less they move. From the beginning, this proved our biggest problem. Early September this far north is generally cool, if not cold, with wind, chilly rain and snow the norm. But by noon of each day it was possible to hike in short sleeves, although the black flies were oppressive. Brief periods of rain during the day, or downpours at night, seemed to make the insect problem worse. The caribou were easiest to spot during the coolest hours of the day, just after sunrise or late in the afternoon, along the lake or atop the hills where breezes kept the biting insects at bay.

By midweek, after miles of hiking and glassing, it was evident the larger animals still wee in the high country, undoubtedly finding refuge on the snowpacks from the insects and heat. Or, they were congregating along the coast, about four miles east, an area we had yet to investigate. Two options were available: pray for a change in weather, ideally cold rain and snow to push the bulls off hilltops, or make a daylong trek to saltwater. Roland and I elected the later.

Through binoculars, the country between Anne's Lake and the coast looks flat, open and easy to walk along. But in reality, it is a series of rolling hills with long stretches of open, rock-infested, spongy barrens in between. It took several hours to reach saltwater, where we found a coastline even more rugged. It was noticeably cooler, however, and even in the protected covers insects were absent. Fresh tracks were found in several spots along the sandy beaches, the first fresh sign thus far, and I suddenly felt that our luck might soon change.

Lunch on the forth day of the hunt was taken on a grass-covered knoll overlooking the North Atlantic. The day was warm, the insects nowhere to be found. Except for an iceberg floating by, it was much like a picnic on the beach back home in Maine. After packing our gear, Roland and I climbed to the summit of a rocky crag, glassed the surrounding area and found two bulls about a half mile away. Both looked respectable, even from that distance. It was difficult to judge the racks even with 10x150 binoculars, but they were undoubtedly the largest bulls we had seen and worth making a stalk for a closer look.

It took the better part of an hour to close the distance, always a slow process when in open country and working to keep the wind to our advantage. When I looked through the glasses again, I found we had covered enough to know that if a shot presented itself, I would take it. The larger of the two bulls was quite respectable, and a field estimate suggested it might make the record books. If not, it would certainly be the largest bull caribou I had ever taken. With the hunt ending the next day, my options were running out.

The next challenge was getting within range. I was hunting with a .50-caliber CVA Timber Wolf, loaded with 375-grain, solid lead Deerslayer conical bullet. I felt confident with it up to 100 yards, but on an animal the size of caribou, closer would be better. As the bulls continued to feed, I glassed the surrounding area, eventually spotting a rock outcropping some 60 yards from where the caribou stood. If I could reach it without being detected, I just might have a good shot.

Some ten minutes later, after crawling on hands, knees and stomach, I reached the rocks. The outcropping was not only higher that I thought, but it was also closer, providing a perfect 40-yard broadside shot. The caribou was larger than I first thought, not only in body size but also in antler length. I raised my riffle, aimed at the larger bull and pulled the trigger, and the sound shattered the silence. To my surprise, however, the bull did nothing but stand there, looking in my direction as if wondering what all the commotion was about.

I couldn't believe my eyes! It was a dead-on shot and the bull should be on the ground. Instead, it was now slowly walking straight for me, head down. Instincts told me I had hit the animal, just by the way it was walking. I then saw blood running down its side, just in back of the front shoulder. Yet it kept coming, and was now just 30 yards away. Reaching into my pocket, I found a pre-loader and capper. I have always prided myself in being able to reload quickly under hunting situations, but this time it was done in record time. My second shot hit just inches from the first.

After field-dressing the bull, two more bulls came into view and one was larger than the one I had just taken. Hunters are allowed only one bull, but I was happy with the animal at my feet. In body weight it was huge, with a beautiful white front and face, but it was its rack that caught my eye.

Each side had 16 points. There were no rear points, but the longest and second-longest top points measured more than 15 inches and 12 inches, respectively. The inside main beam spread was just under 41 inches, and the right and left main beams measured 49 inches and over 48 inches, respectively. It would be several weeks before it would be officially measured, but following the drying period, the rack totaled 406 6/8 SCI points, and after deductions, it scored 337-7/8-Longhunter points, enough for both the SCI and blackpowder record books.

More Stories by Al Raychard