By Al Raychard Canadian Camo Pro Staff
IN NORTHERN LABRADOR AN ANCIENT SPINE OF BARREN MOUNTAINS ARE HOME TO SOME OF THE BIGGEST CARIBOU ON THE CONTINENT AND HUNTING THEM IS AN ADVENTURE OF A LIFETIME

“Go West, young man, go West,” publisher Horace Greeley advised more than a century ago. I have, more than once, and to tell the truth I prefer to go north. It’s not that I dislike the elk bastions of Wyoming, Colorado and Idaho, the open pronghorn prairies of north-central Montana or anything in particularly about the west. In fact, I enjoy the country, its myriad of big game and hunting it immensely. It’s just that I prefer the far north country more.

It is difficult to put a finger on, why the dwarf spruce forests, open barrens and miles of emptiness are so appealing but after more than twenty years it remains a mystery. Perhaps that’s it. Of all the places on this continent where I have traveled with rod and gun no place remains such an enigma. At the same time, no place moves me so deeply, is as inspiring, makes me want more or feel so insignificant, yet so alive! When I leave, it is like a part of me stays behind and I can’t wait to return.

Standing on a slab of exposed granite some 3000 million years old, reputedly some of the oldest on earth, a stark yet breathtaking landscape rolls before me in all directions. To the south the Kiglapait Mountains stretch more than 120 miles to Nain, the last permanent settlement on the Labrador coast. Beneath my feet and to the north as far as I can see are the Torngats, my home for the next week. Maybe. This late in the season cold fronts can bring some rather unpleasant weather conditions, for both hunting and flying. Schefferville, Quebec, my link to the outside world, is somewhere 300 miles to the west beyond a barren skyline. The Dehavilland Otter that brought me here flies VFR (Visual Flight Rules). In layman’s terms, that means if visibility isn’t clear or “flyable” between point A and point B you go nowhere. Going nowhere can last several days in this country and on more than one occasion my weeklong visit was extended to a ten-day excursion. For that reason, planning a trip to this “Land God gave to Cain” as French explorer Jacques Cartier proclaimed in the early 1500’s for a specific length remains a gamble even in the millennium, especially for those who live by a schedule. The fact is, due to circumstances beyond human control you arrive when you arrive and leave when you leave. It’s just part of the experience.


Today, however, the Torngats lay beneath bluebird skies. To the east sheer cliffs and granite summits elevate rather abruptly to 1,800 foot summits from the Labrador Sea. Their sudden rise makes them appear twice as lofty, twice as intimidating. Even now in early September snow and ice from the previous winter cling to hidden slopes and shadowed valleys, a reminder that summer is short this far north, if it comes at all as the rest of the world knows it. Standing there taking it all in, or as much as I can in a single glance, I am rather humbled. From where I stand to the North Pole, is one of the last true wilderness areas on the North American continent nearly half the size of California, and my guide, who has yet to join me, and I are the only representatives of mankind. Somehow our brief intrusion and presence seems insignificant, like I am the only living thing there, or that has ever been there.

Neither case is true. For the past 8,000 years the Innu and Inuit have been hunting and fishing along the Labrador coast and calling it home. They still do. About a millennium ago the Vikings arrived, and despite what we were taught in grade school were the first Europeans to discover and explore the New World. In the 1500’s the Basque came from Spain and France in search of whale oil, and were the first to establish an industry in the New World. Then came the Moravians in the mid-1700’s, missionaries from Germany who built entire villages including schools and churches for the natives. Just a few miles east from where I stand, easily within a few hours trek, is Hebron, one of their earliest settlements. Abandoned in 1979 as part of a government consolidation program the church and several out buildings still stand near the entrance to Hebron Fjord. Located above tree line every timber and every board was shipped in from Europe and the settlement represents perhaps the first prefabricated wooden structures erected on the continent. Stark and rugged like the landscape that surrounds them, Henron is now national historic site and is the only remaining evidence of early settlement along Labrador’s north coast. A walk through their grounds is a walk through history.

But other things do live here, as they always have. Early this morning the eerie howls of a wolf pack echoed into camp under the cover of darkness. As I lay there in my sleeping bag staring into blackness listening to the chorus I was reminded once again man is but a visitor here, the intruder, that this is one place he does not yet control and probably never will. The Torngats are also home ptarmigan, those grouse-like birds that turn white in winter which have a tendency to burst from cover when you least expect it.

And there are black bear as well. Just this morning while ascending to my lofty perch two were observed on a ridge halfway down the lake. With nothing to obstruct my view their ebony coats stood out like a sore thumb against low growing blueberries and scrub turning crimson and gold. Even a mile away, my 10X42 Fujinon SHS Series binoculars told me these were pretty respectable bruins and if my mind hadn’t been elsewhere I definitely would have made a stalk. But this was the first full day of my hunt and I was looking for something else.

From a hunting perspective what draws visitors to the Torngats each August and September is caribou. The visitor cannot help but be amazed by this country, even inspired, but it is the members of the Rangifer tarandus clan that is the main attraction and gets the hunter’s heart really pumping. As dear as the north is to me caribou are the primary reason why I have returned to this particular spot. Hunting this animal is nothing new. I have hunted them numerous times across Canada’s circumpolar regions and though several respectable bulls have been taken over the years the examples that roam the Torngats are unique among their group. In a word they are hugh!

For the purpose of big-game record keeping North America’s caribou have been segregated into several specific “types.” While caribou in Alaska, the Northwest Territories and Quebec, even those on the island of Newfoundland are all the same taxonomically, the various trophy clubs such as Boone and Crockett, Safari Club International, Pope & Young and The Longhunter Society needed geographic boundaries or regions to fairly differentiate smaller subspecies from large subspecies in the same clan. The variety in the Torngats officially comes under the Quebec-Labrador heading, just one of five caribou types generally accepted by most trophy clubs.

Within each geographic region, however, caribou are typically found in different herds. In Alaska for example, even though all are considered barren ground caribou by the record books, there at least a half dozen different herds including the Nelchina, Delta, Fortymile and Procupine herds. The island province of Newfoundland off Canada’s east coast has perhaps four different herds of woodland caribou, and Quebec and Labrador has at least three, including the George River herd, the Leaf River herd and Koroc herds. By far the largest in number is the George River herd. Estimated at 700,000 strong they travel an extensive migration route that takes in part of west-central Labrador and nearly all of central Quebec. To the north is the Leaf River herd, and still further north and to the east is the Koroc herd, named after a river that starts high on the slopes of the Torngat Mountains and flows west to Ungava Bay in Quebec. Although smaller in number, perhaps 25,000 to 30,000 animals, the Leaf River and Koroc herds are best known for quality rather than quantity.

Although the Leaf River and Koroc herds are known for producing trophy heads, the Koroc herd remains unique in a couple respects. One is location. The Torngats are so far north in Labrador and so far off the beaten track from Quebec settlements serviced by commercial air carriers no outfitter has serious taken advantage of the caribou hunting potential until just recently. Outfitters have been hunting the Leaf River herd for years. In a nutshell, the caribou roaming the Torngats have never been hunting hard due to logistics, and even today the only outfitter currently offering hunts caters to perhaps a dozen hunters annually, generally two hunters per week for six weeks. When you come here, you, one other hunter and guide who also serves as cook are the only human beings in a hunting territory the size Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island combined! It is an exciting thought and because of that fact it can be said these monarchs of the Torngats are an untapped resource for the serious caribou hunter. And though they are now being hunted the pressure is so insignificant quality should be high for years to come considering the vast area, its remoteness, that fact that only one outfitter is operating in the entire region and limited number of hunters to hunt the area each year.

Another asset the Torngat region has to offer is the caribou themselves. The record books tell us these caribou are considered part of the Quebec-Labrador variety, which are migratory. The main George River herd in Quebec lives constantly on the move covering literally thousands of miles of barren and bog. It is an arduous existence from birth to death, one where basic survival depends upon sufficient food supplies to sustain their endless trek. It seems they migrate to forage, and forage to migrate. It is a never ending cycle and considering the size of the herd, which by all accounts is growing, food supplies in some areas are over utilized and sometimes merger at best.

The Koroc herd, however, particularly those living in the Torngat Mountains live in a region all their own. They do not migrate, but roam the mountainous coastal plain within a specific and much smaller geographic area. That territorial characteristic seems to take less of a physical toll, and with fewer animals competing for a food supply that is not only more reliable but more varied, and with less harsh living conditions, over the Eons caribou in the Torngat range appear to have developed a predisposition to big size. The bulls seem to run as much as 20-percent heavier in weight compared to counterparts in the George River migratory herd with more muscular, rugged-looking bodies. That predisposition also seems to transcend to antler size as well. The racks typically carry more mass; offer a wider spread with longer and often more points. In a nutshell, these specimens simply appear healthier, a prime and truly magnificent example of the barren-ground class of caribou and are true kings of their domain.

All this was running through my brain as I glassed the grand expanse of barren hills, ridges and valleys that stretched before me. My pre-hunt research strongly suggested few other places offered a better chance of taking a record-book Quebec-Labrador caribou, and after seeing the country my gut told me the same thing. A few minutes later my guide, Roland Berry, a native Newfoundlander, joined me and after a brief discussion and more classing that revealed not sign of game we decided to head up a valley that headed towards the coast, keeping to the high ground.

Success in this country depends upon several things but topping the list are a good pair of binoculars, a fair amount of patience and healthy sets of legs and lungs, not necessarily in that order. The first climb that morning had proved a minor test to my legs and wind, and upon reaching the top I felt pretty good, but after following Roland up and down, around and then up again for the next couple hours I was wearing down. Nearing another summit I was appreciative when Roland stopped, took off his pack, sat down against a boulder and started to glass. Solid ground never felt so good as I relaxed against my own rock, but within minutes I came alive when the words “caribou” broke the silence.

“Two bulls head’n this way, Al; just below that rock face on the far ridge. One’s small, but the other one’s worth a close look..” I found them in my binoculars, and I agreed. “By the looks of it the trail they’re on crosses that brook and comes right below us,” Roland explained continuing to glass and lay out a plan. “Lets move down a bit keeping an eye on them and pick a good position. We might get lucky!” Lucky wasn’t the word for it. A half hour later we had descended several hundred feet, found the trail fifty-yards below, and just as we took position behind some boulders the size of Volkswagons we saw horns appearing over a small knoll less than 200-yards to the west. I seated a percussion cap on my .50 caliber Thompson/Center Hawken Custom, and waited.

But we didn’t wait long. The bulls—the larger of the two slightly in the lead—stopped at the top of the rise as if to catch their breath, more likely scan the route that lay ahead, and came our way. What a sight! Two kings of noble blood, each a monarch in its own right walking along with not a care in the world, their regal headgear pointing towards the heavens! A closer look with my binoculars, however, and I knew both would be allowed to pass. Both were wonderful, even respectable specimens with long main beans and top points atop stunning white manes, and had I been elsewhere and had it not been the first of a seven-day hunt I would have looked upon them differently. But anything can happen in a week, and if the two just observed were representative of the caliber of animals in the area I was willing to gamble and bide my patience.

Night comes slow to the Torngats, even in early September, but when it falls it falls like a rock. It is blacker than black, a primeval darkness that descends and envelopes every nock and cranny. The nightly campfire offers some relief a few feet in front of the tent where gas lights emit a golden glow through the thin canvas walls, but just beyond the battle is lost and once extinquished, except for the stars which seem close enough to touch, darkness is so complete it is difficult to see a hand in front of your face. It is a time to sit around the fire with a hot toddy after a good meal feeling the warmth creep into aching bones and tested muscles; a time to talk of the day, of tomorrow; a time to tell stories and jokes, to marvel at the heavens; to wonder what that sound was just beyond the light and listen as the wind works up the valley, perhaps to a wolf or wolves on the far ridge. It is part of the day I look forward to whenever in the north country for along with its own special moments its means another day of hunting comes with the sunrise, just a few hours away.

For the next two days Roland and I continued to scour and glass the countryside for that one bull I was looking for, or hoped for. Long hours were invested covering ground and taking advantage of high observation points with binoculars and every day we stalked and scrutinized bulls worthy of the time and effort. By the end of the day Wednesday perhaps a dozen had been carefully considered but when we returned to camp I had yet to pull the trigger. Seated next to the campfire with a cup of tea that evening (spiked with a splash of medicinal rum) Roland suggested we try a new strategy the next morning.

“We’ve been seeing bulls, Al, and some good ones, but I think we should scout some new territory. It’s been a bit warm these past few days, the black flies have been hellish, and if you’ve noticed most have been moving generally east or southeast, off these barrens and out of these valleys towards the coast. My gut tells me these guys are looking for some cooler breezes and relief from these bugs.”

It made sense and sounded good to me. Since I arrived the daytime temps had been running into the mid-70’s by early afternoon, unusually warm for the Torngats in September, and our hikes had become a sweaty chore. The thought of some cool ocean breezes sounded rather nice, and though I didn’t tell Roland, a few hours escape from the hordes of black flies didn’t sound bad either. We departed camp early the next morning and with a good lunch and everything that might be needed in the event of success on our backs, by 9 AM reached the coast. To the east the Atlantic stretched to England. To the south and north the coastline, largely untouched and unspoiled since before the Vikings, lay shrouded in a haze. The Torngats plummeted to the beach. And directly below, in a small grass and lichen-covered clearing open to the sea were a half dozen caribou grazing like cattle on the Montana prairie. Even from high above, one in particular was by fare the biggest stag seen that week and I knew immediately, that was my bull!

Twenty minutes later, keeping the wind to our advantage, Roland and I had worked to within 75-yards of the largest bull. Dropping my pack I cut the distance by 25-yards, coming to rest on an outcropping slightly above and upwind. Just as I had hoped, the position was high enough my scent went undetected, and slowly but surely the bull kept feeding in my direction. An eternity passed, but finally at 40-yards I pulled the trigger shattering the silence and sending the .44-caliber 300 grain Hornady XTP home.

Through a cloud of blue smoke I saw the bull bolt forward covering 20-yards in the process. He finally stopped, looked back as if wondering what happened, took several more steps and dropped. Later, the bull field-dressed, caped, quartered and ready to transport back to camp, I concentrated on the headgear as Roland boiled up a pot of tea (no rum) and prepared lunch. Preliminary measurements told me each main beam was better than 50-inches. The rack offered good mass with 16 points on each side. It lacked the second shovel, but all in all I was more than pleased. Months later it would rank number eight in the Longhunter Record Book.*

My quest for a trophy Quebec-Labrador caribou was over, but three days remained on my trip. During that time I did stalk a black bear but it managed to elude my best tactics and considerable time was spent fly fishing for Arctic char, scarlet beauties that hit a fly like a Mack truck. On my last day I went for a final hike and on the same summit where I stood the first morning something came to me my pre-hunt research did not reveal.

The Torngats are, indeed, a place locked in time and a visit there for game or fish is more that just a hunting or fishing trip, it is a true adventure, one not soon to be forgetten, if ever, and undoubtedly one to experience again. Descending the ridge night was once again descending. As I neared the camp the fire was already blazing. Struggling against the darkness, a fight it would eventually lose, it seemed to beckon me home. The floatplane back to civilization would arrive first thing in the morning, but now it was time for a toddy, or two, or three, some chit-chat around the fire and to marvel at the night one in the Torngats one more time.


TRIP PARTICULARS
Trips to Labrador’s Torngat Mountains commence in Montreal. Hunters and fishermen will fly 2-1/2 hours to Schefferville, Quebec aboard a chartered aircraft, and then 2-1/2-hours to camp by floatplane. Two hunters are allowed in camp per week, with the package including all airfare, lodging in tents with plywood floors, guide service, meals, hunting license and tags, care and transportation of game back to Montreal and taxes. Labrador Oudoors operates two camps in the region, one at Black Duck Bay, generally the last two weeks in August, and Justine Lake during the month of September. The camps are fully equipped, warm and dry and the meals are plentiful and expertly prepared but being in a complete wilderness setting do not offer all amenities. Due to weight limitations on the floatplanes each hunter/fisherman is allowed 75-pounds are gear.

The weather is unpredictable, so plan for any extreme. Warm cloths are a good idea, especially at night, but don’t go overboard. Raingear is a must, as is a good set of waterproof hiking boots and a warm sleeping bag. The same is true of binoculars. Black flies and mosquitos can be a problem if the weather turns warm as it did on my trip, so take plenty of insect repellent. The outfitter will supply a list of suggested items once you book a trip.

All my hunting these days is with a muzzleloader, and a .50 or .54-caliber pushing a 300 grain projectile or better will suffice. Keep in mind it is illegal to fly with blackpowder or Pyrodex. Let the outfitter know and propellant will be made available upon arrival. Conventional big-game calibers such as the .30/06, .307 and 7mm are all popular pushing a heavy grain bullet. Scopes are a good idea, although I had ample opportunity to take caribou under 100-yards. Bow hunters are required to use bows with at least 45-pounds draw, regardless of design.

Fishing equipment for char should include 8-weight rods, floating as well as sink-tip lines or medium spinning gear. A list of popular flies and lures will be supplied by the outfitters. Waders with felt soles are a must. For more information contact: Labrador Outdoors P.O. Box 89 Jay, Maine 04239 1-888-BIG-STAG (1-888-244-7824)