This story, The First of Its Kind,” appeared in the February 1972 issue of Outdoor Life.
In big-game hunting the best-laid plans may go out the window when an exciting opportunity presents itself. That’s what happened to my two hunting partners and myself.
During the fall of 1966 Jim Bean and I were planning to go after deer in Montana. One night while we were working out details my uncle returned from the Ungava region of Quebec with a fine caribou bull. When he phoned me about his success I couldn’t wait to see the animal. Jim and I left for Uncle Wat’s home immediately. On the way we picked up Fran Johnston, the third member of our hunting trio.
I’d never seen a caribou. To say that I was impressed by the bull’s long, wide, and multipointed rack would be the understatement of my hunting career. Jim and Fran were amazed too. Until then we’d considered a six-point whitetail buck an outstanding trophy.
Our plans for a Western hunt began going down the drain. They were swept from our minds when Uncle Wat mentioned some details of his hunt.
“There are good caribou camps in the Ungava region,” he said. “I flew past one operated by Whale River Outfitters. My pilot told me that hunters working out of that camp were almost always successful. The guy who owns the outfit also runs an off-season business in Parish, New York. His name’s Stan Karboski. You might be able to track him down by phone.”
I discovered that Stan’s home was only a three-hour drive from where I live in Sayre, Pennsylvania. Jim and I wanted to talk with the outfitter, so we drove up to Parish. Stan told us he was booked solid for that fall. He said that the caribou season usually runs from late August to late September.
Right on the spot Jim and I made reservations for a hunt September 15 to 22, 1967. Stan’s price for a seven-day package hunt was $450 per man (it has gone up to $575). We also learned that a nonresident big-game license would cost each of us $101 (it’s now $103).
The license allowed us caribou, moose, deer, and bear, but only caribou range the area we were to hunt. We estimated that our travel, motel, and incidental expenses would run $100 apiece.
I’m 35. My wife Charlotte and I have a 16-year-old son. I work as a heavy-equipment operator on construction jobs. My big-game hunting experience before the Quebec trip had been limited to deer hunting in Bradford County, Pennsylvania, and one unsuccessful bear hunt in Canada.
Jim went with me on the bear hunt in 1965. Before that he had gone after moose in Newfoundland and had killed a fine bull with a 52-inch spread of antlers. He is 33, married, and the father of four children, and he’s an iron worker on construction jobs.
Fran Johnston had hunted deer with us for years, and he was as eager as we were to find new big-game adventures. A 29-year-old bachelor, he works as a machinist in Athens, Pennsylvania.
We left Sayre at 7 a.m. on September 12 and headed for Sept-Iles, Quebec, which is as far as you can drive into that hunting country. We didn’t have to get there until September 14, but we left home early in case of travel trouble. We took turns at the wheel and drove straight through to Sept-Iles in 27 hours.
The next morning, after a night’s rest in a motel room, we boarded a Quebec North Shore and Labrador Railroad train and settled down for the scenic 364-mile run north to the mining town of Schefferville. The slow trip ended in early evening.
Our first job was to line up a hotel room. Then I tried to call Ted Bennett, owner and operator of Laurentian Airlines. Our prearranged plans called for an early-morning flight to the Whale River camp, but I wanted to make sure everything was in order. To my surprise Stan Karboski answered the phone.
“Everything’s ready to roll,” he told me. “I just flew in from one of my salmon camps to get organized for you men. I’m going to Whale River with you. Be ready to fly at dawn.”
The next morning we bought our nonresident big-game licenses from a game warden and then met Ted Bennett. My partners and I had never done any flying, so we were as excited as kids around a Christmas tree. After helping to load a pile of gear and groceries into the plane, we sat on top of the pile as Ted taxied the twin-engine Beechcraft down the lake.
In minutes we were cruising smoothly above a wilderness broken only by shimmering lakes and streams. After 45 minutes in the air Ted began his approach down the shoreline of Lac Champdore. I spotted our camp, a splash of color in a clearing among jack pines, on a little bay off the big lake. I noted a blue tent, a yellow tent, several white tents, and a pile of bright-red gasoline barrels.
After landing, we unloaded our gear in a hurry since other hunters, who had finished their week’s hunt, were waiting on the sandy beach to stow their equipment into the plane and return to Schefferville. Stan assigned us to the blue tent and told us to get unpacked and ready to hunt.
Our wall tent measured 12 x 14 feet. It contained four bunks made from jack pines, plus a small wood-burning stove. The four other sleeping tents were similar to ours, and a cooktent was erected over a wooden platform.
As soon as we were organized Stan introduced us to our guides. Bob Crim, 46 years old, is a lifelong friend of Stan’s. He lives in Williamstown, New York, where he is a self-employed carpenter during off-season months. In hunting and fishing seasons he guides for Stan’s clients in any one of three caribou camps, one trout-and-ouananiche camp, and two Atlantic-salmon camps.
Bob’s assistant guide was a 24-year-old Cree Indian named Sidney. I didn’t understand the pronunciation of his last name, and I neglected to ask him how he spelled it. He told us that in winter he runs a trapline that covers 100 square miles. He looked the part, rugged and tough as rawhide.
Our hunt began when Fran, Jim, Bob, Sidney, and I piled into a 20-foot freighter canoe and motored to a point of land three miles down the lake. There we beached the craft and climbed a mile to the top of a barren ridge. The terrain — thick jack pines and swamp that gave way to small bushes, rock outcroppings, and thick caribou moss — made for quite a climb.
“We’ll glass the surrounding area from here,” Bob said. “If we don’t spot game, we’ll move southeast along the top of this ridge. The trick in hunting caribou is to keep walking and glassing.”
For several hours we pushed ahead but saw nothing. Then Bob suggested that we hike down off the ridge to get out of the strong wind and take a break. Right after I sat down I discovered one reason caribou moss makes walking Fran Johnston, left, Jim Bean, vintage engine of train that took us into bush tough —I had a wet behind almost immediately.
“A handful of that stuff can hold a quart of water,” Bob said with a grin. “You have to look for dry spots by … “
“Caribou on ridge,” Sidney interrupted.
The rest of us had been facing downhill. We whirled around and for a split second had a skyline view of two respectable bulls, a small bull, and two cows. The animals saw us too, and they reacted by dashing down the opposite side of the ridge and disappearing.
We jumped up and ran to the crest, but no caribou were in sight. Bob finally found them with his binoculars. They were almost a mile away and traveling fast on another ridge.
Supper that night was one of the best I’ve ever eaten. The main course was fresh-caught salmon that Stan had brought in during the day from one of his fishing camps. Seven other hunters had flown in that day, and we all gathered in one tent. Hunting stories flowed freely, but my partners and I were exhausted, so we left early.
It seemed I’d just crawled into my sleeping bag when Bob was in our tent and announcing that breakfast was ready.
In a frosty, clear dawn we started up the same ridge we had hunted the day before. We walked and glassed various barren areas till noon without seeing any sign of caribou. Bob boiled a pot of tea to go with sandwiches, apples, oranges, and cake packed by the camp cook. After lunch he sounded us out about traveling farther into the backcountry.
“The caribou may have moved out of this area,” he said. “I think our answer is to cover more ground. Are you fellows game to put more miles on your muscles?”
“We came to hunt hard,” Jim answered. “You lead the way, and we’ll go anywhere.”
I don’t know how far we actually walked, but late in the afternoon Bob said the canoe was about six miles away in a straight line and suggested that we start back. An hour or so later we were following the top of a barren ridge when Bob stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. Seventeen caribou were crossing the crest a quarter-mile in front of us.
“I don’t think they’ve seen us,” Bob said. “Stand dead still till they’re out of sight. They’ll probably work down through that ravine on our left. We’ll try to intercept them.”
We turned saw a maze of caribou antlers moving across the skyline. The animals’ bodies were hidden behind the barren ridgetop, but they were only 50 yards away.
As soon as the animals disappeared we ran full speed for the ravine. We picked a good vantage point, but as minutes passed it became obvious that the caribou had changed their route. Then we walked to a ridgetop 300 yards away and tried to figure out where the herd had gone.
The problem was solved suddenly when we heard hoofs clicking on rocks behind us. We spun around, and there were the caribou staring at us. They had circled through a stand of thick jack pines and happened to come out close to us. Though we had plenty of time to shoot, no body raised a rifle. We all wanted good bulls, and there wasn’t a better-than-average rack in the herd. We watched them bolt and disappear in pines 200 yards away.
Back at camp we admired two big bulls killed by camp members Harvey Stace and Bob Oliver, both from Camden, New York. There was a lot of handshaking and congratulations, and I couldn’t take my eyes off those magnificent animals. Caribou fever really had me hooked. I swore I’d walk hundreds of miles over the roughest country in Quebec for just one shot at a good bull. Bob must have read my mind.
“If you fellows are willing, I’d like to try a new territory tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go farther down the lake and look for a high point we can glass from. It’ll be a gamble since none of us have hunted those hills.”
The gamble turned out to be a flop. When we got to the top of the first high ridge we couldn’t see much open country. So we hiked on through thick stands of pines, across bogs, and up other ridges. Time after time we peaked out on high spots only to view more endlessly rolling pines and bogs with few or no openings. We were always more than willing to keep going, but by early afternoon we knew our efforts were a waste of time.
We hurried back to the canoe, ate a late lunch, and motored across the lake to the area we had hunted previously. We did more miles of walking, and then approaching dusk forced us to turn back toward the lake. As we approached a ridge that was about 500 feet high and 200 yards across the top, we split up to cover more ground. Bob headed for the far side, Fran and Sidney walked to the top, and Jim and I started along the near side.
Though my partner and I didn’t know it, we eventually got about 300 yards ahead of the rest of the group because we had relatively level walking while they had to cross some ravines. So we were surprised when we heard Fran’s Marlin .444 roar behind us. We turned, looked toward the top of the ridge, and saw a maze of caribou antlers moving across the skyline. The animals’ bodies were hidden behind the barren ridgetop, but they were only 50 yards away.
We ran full speed and were puffing when we reached the crest. The caribou had already run past our position, so they were unaware of us and were wide-open targets.
Four bulls stood out in the herd, but none met our requirements. We watched them run on, and then we headed back toward Fran’s position. We found him admiring a fine 19-point bull.
“Sidney and I were walking up out of a ravine when the herd popped into view on the open ridge above us,” Fran said. “This bull was far larger than the others, so I dropped him.”
It was dark when we arrived in camp with the caped-out head and quartered meat. Three other hunters had also scored on bulls that day, so we had a fine supper of caribou tongue, heart, and steaks. We headed for our bunks right after eating; we were so bushed we couldn’t stay awake.
Next morning our guides took Jim and me into some open country to the west of where we had been hunting. Bob soon became elated at evidence he found.
“Look,” he said, pointing to two crossing caribou trails. “Those trails are deep and well used. It takes a lot of animals to wear a trail that deep in this hard ground. I’ve noticed a lot of fresh caribou droppings too. But best of all, we’ve passed fresh wolf droppings. Where there are wolves there are caribou.”
We followed one of the trails and ended up on a large plateau that was whipped by a west wind so strong it made our eyes water. Wanting to cross the plateau, we turned south, lowered our heads against the gale, and took off.
We’d traveled only a few hundred yards when I turned my head for a glance directly into the stinging wind. For a moment I wondered if I were looking at a mirage. I was staring straight at what seemed to be only the head and antlers of a giant bull caribou. My eyes were watering so badly that the view wasn’t clear; then I noticed that a single jack pine concealed the rest of the animal’s body. He was no more than 125 yards away.
My breath went out with a gasp, and for a split-second I couldn’t talk. Then I grabbed Bob’s arm.
“Bull!” I wheezed. By now the bull was better hidden behind the tree, and my partners couldn’t locate him. I kept pointing to the exact spot, and finally Bob noticed the enormous rack.
“A giant,” he blurted. “Don’t take a chance on trying to get a bullet through those branches. Wait till he steps out.”
It seemed that hours passed before the bull decided to move. The pressure of wondering what was going to happen wrecked my nerves, and I developed an awful case of buck fever. My .308 Remington Model 760 Gamemaster felt almost useless in my sweating hands.
I came apart even more when the bull ended his waiting game. I had expected him to bolt away at a run, but instead he stepped calmly toward us into the clear and stood stock still.
I found him immediately in my Weaver K6 scope. But I couldn’t steady the crosshairs, and I touched the trigger too soon. As the rifle roared I knew I’d missed the wide-open target.
An abrupt change came over me. The thought flashed through my mind that only an idiot would blow the chance of a lifetime. My buck fever was gone almost as soon as the bull reacted by leaping into high gear. He lined out for a ravine of pines about 200 yards downhill. But the tan-and-white giant was running broadside to me, and his route lay over open ground laced with rocks and caribou moss.
Now my scope was steady. I held just ahead of his chest and squeezed the trigger with precision. The bull’s legs buckled as if he’d run into an invisible fence. He went down in a heap on his belly and never moved a muscle.
The thought flashed through my mind that only an idiot would blow the chance of a lifetime. My buck fever was gone almost as soon as the bull reacted by leaping into high gear.
We ran to the bull, and I heard Bob saying something about a real fine trophy as everybody excitedly began counting antler points. The rack had double shovels, 16 points on the right side, 19 on the left. A check with Bob’s tape showed that the greatest spread was 50 inches. My 150-grain handloaded slug had caught the bull squarely behind his shoulder.
“This is better than a real fine trophy,” Bob said. “It may even be better than an excellent trophy. I’ve seen a lot of caribou, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen more outstanding antlers.”
The next day, Fran and I decided to rest in camp while Jim went hunting with Bob. Our rest turned into a nightmare that didn’t end till the next day.
The trouble began when another hunter in camp knocked down a big bull a short distance from the tents. We heard his two shots, and a half-hour later he showed up at the cooktent and said he needed a canoe to get across the river to where the bull had dropped.
Fran and another already-successful hunter accompanied the man across the river. They discovered that the caribou had only been wounded and had disappeared. The three men split up and looked for blood trails. The day was sunny and warm then, but by noon a cloud front rolled in with rain and fog. In late afternoon two of the hunters returned with the bad news that they couldn’t find Fran.
By now the weather was really foul — the sky was spitting snow, and the temperature had plummeted into the 20’s. No one in camp was familiar with the area in which Fran was lost, so we had to wait until the experienced men returned.
When Stan got back he went across the river with the guides. They built a huge fire and kept running chain saws, hoping that Fran would hear them. Shortly before midnight the men returned with glum expressions. We were all very much concerned; the weather was turning steadily worse, and we knew that Fran was dressed in only a light shirt, Levi pants, and leather boots. Four inches of snow was on the ground, and more was coming down.
Several of us went back to the search area and kept the fire going. Sidney took off on his own. He returned at 2:30 and said he’d seen no sign of Fran. There was nothing more we could do except wait for dawn.
At first light we all got into canoes and headed down the lake to search a new area. We had traveled a couple of miles when Stan signaled for a stop and grabbed his binoculars.
“Something moving way down the shore,” he said. “Could be a caribou. Nope, there he is! It’s Fran!”
When we reached the poor guy we found that his clothes were half frozen and his body was beet red. We ripped the garments off, wrapped him in blankets, and rushed back to camp. After we got some hot soup into him, he told us what had happened:
I found some drops of blood from the caribou, so I tried following. It was such a clear day that I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. I was so absorbed with the blood trail that I didn’t notice the fog rolling in. Then it was too late. By the time it started raining I was hopelessly lost, and I didn’t have matches.
“I heard the chain saws, but each time I started toward them the sounds seemed to come from different directions. I decided it was best to spend the night under a tree. At dawn I climbed a ridge, spotted the lake, and headed for a shoreline. This country sure is beautiful, but it’s really cruel when you make a mistake. I’ll never pull a dumb stunt like that again.”
Our scheduled week’s hunt was over, but Jim decided to stay in camp for an other week since he hadn’t scored. He made arrangements for a ride home with a hunter from Delaware. We learned later that he missed long shots at two fine bulls. He had chances at several average bulls, but he held out unsuccessfully for a real trophy.
After I had my bull’s head mounted, a local sports writer took some pictures of it and asked if I intended to have it scored by the Boone and Crockett Club. I wasn’t familiar with the club’s activities, but I finally got in touch with Keith Hinman. He’s an official measurer for the club, and he works for the Pennsylvania Game Commission. Keith measured the rack in March 1969 and came up with a total score of 390 4/8.
In January 1971, I got a letter from the Boone and Crockett Club requesting that I ship the head to the club’s headquarters in Pittsburgh so that a panel of judges could check the score. Several months later I got an invitation to attend the club’s awards banquet, at which winners of the 14th Big-Game Competition Period covering the years 1968-70 would be announced. There I learned that the club had established a new classification — Quebec-Labrador Caribou. I was astonished to learn that my trophy, officially scored at 394 1/8, is the world record in its category.
Editor’s note: There are now 459 entries in the B&C category for Quebec-Labrador caribou. Tappan’s one-time world record is now tied for 144th place in the record book. The No. 1 world record today was actually taken in 1931 by Zach Elbow. That bull scored 474 6/8. Two of the top five bulls were taken in Ungava Bay, in a region near where the author was hunting.
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