Story By: Kevin Orton
Every hunter carries a bucket list in their heart—those dream animals that spark late-night campfire debates and fuel a lifelong passion for the chase. Among my hunting buddies, we love swapping stories about our top picks, but the harsh reality is that pursuing these dreams often comes down to finances, not just the love of the hunt. That’s why bighorn sheep, with their elusive tags and exorbitant costs, never made my list. I’ll only hunt them if I draw a tag before my legs give out on the steep slopes. But for as long as I can remember, my number two bucket-list animal has been the muskox. I’m not entirely sure what drew me to them—maybe their prehistoric, shaggy appearance or the challenge of pursuing an animal I’ve never laid eyes on in some of the wildest, most remote corners of the world. Whatever it was, the call to hunt muskox has been a constant pull. In August 2025, I finally answered that call and embarked on an adventure that exceeded every expectation.
My closest friend and hunting partner, Eric Stanosheck, and I spent months researching outfitters, poring over reviews and comparing destinations. We settled on Aylmer Lake Lodge in Canada’s Northwest Territories, guided by Kevin McNeil, whose reputation for accessing the largest muskox on the planet was unmatched. As a bonus, Aylmer Lake is home to seven species of lake trout that grow to monstrous sizes, adding an extra layer of excitement to the trip. To be honest, I couldn’t tell a trophy muskox from an average one just by looking at it. The idea of hunting in one of their wildest habitats, just 60 miles below the Arctic Circle, with the chance to pursue top-tier trophies, was enough to make my heart race. The remote location promised an adventure unlike anything I’d experienced, blending raw wilderness with the thrill of the hunt.
Our journey to Aylmer Lake wasn’t without its challenges. We originally booked the trip for August 2023, but wildfires forced an evacuation of Yellowknife that week, grounding flights and making travel impossible. By the time the smoke cleared, rebooking wasn’t feasible. We rescheduled for February 2024, envisioning an Arctic adventure in bone-chilling -40°F temperatures. I was equal parts thrilled and nervous about hunting in such extreme conditions, imagining myself bundled in layers, tracking muskox across a frozen tundra. But Murphy’s Law struck again, and logistical hiccups forced us to push the trip to August 2024. Each delay tested our patience, but it only heightened our anticipation.
We arrived in Yellowknife on August 12, a day early to ensure no more mishaps derailed our plans. On August 14, we boarded a small plane for the 230-mile flight to Aylmer Lake. The three-hour journey, slowed by headwinds, revealed a stunning landscape below—countless lakes, rolling tundra, and not a single sign of civilization. Landing at the lodge, nestled on the lake’s shore, felt like stepping into a postcard of untouched wilderness. Rain poured, and a biting wind made it feel freezing to me, though the seasoned crew barely noticed as they unloaded our gear and provisions. We retreated to the warmth of the lodge, marveling at the rugged beauty surrounding us, already feeling the weight of being so far from the modern world.
A few hours later, the weather calmed, and we set out on foot to lay eyes on a muskox for the first time. Kevin, our guide, led us through the tundra, pointing out key areas and sharing stories of past hunts, including kills of massive bulls that had become legends among hunters. We didn’t spot muskox that evening, but we were awestruck by enormous barren ground caribou, some so large they could have shattered world records. Non-residents can’t hunt them yet, but Kevin is working on securing tags, and when he does, it’ll open up an incredible opportunity for hunters with caribou on their bucket lists. Over the next few days, we saw at least ten caribou that looked like they belonged in a record book, a tantalizing glimpse of what might lie ahead for future hunts.
The next morning, dark skies and big waves on the lake made us question whether hunting was wise. But within an hour, the sun broke through, transforming the day into a perfect one for the chase. We set out by boat, scanning the shoreline for muskox. Caribou were everywhere, migrating across the tundra in herds, some bulls so massive they stopped us in our tracks. But our focus remained on muskox. Not far into the morning, we spotted a lone bull near the shore—a sign it might be a trophy. I was hunting with my bow, and the terrain offered a rare chance for a stalk. We closed to 53 yards, and the bull bedded down, then stood and faced me. To my untrained eye, he looked enormous, but I needed him to turn broadside for a clean shot. He turned but kept moving, never pausing long enough for me to draw. I let him go, a decision that haunts me still, replayed endlessly in my mind with the same outcome. Disappointed but undeterred, we climbed back into the boat to continue the hunt.
The day had turned gorgeous, with bright sun and a light breeze—ideal hunting weather. Around midday, we stopped for a lunch break on a rocky shore. Eric climbed a small hill to scout and returned with news: he’d spotted a group of about 15 muskox. Kevin joined him to confirm, identifying three bulls in the herd. Our goal was to harvest bulls scoring 120 inches, a lofty but achievable target in this prime area. We repositioned the boat to the other side of a channel, but the rocky shoreline forced us to land a mile away, adding a grueling hike to our approach. At 500 yards, with no cover left, we dropped to our bellies and crawled 250 yards through tall grass, the tundra’s uneven ground testing our stamina.
Eric, a dedicated muzzleloader hunter with a reputation for never missing, took the lead, targeting the largest bull, whose body size stood out from the others. To me, they all looked massive, but I trusted Kevin’s and Eric’s judgment. I hung back with my guide, Dale, who asked if I’d shoot one of the other bulls with a rifle if they didn’t scatter after Eric’s shot. I hesitated—I’d brought my bow hoping for a close-range opportunity, but packing out two bulls from this remote spot sounded like a nightmare. Still, knowing I might never return to this place and that muskox was my number two bucket-list animal, I wasn’t leaving empty-handed, bow or not.
Eric got into position, and at 257 yards, his bull turned broadside. He fired, and the bull ran 40 yards before collapsing. Then Eric said, “Kev, I shot the wrong bull. You have to kill that other one.” His urgency lit a fire in me. I grabbed the rifle, and with the remaining bulls still unaware—human encounters are rare in their world—I shot the larger bull. It fell 50 yards from Eric’s. We erupted in hugs and high-fives, the thrill of the moment washing over us as we approached our downed bulls. The joy was tempered by the daunting task ahead: breaking them down. Mosquitoes swarmed, making the hours-long process miserable. With 100-pound packs of meat plus our gear, we staggered back to the boats, every step a reminder of my age. We reached the lodge at sunset, exhausted but triumphant, though dreading the next day’s haul.
The following morning, we returned with extra hands from camp. With their help, we retrieved the remaining meat in one grueling trip, the tundra’s uneven terrain punishing us with every step. Afterward, we turned to Aylmer Lake’s other treasure: its massive lake trout. For the next few days, we fished, catching fish after fish, several over 40 pounds. The lodge’s record trout topped 60 pounds, and they offer dedicated fishing trips for those seeking one of the world’s most remote angling experiences. Casting lines in the pristine waters, surrounded by untouched wilderness, was the perfect way to unwind after the intensity of the hunt.
Hunting a bucket-list animal like a muskox leaves you hooked, yearning to return every year. Eric’s bull scored 120 1/8 inches, mine 120 inches exactly. These were gross green scores, measured by Eric, a master measurer for Boone and Crockett and SCI. Aylmer Lake Lodge, run by Kevin McNeil and his family, treated us like kin, ensuring every moment was unforgettable. I can’t recommend it enough for anyone chasing adventure in one of Earth’s wildest places. Eric and I left with smiles, stories, and memories that’ll last a lifetime, already dreaming of the next trip.