Hunter: Matt Janes
Species: Mountain Caribou
Location: British Columbia
Method: Rifle, horseback hunt
When you become the old dude in camp, you’re just trying not to ruin it for everyone else. Everyone has their own expectation for the hunt. Mine was “any legal caribou.” But this hunt became way more than I expected after we connected on that mythical unicorn called a “true net Booner.”
I’d scrapped my plans for the North American 29 back in 2019 when Covid blew things up. I was just going to do my own version and call it at an “American 24,” but then I retired early and was back on the quest. I’m an auction junkie, and in April of 2024, I saw a post for a mountain caribou hunt from Golden Bear Outfitting in northern British Columbia. Blake Williams was reputable, and I wasn’t looking to pay more for a chance at a giant in the Northwest Territories. I booked a hunt with Blake for the last week of the 2025 season since the auction was for a 2024 hunt and I was nursing a shoulder surgery. You know… Old guy stuff.
I love driving to hunts when I can in order to see the countryside. It just gives me a better perspective. I kissed the wife goodbye, left Montana early on September 24, and drove through Alberta, passing through Banff and Jasper National Parks along the Icefields Parkway. The views alone made the whole trip worth it right there!
On the twenty-seventh, Blake flew me in on the bush plane from Telegraph Creek to some rough sawn cabins at base camp in an area they call Sheslay. Finally, I was paired up with my guide for this adventure, Franco Cloete. We picked out some food and got the pack saddles and last-minute gear choices figured out. We caught some nasty trail nags the next morning in the corral, saddled up, and rode onto the edge of the plateau we’d be hunting, heading to a predetermined spike camp. We set up shop there with a canvas wall tent, water and firewood nearby, and grass to hobble the horses on.
The next morning, we dragged the horses back to camp, saddled up, and rode deeper in and up to where we hoped to spot caribou. We saw some caribou transecting our field of view and moved behind a knob to get a closer look. By the time we got there, they had vanished into a fold, never to be seen again. We finished the afternoon staying out of the wind and glassing.
The next morning, same game. No sightings. While returning to camp, we bumped a younger bull with a couple of cows. We didn’t get a great look, so we decided to come back the next day, assuming they would return to a water hole that was nearby.
The next day, we sat water. Nothing stirred but a small Bullwinkle. Later in the evening, another group of hunters passed through the area with a mixed report: They were done and heading home with a fifty-percent success rate on a two-man hunt. This is when one starts to stress out a little: Is this not going to happen? This hunt wasn’t necessarily cheap! Okay, no, wait, I really only care if it’s legal! All the paranoid thoughts started making their way into my head.
Having heard from the other party where not to be, we decided to break camp and move closer to where we wanted to glass the next morning. A storm front that was stronger than the weather we were already experiencing was moving in, but the die was cast. We picked a site that was closer to water for the horses and, hopefully, would allow us to stay out of the wind in a now cold camp. With camp reset, we were ready to go for the next morning.
We got out early on the third of October and pushed the horses into the wind and up the plateau. We decided to leave the pack animals behind, both to give them a rest and to allow ourselves to move fast and cover more area. This proved to be a game changer. We could now see all the way up into the high basins and move along their perimeter. As we were riding, we passed a fold in the terrain and saw below us, about 500 yards away, a group of caribou. With a quick look, I knew one was a giant.
Franco said, “We need to verify he has enough points on one side.”
I said, “We’re not looking at the same bull then!” (Thank you, Sig, for stabilized binos!) Then Franco saw what I was looking at, and it was a no-brainer. While the other bull did wind up being legal, the bull we wanted was obviously in another league.
But when we saw them, they also saw us. Fortunately, they weren’t entirely spooked since we were riding animals. Unfortunately, they also weren’t just going to go back to eating. They started moving with a purpose toward a bluff that we could disappear behind and angle slightly closer. The caribou didn’t know what the game plan was, so of course, when we disappeared, they decided to go in the other direction. By the time we got to the edge of the bluff, the rangefinder said 700 yards, and the bull was quartering to a twenty-plus-mile-per-hour wind. I was confident at that distance… But with the wind value quartering? I held forward of the shoulder and let it fly.
It drifted back somewhere into the gut, and then the herd was moving. I took a few more cracks at him as he moved about, with no effect. Your first shot is always the best shot. Our bull was unsure of where he wanted to go, so the dominant cow led the herd back towards us, dragging our bull behind them. I reloaded from the shells in my pocket and cracked away at him as he ran by at 400 yards. No effect. Shoot, I’m out of shells.
Franco had my pack with my spares and was with the horses behind me. I waved my arms. Franco looked at me like he was thinking, “What’s wrong with this spastic?” We gathered my spilt brains and gear, saddled up, and decided to follow after the herd that was now long gone and out of sight, hoping for the best. Then, not a few hundred yards past the roll of the hillside, I saw antlers poking up! We hopped out of our saddles. I handed my reins to Franco and chambered a round. I started walking toward those antlers in a crouch. He lifted his head, so I stood and put the finisher in him. Man, was I relieved! There is nothing worse than having to clean up a mess that you’ve started. But, as they say, all’s well that ends well—and boy did it!
We got him taken care of and started back down to base camp. That horseback ride back to camp is a whole lot better when you’re packing a stud out of the mountains instead of dragging your sorry butt home with a “shoulda, coulda, woulda.” Yet, in my world, it wouldn’t be a horseback ride without a rodeo. It seems no matter my experience behind the reins, or how many hunts I’ve done on horseback or muleback, these guys always get me. My horse got the final word in by stomping me while I was down. It messed up my ankle, and I had the old-man limps all the way downhill through the rain and mud to base camp. At least some things never change!
We never know how things will turn out in the pursuit. You know what made this really good? Measuring that bull up and finding out he was 403 6/8" Boone & Crockett net after the drying period. But mostly, I’m just thankful for the opportunities I’ve had to surround myself with good people who’ve helped me achieve my goals. Thank you to Blake Williams; I know this became your last season with your family there, and I feel that I experienced a bit of hunting history. And thanks to Franco Cloete for embracing the suck with me and pulling out the win! And to my wife and family, who shake their heads and roll their eyes yet support me in my endeavor to ruin any sense of financial security in our old age. We may be going to Hell in a bucket, but at least we’re enjoying the ride!
Additional Resources