January 2026
Muskox Hunting | Alaska
Story By: Brittany Castagno
My husband got me into hunting when we met in college, and I fell in love with it instantly. It quickly became my passion and our favorite thing to do together. He had been playing the tag lottery in multiple states for years and had been lucky enough to draw some hard-to-get permits. I told him I wanted to start applying too. He laughed and said that once I entered the points game, I’d be in for a long wait — but he also mentioned that some states don’t use point systems, giving everyone the same odds. One of those states was Alaska. He decided to enter me for several species, warning that draw odds were steep, but as he said, “You still have a chance.”
Fast forward to the third week of February, when Alaska’s draw results were posted. I logged into my account and saw one application marked “successful.” The code was DX003. I immediately called my husband and told him I had drawn a tag in Alaska. “What number?” he asked. When I said DX003, he started hollering, “You drew the spring muskox tag!” I could hardly believe it — not only had I drawn a tag in Alaska, but one of the most difficult ones to get. Only about forty permits are issued each year, and somehow, I was one of the lucky few.
We wasted no time diving into research. One of our first calls was to Austin Atkinson at Huntin’ Fool. We knew he had drawn the same permit a few years earlier and could offer valuable advice about logistics and transporters. Austin was fantastic, recommending trusted transport services and helping us understand what to expect. Within just a few days, we had our logistics planned and our transporter booked.
A year later, at the end of February 2025, my hunt was finally here. We flew into the small village of Mekoryuk on western Alaska’s frozen tundra, landing on a clear sheet of ice that doubled as the airstrip. Our transporter, Ray, met us with his four-wheeler, and after a cold ten-minute ride back to his house, we settled in for the night. Over dinner, we reviewed the plan for the next day. The weather looked promising, and if it held, we’d be heading out at first light.
Morning brought clear blue skies and mild temperatures for that time of year. We loaded our snow machines and set off across the endless white expanse. For miles we rode, stopping to glass and scan the horizon. By Alaska law, Ray couldn’t assist in any part of the hunt; his job was simply to transport us to and from the field. Out on the tundra, we saw little beyond foxes and hares, until I spotted several dark shapes on a distant ridge. Through the glass, we could see it was a small herd of muskox.
We eased closer until we could get a better look. There were six bulls in the group — mostly young, but two were clearly older. My husband pointed out one with massive, snow-white bosses that were nearly touching. He had great mass, and his horn tips curled back up toward his eyes. It was everything you look for in a trophy bull.
We started a careful stalk, but they spotted us immediately. On the open tundra, there’s no sneaking up on an ox. The herd bunched together in a tight defensive circle, their ancient instinct against wolves and predators. The bull I wanted stood second from the left, but there was no clear shot. We waited and waited, hoping they’d shift positions, but they held firm — thousands of years of survival telling them to stay put.
Finally, my husband came up with a plan. He would circle behind them and walk at an angle to draw their attention, breaking their formation just long enough for me to take the shot. He started moving about sixty yards off their backside, and just as we hoped, the ox turned toward him. The other bulls shifted, and my target bull stepped clear. I settled in, squeezed the trigger, and the sound of the bullet hitting the old bull was unmistakable. He lurched forward, and the herd bolted.
We raced after them on the snow machines. The bull quickly fell behind, and when we closed the distance, I made a follow-up shot that put him down for good. Walking up to that magnificent animal was surreal. I ran my fingers through his long, shaggy coat, awed by the thought that muskox have roamed the tundra since the last ice age.
We took photos, then began the work of skinning and quartering the bull. The weather couldn’t have been better, and within a few hours, we had the hide and meat secured on the sled for the ride back to the village. It truly was a hunt of a lifetime — one I’ll never forget — and I’m so grateful I got to share it with my husband by my side.