We're Gonna Need More Arrows!: Hunting Adventures Around the Country and Around the World

By Mike E. Neilson

Were Gonna Need More Arrows! Is a collection of hunting adventures from around the country and around the world. Share the adventures as the author tackles water buffalo on two continents with archery tackle. Go along with the author as he hunts red stag, peccary, wild hogs, exotic rams as well as the local wild turkeys and whitetail deer. See the mountains, feel the wind and rain, smell the forest floor as you trek to Australia, Argentina and Mexico searching for game. Travel the states in search of hogs and turkeys with both gun and bow. Live the adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462832873

Mike E. Neilson

A teacher by trade but a hunter by the grace of God, the author has been hunting since 1969. Growing up as a waterfowler, he has expanded into the realm of big game hunting both with gun and bow. Still an avid hunter of birds and small game, the author likes to travel to new locations and engage in various adventures. Mike has been married to his lovely wife Mary for 27 years and they have raised 5 children in Danville, Indiana. He has taught social studies for over 20 years and is the department chairman at DCHS.

Book preview

Peek-A-Boo Caribou

The caribou will cross these narrows, my guide Gary predicted. We need to get set up in these willows and wait. And so we waited. Hiding in the willows, slapping at the mosquitoes, it suddenly occurred to me that the sound of the water flowing through the rock-chocked narrows had a splashy and clicky sound to it that wasn’t there a minute ago. Lifting my head up slowly I spotted grey velvetty antlers moving in my direction. The clicking got louder as the group of caribou trotted towards our ambush.

After a less than stellar Quebec caribou hunt a few years earlier, I was somewhat reluctant to go back and enjoy that misery again. When I started to feel the caribou bug again, I knew that Quebec just wasn’t the answer. What was the answer lay to the northwest, the Northwest Territories to be specific.

While researching the different outfitters, I could never get a good feeling about what I was reading so I turned to an organization I knew I could trust to put me in the best location for success. I quickly contacted Mark Buehrer of Bowhunting Safari Consultants to help find the perfect outfitter for me. Mark did a great job and suggested Camp Ekwo Rabesca’s Resources Ltd. as the perfect fit.

With Mark overseeing the hunting arraignments, I booked the flights and started some serious archery practice to stretch out my effective shooting distances on the tundra. By the time the hunt rolled around, I was feeling pretty good out to 50 yards, after that, I’d have to pass.

The flights from home to Yellowknife were rather mundane except for the cargo plane that took me from Edmonton to Yellowknife. Half the plane was blocked off for cargo while the other half was allocated for passengers. I spent the flight time talking with some of the miners that shuttled back and forth in the area.

Once in Yellowknife, I had a layover while other hunters came in on later flights. I took the time to do a little sightseeing and to get all the paperwork such as licenses and other fees taken care of before the floatplane ride out to camp. I’d never been in a twin Otter before and the experience was noisy and exciting. Flying out over the tundra was a treat well worth the price of the hunt.

When we got to Yellowknife, we were informed that we would be hunting a new camp that was recently set up. In fact, we would be the first group of white hunters to be hunting Little Forehead Lake camp. We actually had to land the plane on the other side of the bay and load our gear into the boats and then motor across the bay. We carried our gear up from the beach at camp because a dock had not been finished when we arrived.

At camp all the hunters were assigned to tents and guides. Moise, part owner in the business, told us how we would be hunting and how things operated in this part of the world. Moise wanted all of us to be very careful about leaving the tents at night because there were tundra grizzly bears around and one had been spotted near camp. I was assigned Gary as my guide for the hunt. Gary is from the Dogrib tribe and I would be his first client and bowhunter he had ever guided. He had hunted caribou for himself and his family but never guided before. This would be a learning experience for the both of us.

Early the next morning, I met Gary in the cook tent and we gathered lunches and headed out to hunt an area that held some promise. Our plan was to boat out to an area that Moise had assigned for us and slowly hunt the area. We motored for almost an hour before we spotted our first group of caribou spread out on the orange and red carpet of the tundra. The cool September weather had begun to forecast the winter ahead but the mosquitoes were not quite ready to give up the opportunity to draw blood from whatever sources they could find. Only when the wind blew hard did we find relief from those little bloodsuckers.

I was feeling a little light headed and tired from all the travel and jet lag was certainly taking its toll on me. It didn’t help that some of our campmates just had to smoke cigars in the tent as well. I lay down out of the wind, hiding as much exposed flesh from the bugs as I could and took a nap while Gary stood guard.

An hour or two later, Gary woke me and said that we had caribou coming. I looked around and could see the swaying antlers in the distance moving in our direction. The ground around us consisted of low bushes and large rocks. We simply hunkered down by the rocks and waited for the caribou to walk close to us. Several times we had nice big bulls close to us and I missed. With a rifle I could have limited out in 5 minutes but the bow means close encounters.

After several fruitless but exciting stalks, Gary and I had a bite to eat and that seemed to help me regain my energy considerably. We also moved to a new location that consisted of a set of rocky river narrows that the caribou used to cross from one spongy landmass to another. It was at this location that some low growing willow trees had made a small grove and the perfect ambush point for an archer. Gary scouted the area and found a trail that we could hide near. A small four foot window of opportunity was all that this place would provide but it sure felt better and gave us the concealment we needed.

As the sound of the caribou with their clicking ankles came closer, I could feel my heart beginning to pound in my chest. I searched through the breaks in the willows for a sign of the caribou and finally the tips of velvet covered antlers appeared. The snow-white mane of a mature Central Barren Ground caribou blazed in the sunshine as the bull stepped quickly out of the river and into the willows. There were four bulls in this bunch and the first one passed through the shooting lane before I could draw my bow and aim. I was already at full draw when the second bull hit the opening. I quickly aimed and released, striking the bull in the chest and it leapt clear of the willows. Gary was used to gun hunting and didn’t quite understand how the arrow kills. He stood up and shouted at me to shoot again. All that did was push the caribou farther away. At 50 yards I took a broadside shot at the stricken bull but missed. The caribou was obviously hit but I couldn’t see any wound. Gary insisted that we move up immediately and try another shot.

When the caribou bedded, I stalked in to try to get another shot at the bull. Moving up slowly, I was in bow range and ready to draw when the caribou sensed that something was wrong and quickly moved before I could shoot. The bull ran another 75 yards before bedding up. I told Gary that this time we would wait and then take up the trail. We could see the caribou as its antlers moved high above the tundra cover.

A few more caribou were crossing the narrows and Gary suggested we try to fill my other tag. I agreed only because it would keep Gary from wanting to run down the wounded caribou and spooking it off to places further from the boat. We returned to our ambush point but the area was fairly disturbed by our movements. I did manage to miss another nice bull and lost my arrow in the process.

Finally I told Gary we could move up on the caribou to see if it was dead. I could still see his antlers above the brush but every so often they would dip down and then pop back up. It was like playing peek-a-boo with a child. The antlers would dip and then pop back up. We watched this for ten minutes before they dipped for the last time, never to rise again.

I slowly approached my first bull caribou with caution and with a huge dash of excitement. This bull would not make anybody’s record book but mine. The arrow had taken the bull very low in the chest and cut the bottom of the heart. This caused the bull to bleed out slowly and explained why it acted the way it did. Gary and I took the time to pose the bull and take a few field photos.

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The author with his first bull caribou taken with a bow.

While I retrieved all our gear, Gary set about to take care of the caribou. I told him I wanted the bull caped out for a shoulder mount. Gary cut the hide and head and set those to the side. He then skinned out one side of the caribou and set the quarters on part of the hide. He did the same to the opposite side. Finally Gary cut the backstrap from each side of the caribou and rolled the carcass away. The bears and other predators would feast on that meal.

I watched with fascination as Gary cut off the hooves and then bundled the meat inside the hide. He cut a long strip of caribou hide, to sew the hide closed so the meat was protected. Gary packed all the meat into a canvas bag with a heavy strap. He then hoisted the bag on his back, adjusted the strap he used for a headband and we headed off to the boat. It was fascinating the way he carried the meat as I carried the head and cape.

We made it back to the boat where we deposited our heavy loads and took a breather. Both of us were exhausted and thirsty from the hard work of walking on the tundra with the weight of the caribou split between us. A long day had come to a successful conclusion and one happy hunter.

Motoring back to camp we spotted more caribou and a bunch of ptarmigan changing to their winter white camoflauge. In a few weeks they would be difficult to spot in the snow, but the half-white, half-brown birds were easy to spot in the green and red brush. I wished then that I had brought a shotgun to bring back a couple of those tasty birds for the pot.

When we got back to the camp, I spoke with the head cook and asked if she would cook a caribou roast one night for the camp using my bull. She was delighted to do so as it stretched their food supplies a little longer and I was happy to have a native cook prepare my bull for dinner. Feeding two dozen people was big work and any help was appreciated.

The rest of the week played out like the first day with plenty of caribou spotted and several stalks attempted but each time the caribou had the upper hand er, hoof. Other hunters in camp scored well including a pair of archers who took some pretty impressive bulls. I don’t recall the final count on the number of bulls taken but I do know that everybody shot at least one caribou.

Besides the caribou I shot, I got to see some pretty impressive sights like my first tundra grizzly bear track, a pack of wolves on the prowl, tons of ptarmigan and hundreds of caribou. The northern lights shone very early in the mornings and were mostly white at that time of the year and at our location. The sky was literally filled from end to end with shiny stars. It was an amazing hunt and one I would gladly do again.

Turkey Slam’n

The first time I heard a wild turkey gobble in the woods, I didn’t believe what I was hearing. Oh sure I’d heard about it but to actually hear a tom turkey gobble for myself just knocked my socks off. I was in the Hoosier National Forest in the late ’70’s and I was expanding my hunting repertoire from waterfoul (spelled correctly) and squirrels to other more exotic game like turkey and deer. Back then to see any kind of deer was a victory, the same with a turkey.

I remember the bird gobbling. I could track the toms’ movement with each lusty gobble. My half-hearted attempts at scratching out an imitation of a hen were pathetic at best but this tone-deaf tom was ready and willing to go. My breathing and heartbeats were in rhythm and the pounding in my ears made it hard to hear the bird. Some other hunters came down a logging road chasing the bird and spooked it, but it was too late, I was hooked.

Fast forward almost a decade and I was back in the Hoosier National way down deep with a hunting buddy named Tom Crowe checking out some ponds on public land. Everything I read said that turkeys love to roost over water and that’s where we started our search. Tom split up from me and I walked over to investigate a pond near a logging road that cut through some planted pines. I walked around the pond looking for turkey sign. Turkey sign consisted of feathers, tracks and poop. I found none. I did see lots of deer tracks.

I moved next to one of the big pine trees lining the logging trail and took a break. I noticed a doe and her fawn from the previous year move up and water. Well, at least I was seeing some game as I filed that area away for the fall deer season.

After the deer left I tried my hand at using a diaphragm call. I almost choked a couple of times as I let out the most hideous calls I could squeak out of my mouth. In plain truth, Tom had wandered off and I was bored. I leaned my shotgun against another tree and just stared out into the woods until I heard a gobble to my right. 30 yards away, a pair of turkeys were walking towards the pond. The adrenaline rush hit my toes and I started to sweat. With slothlike speed, I slowly reached for my shotgun. The birds had no clue I was there and when I raised my gun, I shot at soon as the bead covered the closest birds head.

Success! I was an official successful turkey hunter. I was so proud at the check-in station, like I was the first person to ever kill a turkey. The turkey fever took off and I was a glutton for punishment. I couldn’t get enough of the hunting but I never seemed to find any more birds.

I had decided that Indiana was to devoid of birds and that I’d have to go to some exotic place and get my next bird. I contacted Cabela’s Outdoor Adventures and booked my first guided turkey hunt to the Black Hills with Ron Dube. This was a 2 bird hunt, one in Wyoming and the other in South Dakota. I specifically booked the hunt to fall over my spring break so I didn’t need to take time off from work to go.

That first trip was memorable only from the standpoint that I had never hunted so hard for a bird before. I also came home empty handed. I remember that burning in the pit of my stomach that I had been outwitted by a bird with a brain the size of a peanut. And not a very big peanut either. I had to seek revenge. Against the better judgment of my wife, I made arrangements with the outfitter to go back in early May and try again for the birds. Heck, I already had my licenses; I didn’t want to let them go to waste.

The second round of Merriam’s turkey hunting went considerably better. My guide was Ron’s youngest son Steve and we ran and chased and called and dogged birds for 3 days before scoring on a tom that came up out of some pines looking for love. When the bird fell, I knew that I had found a new avenue for my hunting dreams. I was a turkey hunter with an Eastern and a Merriam’s under my belt. An idea was starting to form. Maybe I could get one of those turkey slam things I kept reading about. My destiny was laid at my feet.

Two more years passed and I actually scored on a second bird in Indiana. Turkey fever flowed through my veins and I wanted more. Somehow I got connected with an auction and was the successful bidder for a Rio Grande turkey hunt in Texas. I made flight reservations and counted the days. I picked through every turkey article I could find about the birds. I fretted and worried and tortured myself until I flew down to San Antonio. A buddy of mine from the first Merriam’s hunt agreed to go with me and we rented a car to go to the camp.

Texas proved to be all it was cracked up to be and more. We set out to hunt a pasture that was overgrown with cactus and had some pretty thick and nasty cover. As I stepped out of the truck to open a gate, I slammed the door and a turkey gobbled. We quickly turned the truck around and got setup. My buddy, Pete was to be the first shooter and I would flank him. The tom came in silently and swung wide of Pete’s position and gave me a quick shot through the cactus. Bingo, I had my first Rio and a near slam. The trip would later produce a second bird for me that I called in on my own. Pete scored a pair of birds as well. Now I was hooked on Texas. We saw so many turkeys in 3 days, that I thought I’d never want to hunt Indiana again.

I again skipped a couple of years chasing turkeys in exotic locations as I branched out to other forms of hunting. I was big into archery and then spent some time hunting with a longbow. All that hunting, which was fun and I regret none of it, cooled my turkey killing lust.

Finally, the desire to go after the elusive Osceola turkey began to blossom. I had gone to a National Wild Turkey Federation convention and saw the Osceola, the Gould’s and the Oscellated. I wandered around the convention, talking with various outfitters and hunting consultants, trying to glean as much information about the Florida bird as I could.

Coming home from that convention I eventually read an ad in the Turkey Call magazine for a guided Osceola hunt. I called the number and after a lengthy conversation, booked with Lance to hunt during my spring break. Lance also suggested that I bring my bow as the property was covered up in wild hogs and that would be an added bonus to the hunt as well as getting rid of a nuisance critter for them.

We set up in a palmetto woods and created a large groundblind. A thick fog had moved in and I couldn’t see the birds that were gobbling out in the mist but Lance could. Slowly the birds emerged from the fog and Lance barked the command to fire. A slight increase in pressure on the trigger and my first Osceola was down for the count. I had now achieved some sort of slam taking all four subspecies found in the U.S. The fact that this deed took 10 years seemed irrelevant. I had taken the birds and had achieved a goal I had set. The satisfaction was immense but not fulfilled.

I went back to the literature I had saved from the turkey convention as well as the ads. I wondered if I could head down Mexico way and hunt the biggest turkey in the new world, the Gould’s. I had already decided that the Oscellated held little interest to me but the Gould’s seemed a worthy goal. I contacted a couple of references and finally booked with a guy who seemed to have all the answers. That should have been a red flag but the price was good and his stories seemed believable.

As the days got closer to my hunt, the booking agent called to say he had spoken with the guide and wanted to postpone the hunt until later in the season. I had already made arraignments at work and could not shift my time. I had to hunt in that timeframe or not at all.

In order to make this hunt happen, I had to fly to Chihuahua Mexico. I speak no Spanish but I