On this hunter’s Far North adventure, the reward was far greater than simply taking game

Once we were settled in camp and caught up on sleep, the first day saw our entire group load up the boats and head out on the water. Mostly, we looked for the smaller ringed seals for the kids to shoot. They are the most abundant seal species in Arctic and sub-Arctic waters, providing a steady supply of meat and fur for northern communities. After several missed opportunities and missed shots, Peter and Cindy’s 10-year-old son, Oscar, finally connected. It was only the second seal he’d ever shot, so it was a proud moment for everyone.

Not long after, while looking for more seals, we cruised into another remote bay. There we spotted two caribou bulls on the shoreline. One looked particularly good, wide and boasting double shovels, good tops and bez points—the works. We pulled up to shore and Peter, his cousin Andrew and I attempted to stalk into range. Unfortunately, we almost stumbled on top of the bulls as we crested a rise, and they bolted. The last we saw of them, they were trotting past a small inland lake more than a kilometre away, with no sign of slowing down. No worries, I figured, it was just day one.

It was during the mid-afternoon on that same day when we encountered the bearded seal that figuratively and literally launched my harpooning career. After we’d delivered the coup de grâce, we tied the 300-kilogram seal to our boat and motored into a quiet bay. While the women fired up stoves, the men began to process the seal. The first thing they did was slice a long strip of one-inch-wide skin from the seal’s belly, cutting so that it came off in a single piece to use as rope.

Later, back at camp, Andrew scraped the fat off one side of the skin and the hair off the other before stretching it out to dry. Such strips of belly skin from bearded seals are highly coveted for a variety of uses, including securing loads on Inuit sleds, or komatiks. By the time we left camp, Andrew had sold it over the internet for $500. The meat and fat from the seal, meanwhile, was wrapped and sewn into the hide, then buried under rocks near camp to cure; after several months, it would be ready to eat.

As part of the processing, they also removed and washed the seal’s intestines. Then they cut a slab of fat from the carcass, inserted it into one end of the intestines and squeezed it through the entire length, effectively cleaning out the insides. The intestines were then chopped into lengths and dropped into a pot of boiling water, along with two packets of chicken noodle soup mix. Once the intestines were thoroughly cooked, they dipped small pieces in mayonnaise and ate them. Though I was a little hesitant at first, I tried a piece. It had the taste and consistency of calamari, and soon I was having seconds and thirds.

The next morning, Peter and I headed out on the water alone, intent on finding a caribou. While cruising the convoluted shoreline, with its numerous bays and inlets, we saw two or three dozen, mostly cows and calves. Eventually, however, we spotted a lone bull that looked interesting from a distance. It wasn’t huge, but it had reasonable top points, bezes and backscratchers, and one large shovel. So, we beached the boat on the rocky shore, climbed a steep slope and peeked over the edge.

The bull couldn’t have been more than 15 metres away, so we quickly ducked behind cover, then slowly moved laterally behind massive rocks along the crest for about 30 metres before carefully looking over the top again. Having obviously seen us the first time, the bull had trotted off, but now stood broadside at roughly 125 metres. One shot and he was down for keeps.

After taking a few photos, I stood watch for polar bears—a necessity in that part of the world—while Peter began processing the bull in the traditional Inuit style known as “na’maq.” First, he skinned the animal, laying the hide flat facing in the direction of camp, a ritual said to bring good luck, and more caribou. Then after piecing up the bull, he wrapped the meat, tongue and heart in the hide, which he slung over his shoulder as a carrying pouch.

It was 8 P.M. by the time we had the caribou loaded in the boat and began motoring back to camp. Awaiting us was a dinner of fried, freshly caught char and bearded seal soup, letting me hit the hay that night with both a full belly and a full heart.