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

Over the next few days, we dutifully scoured the mainland shores and islands, both north and south of camp, looking for muskox. At times we were as far as 80 kilometres from camp, but we couldn’t find a single muskox, despite a population of several thousand on the peninsula. As Peter explained, the animals are usually found along the cooler coast by August, seeking to escape the heat and the flies. But it had been an unusually cool summer to that point, and they’d remained inland longer than expected. Even in this game-rich part of the world, guided by people with centuries of passed-down experience, hunting is still not a sure thing. I suspect that’s a large part of the attraction.

While we didn’t see a muskox, the abundance and variety of other wildlife kept me enthralled. I saw king eiders, snow geese, black guillemots, pomarine jaegers and both red-throated and yellow-billed loons, as well as several species of gulls. I also encountered Arctic ground squirrels and hares, numerous locally abundant ringed and bearded seals, a bowhead whale, a wolverine and five polar bears.

And then there were the narwhals. Every year, local Inuit hunters eagerly await the narwhal migration into the southern Gulf of Boothia. The first sighting occurred one day when Peter, Andrew and I were searching for muskox. Having been on the water since 9 A.M., we’d just decided to head back to camp at five in the afternoon when Peter heard and spotted a narwhal surfacing in the distance. That single sighting flipped a switch in both Peter and Andrew, and with my nodded agreement, the hunt was back on. My marine mammal licence only permitted me to hunt seals, however, so I was just along for the ride. But what a ride it was.

Much like hunting for bearded seals, the essence of narwhal hunting is pretty simple—when the animal surfaces for air, you want to be close enough to sink a harpoon into it. Unlike bearded seals that might travel a few hundred metres underwater, however, it’s not unusual for a narwhal to travel upwards of a kilometre or more when it submerges. So, every time the narwhal dove, we’d race at top speed to where we thought it would surface, then shut off the motor. As Peter pointed out, you can hear a narwhal blow when it comes up for air, but often can’t see it because of the waves. All you can do is position a would-be harpooner at the bow, hoping to be nearby when the whale surfaces.

We spent four hours chasing that first narwhal of the season in a game of oceanic whack-a-mole, always just one step behind. On one occasion, Peter did get a chance to throw his harpoon, but missed, the narwhal dipping below the waves just as we were getting close. Despite the fact the sun never fully drops below the horizon on the Boothia at that time of year, the temperature still drops noticeably in the evening, and eventually I suggested we head back to camp.

We arrived at 11:30 P.M., after bobbing, weaving and racing on the ocean for almost 15 hours without success. I was stiff, tired and cold by the time we glided into camp, but I had the impression Peter and Andrew could have stayed out all night without missing a beat. After downing a bowl of Cindy’s fabulous caribou stew, I was out before my head hit the pillow.