The bulls were spread out 50 yards wide feeding directly toward me. Craig and I had been trying to get close enough for a shot for 6 days so I knew most of the antlers by heart. The younger caribou with the spiky tops were to the left. Several nice bulls were in the middle. The big guy, the one we called Whitey because of his very whitetail looking tops, was to my right. I was just waiting for one of the big guys to get into range and present me an open shot. I was well hidden behind a clump of ferns and I anxiously ranged them every few minutes. 105 yards, 95 yards, 85 yards, they kept on coming. This same plan had blown up a couple times this week with the bulls suddenly changing directions so I tried not to get too excited. This time, however, it looked like it might all come together. At 58 yards, Whitey presented me with a broadside shot. I looked hard and even started to raise my bow, but it was just a little too far for me with the bulls still advancing. This was the last day I could realistically kill a caribou and still pack him back to camp in time for our flight out. I had to make it count.
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