I shot the wrong bull!

Using boulders for cover, Brian Fortenbaugh leads a stalk as his cameraman and guide follow. Brian decided to pass on this bull. As we field-dressed our first two caribou, countless migrating bulls walked by within easy bow range.

Denying it, under the unflinching gaze of the television camera, was futile.

The big bull caribou I thought I'd arrowed was migrating his way out of my life while a smaller bull teetered on shaky legs in a stand of black spruce near the lake edge.

Moments earlier, I'd been at full draw on a bull with really good top points when it dawned on me my young cameraman might be focused on the wrong bull.

Turning, still at full draw, I whispered, "Are you on the bigger bull?"

Rather than answer, he moved right up behind my shoulder so his line of sight mirrored mine.

When I turned back to take the shot, the small herd was moving to the left and behind the dwarfed spruce trees we were hiding in. When hunting buddy and Bowhunter Assistant Editor Brian Fortenbaugh whispered, "...32 yards," fffftttt -- my arrow was gone.

In the melee following the shot, caribou were running everywhere. Moving to the other side of the bush-like spruce, I could see the big bull running to my left, showing no signs of distress.

Our guide, Cory, who was on top of the nearest ridge, attempting to detour caribou our direction, was standing and glassing to my right. Confused, and having no clue what had happened, I walked up to Cory and asked him if I'd missed.

Using boulders for cover, Brian Fortenbaugh leads a stalk as his cameraman and guide follow. Brian decided to pass on this bull. As we field-dressed our first two caribou, countless migrating bulls walked by within easy bow range.

"No, your bull just tipped over down by the lake," Cory said.

I was incredulous and disbelieving.

"No," I claimed with weakening confidence. "The bull I shot just ran over the hill that direction!"

Not true. I had, indeed, shot the wrong bull! Evidently, after the camera distraction, I had turned back and focused on the smaller bull. The bigger one had already walked behind our bush and out of sight. I was not proud of my performance.

Hiking down to the lake edge, muttering insults to myself, I recovered my bull. He was nothing to be ashamed of, but I must admit to being thankful for having a second tag in my pocket.

Just a few minutes prior to my little fiasco, Brian had taken his first caribou bull ever. Even as we took photos and field-dressed our bulls, the migration went on around us as caribou streamed by, locked in that familiar mile-eating gait not easily interrupted. We were smack in the middle of a migration as ancient as time.

This was quite an unexpected scenario. When our plane had landed at Ungava Adventure's Charlie Camp at 1 p.m., the departing hunters had reported they hadn't seen a caribou in three days. Undaunted, we stashed our gear, wolfed down a scrumptious lunch, and quickly set up our bows and packs. The pessimistic caribou report hung heavy in the air among our group of 12 bowhunters, but those who'd hunted caribou before knew things could change quickly. And they already had.