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Tribute to Wolfgang Küper
By Robert Fithian
Peering out of the dense alder thicket on to the open tundra slope
we could see and hear the mighty Toklat grizzly forty yards away
busily trying to dig a ground squirrel from its den. His powerfully
muscled frame shimmered in glistening tints of blond and brown as
the late afternoon September sun played its magic on him. Awful
close, I remember thinking, and he has a slight uphill advantage. I
waited a minute or two to allow my hunter's nerves to settle, made
eye contact with him and pointed on the shoulder. He gave me the go
ahead nod and we then took the last step of the stalk to a small
opening at the edge of the alder patch. I lowered my head to avoid
the muzzle blast and watched intently as Wolfgang raised his rifle
to fire. At the shot, I was astounded to see dirt and tundra fly up
right under the bear. The grizzly jumped at least five feet
straight into the air and made several large bounds in a semi
circle, each of which were accented at the landing by a guttural
woof. I encouraged Wolfgang to continue shooting and shouldered a
wider opening into the alders for him to see from. At the sound of
the bushes rustling, the bear stopped his bounding, stood up and
peered intently at the noise. He only stood for a second or two
before he dropped to all fours and broke into a fast run right at
us.
The hunt had started eight days earlier and twenty years ago when
Wolfgang Küper, Jack Phelps and Russell Schneider arrived at Jack
and Nadine Smith's Western Alaska Range hunting camp for a fourteen
day multiple species hunt. Rounding out the crew was Steve Eluska,
an Athabaskan Native from the village of Telida and myself. Telida
is a small village located on the Swift Fork of the North Fork of
the Kuskokwim River. Jack Smith, who held Alaska Registered Guide
license number nine and his precious wife Nadine for many years
hosted some great hunts from this camp locally known only as Emerald
Valley. Steve and I enjoyed the many challenges of working with
Jack as assistant guides.
It was decided that Jack and Nadine
would accompany Wolfgang out into the tundra uplands of the Front
Range for opportunity at moose, caribou, grizzly and black bear.
Meanwhile Steve and I would take Russell and Jack Phelps up into the
Mountains for Dall's sheep. A week later found us successful in our
efforts and all rendezvoused at Jack and Nadine's lower camp anxious
for some of Nadine's kitchen magic. There is something about the
glow of a lantern inside of a wall tent in the wilderness that
breaks down barriers and creates camaraderie for people of all walks
of life that would not seem possible in other places. The stories
of the successes and the failures, the river crossings, the country,
the game sighted, the big one that was seen too late or too far away
to go after are all common topics that reflect on the real
experience of the hunt.
This particular night was highlighted
by the Texans, who with Nadine's permission strung a long rope from
our sleeping quarters to a bush near Jack and Nadine's small
sleeping tent which was located next to a very well used bear
trail. Fresh droppings and hair on several local rub trees let us
know that we were the visitors here. After everybody was settled in
we anxiously awaited the sound of Jack's snoring and then the Texans
gave the rope a few good pulls making the bushes rustle. We could
hear Jack sit right up and say, "Nadine! Something is out there."
After a little while he would settle down and the Texans would yank
on the rope again and again we would hear his concerns to Nadine
about something being out there. This chain of events went on for
some time before Nadine could no longer contain her laughter, at
which time Jack got up and with some curt remarks found, and cut the
rope.
I enjoyed spending time with Wolfgang
who was a sixty-five year old retired dentist and a gentleman in
every respect. He immensely enjoyed all that there was to see and
experience. He was commonly asking questions and entering notes
about the country, plants, animals and his experiences into his
diary. Wolfgang had given names to each member of the colony of
beavers that resided right below this camp. He would sit at the
picnic table and watch them with glee as they played and worked.
His hunt had gone well so far, Nadine had guided him to a real dandy
moose and Jack had successfully guided him for black bear and
caribou. The only bad experience he had was during a stream
crossing while returning from his moose hunt when he slipped and his
rifle struck a rock hard enough to jam the scope right through the
rings. Then during the re-sighting in procedure his scope struck
him over the eye and left a bad gash over his eye or, as more
commonly coined in Alaska, a Weatherby eyebrow. This one was a bad
one however and Wolfgang sure showed his mettle when using a
polished metal spatula hanging in a tree for a mirror, he sewed the
cut up with some sutures he had brought along.
The day following our arrival at this lower camp found the hunters
staying in and relaxing their legs. Jack was going to haul a load
of moose meat back to base camp and asked Steve and I to take his
unique tundra tractor to retrieve Wolfgang's caribou from the field.
It was later that morning while we were returning from this journey
that we stopped the tractor and walked out onto a promontory to
glass for a while that we spotted the grizzly mentioned earlier in
this story. He was traveling down a drainage, occasionally stopping
to dig for some pea vine roots that all grizzlies like so much. I
asked Steve to return to camp with the tractor and get one of the
hunters while I would keep the elevation and wind in my favor, keep
track of the bear and signal him from some vantage point upon their
return.
Thus began a very enjoyable day of
keeping track of "Mr. Grizz." Shortly after Steve left, the bear
came upon a herd of twenty to thirty caribou that were strung out
across this small drainage. I was surprised to see the bear meander
right through them without showing any interest in them at all.
Some of the caribou watched him from as close as forty yards away,
others just kept feeding and none of them showed any real concern.
It brought to mind the old cliché "what can you say; they're
caribou." About a half mile further along the bear came upon
another small bunch of caribou. This time however, the wind was in
his favor and he put on one devil of a sneak that used every bit of
cover there was between him and his quarry. The caribou were
grouped on a small plateau of tundra that was slightly higher in
elevation than the bear. The bear made it to the edge of the
plateau and was just about to crawl up onto their elevation when I
felt the wind change. The moment the change in wind occurred, he was
in full flight for the caribou, which were about fifty yards away
from him. This time there was no standing around watching on the
part of the caribou, they were in full flight instantly. The bear
chased after them for at least fifteen minutes but all he caught was
air. He finally stopped and sat down like a big dog with his tongue
hanging out panting like crazy. High drama on the tundra!
He then headed for some tundra domes
that I knew had enough Richardson ground squirrels to keep him
occupied for some time. With a few fleeting rain showers augmented
by sunshine I succumbed to the pull of the tundra and soon fell
asleep. Anyone that comes to Alaska needs to experience the pull of
the tundra when the sun is shining and the wind or the season has
the insects at bay. There is just no describing the health benefits
one gains after an hour-long nap on nature's greatest mattress. A
short while later I raised up and glassed the area the bear had gone
into, and was fortunate enough to see just a glimpse of him as he
moved from one dome to another.
It was not long before I could see
Steve returning across the tundra with the tractor and Wolfgang. The
day was waning and I was concerned that by the time they would get
to where I was, there would not be enough daylight for the long
stalk that lay ahead. It was at least two and a half miles to where
I had last seen the bear. Upon their arrival, I discussed this with
them and Wolfgang told me that his legs were very sore from his
steady hunting and that he could not go very fast. He also said he
was willing to attempt the stalk, even if we did not catch up with
the bear it would be fun to try.
I kept after Wolfgang trying to
encourage a faster pace but he was set in slow mode. An hour and a
half into the stalk finally gave us a view of the bear through the
spotting scope. Wolfgang was impressed. "Primo, magnificent," he
exclaimed when he saw the bear through the scope. Then turning to me
he said, "but still I no hurry." Another hour found us 160 yards
downslope from the bear with a patch of tag alders between him and
us. Why there was a small log laying right in the best place to
shoot from can only be providential because there was not another
piece of wood in the whole area bigger than four inches in diameter.
But here lay a small log about ten inches in diameter just perfect
for a solid rest to shoot from. However, Wolfgang refused to shoot
from that distance. He was still unsure of his gun after the fall he
had taken with it. I explained that if we tried to sneak through
the noisy alders to the bear we could loose our opportunity. Again
he smiled and said, "that is fine, we have had a good day anyway."
As a guide, I knew that I should not encourage a shot that the
hunter is not comfortable with and truly, the uphill distance, the
gun and Wolfgang's uneasiness about the shot did add up to, "we must
get closer".
Leaving Steve below as a spotter, we
eased up through the alders to where this story began. When the
bear got to the fifteen pace mark he put on the breaks and again
stood up. Wolfgang's Steyr Manlicher in 8.6mm. cracked and the bear
took the hit in the center of his chest. This is one of the most
vital shots on big bears and this one died instantly. Wolfgang was
truly overwhelmed with his grizzly.
The traditional Germanic customs for
after the harvest were adhered to, all of which are meant to show a
reverence to the harvested animal. The bear was a mature Toklat
--dark legs and head with a light brown or blond body--boar that
later squared a little over seven and a half feet. This is about the
average size for a mature interior grizzly. Over the years we have
harvested bears over twenty years old that square out at seven feet
and seven to ten year old bears that will square over eight and a
half feet. It all depends on the diet and the genetics of the
individual bear. The measurement is taken by laying the fleshed hide
down flat and measuring the distances between the tips of the claws
on the front feet, and the distance between the tip of the nose and
the end of the tail without stretching or moving the hide. These
two measurements are added together and then divided in half for the
squared size of the bear.
Later while we were skinning the bear, a few white specks on the
upper slopes of the Front Range caught my eye. A look through the
spotting scope showed four Dall's rams feeding in the distant
mountains. They all showed the trace of charcoal color near the
bases of their horns which is a telltale sign of maturity when
trying to judge the age of rams from a far distance. Immature rams
will not show this dark coloration when viewed from afar. I showed
the rams to Wolfgang and told him, "Wolfgang tomorrow I will take
you to the mountains for your ram and you will have all five of your
animals". After watching the sheep for a while he responded with
these words, "Tomorrow we will go after the rams but only with the
camera. I have harvested four magnificent animals on this hunt and
for me there will be no more killing."
I doubt that Wolfgang or Steve knew that the lack of conversation on
my part was due to a lump in my throat. With the beautiful hide
slung around me, a true sportsman, and a good friend who's
grandfather used to hunt these same bears with a spear, we headed
back. With Gods radiant beauty shinning from the numerous lakes, the
snow capped mountains and the dazzling fall colors of the tundra I
had to pick up the pace and move out ahead of Wolfgang and Steve. I
did not want to have to explain the dampness on my cheeks or the
inability to talk. Why the Good Lord had chosen to shine on us the
way he had that day was hard to comprehend.
Wolfgang returned and successfully
harvested a ram some years later. I was sad to hear of his passing
away a few years back. Now, when the plane arrives at the start of
each hunt I'm always anxious to see if it has brought us any
"Wolfgang Küpers." Hunters who are not just here to kill, get their
picture taken and go home, but hunters who are here to truly
experience some of the greatest country and hunting opportunities
left on this old globe.
Thank you
Wolfgang.
This
story appeared in the Winter 2003 Issue of
The Alaska
Professional Hunter Magazine.
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