Story by Darren Thornberry

-- Chris Chastain looked like he was about to be sick. I'm usually not superstitious, but the turbulence en route to Montreal was rough indeed, and I hoped it wasn't a sign of things to come on the tundra, which is an ancient Sami-Russian word meaning "flat-topped hill."

 Photo: The author and his dad made quick work of filling their caribou tags while hunting in northern Quebec, which left almost a week for Darren and Russ to give the lake denizens sore lips.

 Well, Quebec's share of tundra, the mostly treeless region between the icecap and the Arctic tree line, is dense with beauty and life. I figure the Sami weren't thinking tourism when they coined the word.

Chris, my dad, Russell, and I overnighted in Montreal before flying to Kujjuak, where we boarded a tundra-bound puddle-jumper.

My view of said tundra, out the float plane window, revealed muskox, wolves and huge groups of caribou -- of the Leaf River herd -- all going somewhere at a measured pace. And so were we. The skilled pilot touched the skids down nicely on the waters of Charlie Lake. The camp cabins were warm, showers hot and kitchen smells inviting. But we were there to hunt caribou, not to sit around and eat. Not yet. Guide Bucky Adams quickly clued us in to an area across the lake, where they'd been seeing some good bulls.

I bit my lip to keep from protesting. Our camp was literally surrounded by bulls. There could have been a monster within 100 yards of our cabin door! Wasn't a little glassing in order before we left?

Thank God I let my novice hunter questions go unasked. Bucky revved the skiff's engine, and off we went.

I was excited. I'd been seeing Dad's photos and videos of his Ungava Adventures hunts for years, and I was honored to finally join him and Chris -- the hardest-working cameraman in show business -- for a real Quebec-Labrador caribou hunt.

Photo: The author's dad, executive editor Russell Thornberry, poses with his finest of the trip, though he'll cherish the hunt's memories more than yet another set of antlers.

As the boat moved from the narrows into open water, I saw something that stole my breath. In an unbroken thread, caribou were simultaneously running down the hillside to our left, getting into the water, swimming across the lake, getting out on the other side and lining the horizon. Truth is, we had to maneuver around hundreds of caribou, trying not to alarm them, just so we could go hunting on the far side of the lake! The sight of an ancient species doing what it has done for thousands of years, in numbers too big to count, left me humbled. I guess there are some rituals in nature that man has not yet altered.

We landed the boat at the intersection of a high, barren plateau and a marshy ravine dotted with golden tamaracks. An army of caribou was already dropping into the valley when we got set up behind a rock facing their broadside march. Bucky explained and was absolutely correct that virtually all velvety bulls look huge to the untrained eye. With his guidance, I began to appreciate how unique it is to find a mature, wide bull carrying tall tines on top, double shovels and frying-pan-sized bez points. Many had some, but few had it all.

Within minutes, a bull with massive bez points got everything buzzing. Bucky was impressed, and it looked awesome on film, so I touched off a 40-yard shot and dropped the boo. But it didn't mean a thing to the rest of the herd.

They. Just. Kept. Coming.

Russ shot his first bull minutes later, and the hit parade was just getting started. I don't think Bucky was expecting to see so many quality bulls in one outing. One minute he was whispering "Shoot;" the next, he was slapping his knee in disbelief.

I have determined that there is no way to do justice on paper to the excitement and good fortune we experienced that afternoon, so let me bluntly report that Russ and I shot two bulls each, our limit, resting our guns on the same rock, in the first 34 minutes of our weeklong hunt. Most of the outgoing hunters in camp that night were not sure if they liked us or not. But the ones who'd impatiently shot dinky bulls had definitely come to a conclusion.

Bucky swore up and down that our hunt was the exception rather than the rule. A hunter can scrounge around for caribou for five days and walk 15 miles before seeing, let alone shooting, a suitable bull. It happens. But the annual migration also happens, and if you get in the middle of it, you'll have an experience that will likely be granted you just once in your lifetime.

The pressure to shoot good bulls on film was gone, so the next day the camera was turned on Chris. After seeing some truly giant bulls in the water again, we zoomed to a section of shoreline where we expected them to make landfall, and waited. Eventually the "trip bull" made its unwitting way into Chris' sights. I would never have expected it, but this caribou was the biggest we'd seen yet. A day later, Chris got his second huge bull, and the fishing began in earnest.

Dad and I slipped away one afternoon to a quiet corner of the lake, where a little stream fed into it, and let our fly rods go to work. In an unforgettably calm hour, the sky turned orange and the breeze, so light and cool, stirred the melancholy places in our hearts. It was an hour when father and son communicated best by saying hardly anything, enjoying the still candor of our relationship, the unspoken truths between us splashing against our feet in indelible ripples.

That was the highlight of the trip, and one of the great moments of my life.

I left Charlie Lake with a new respect for caribou. I didn't run naked with 'em like Farley Mowat in "Never Cry Wolf," but I didn't need to go to extremes to find out that hunting this hardy creature in northern Quebec is a thrill all its own.

Our party shot six. Needless to say, we didn't exactly put a dent in the herd, which by the end of the week had cleared out of that camp for parts unknown. But it took a good four days for the herd to come and go.

Ungava Adventures offers hot showers, working toilets, clean cabins, running water and great food -- hundreds of miles from the nearest town. But accommodations are not their greatest claim to fame. Owner Sammy Cantafio and staff work with great determination and agility to make the hunt, from the first phone call, a straightforward and fun affair.

Taking a trophy animal is not guaranteed, nor should it be. But your guide will do his best to put you in range of one. Bring your rod and shotgun, too, because it's hard to resist the lure of a little ptarmigan fun and fishing once you've been on the tundra for a few days.

Editor's Note: To book a hunt with Sammy Cantafio, log onto www.ungava-adventures.com or call (514) 694-4424.

-- Darren Thornberry