As Americans honor the heroes and victims of the 9/11 attack, I’m grateful for not being on those planes. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity nearly ended in tragedy. Here’s how: In 2000, I took a very successful caribou and fishing trip in Quebec, organized by the province. I sent a batch of posed images to Michel LeBlanc, who led the province’s hunting tourism initiative. He liked them so much that one of his outfitters offered to trade a week’s photography work for a caribou hunt, which I gladly accepted. After that hunt, I flew to a remote camp where I’d hunt with a rifle and bow. Arriving at camp in the late afternoon, I learned that everyone had tagged out, as thousands of caribou had migrated nearly through camp. I climbed a mountain, made a plan for the next day, and planned to be picky among the many animals I saw.
Two-Hour Hunt
That evening, the camp cook told me that a plane was coming to pick me up at 10:30 the next morning. At least, Michel and I had a couple of hours to hunt and the caribou were about a half mile from camp. We headed out in the dark the next morning and spotted two bulls headed toward us at a brisk pace. We sneaked up to a large rock and took careful aim. ‘I’ll shoot the one on the left; you take the one on the right,” I whispered to Michel. “One, Two, BOOM! My caribou went down immediately, but Michel’s rifle didn’t fire. As we prepared to butcher the animals, four men from camp showed up and volunteered to do the work so that I could bowhunt for the next two hours.
A 35-Yard Shot
Caribou were still migrating along the same route, and I spotted two bulls headed toward a patch of timber. I immediately raced over a ridge and headed for the far side of the small pine forest. Within minutes, the bulls emerged and passed broadside. When the lead animal stopped, I released and sent one of Bob Foulkrod’s custom arrows through its vitals. The bull ran about 50 yards and piled up. Luckily, the camp guide came looking for me, helped me quarter the animal and pack it back to camp. It was September 10th, 2001, and I’d make the flight out to Montreal.
The Flight to Baltimore Didn’t Make It
I took the first flight from Montreal to BWI, but early in the morning, we were rerouted to Philadelphia without explanation. We deplaned and stood in the terminal, where passengers were gathered around TV screens watching the World Trade Center Tower burn. Suddenly, the second tower was hit, and we all realized this was no accident. Soon the terminal was evacuated, and we were all ushered into a parking garage with the rumor spreading that there was an imminent bomb threat. As we stood against the wall, I stepped in front of a young woman and a small child to shield them in case of a blast. In a time of such tragedy, each person has to do his part.
Eventually, we left the airport, and the airline provided a hotel room and a rental car to drive to Baltimore. I called my wife, and she was very relieved to hear my voice because she knew I was in the air near New York City. The terrorist could have easily used the flight from Montreal, but chose transcontinental flights for the extra fuel to cause more carnage.
The same forces that killed so many on that day exist today. As a nation, we need to be thankful for the many brave souls who sacrificed so much and stay equally vigilant against those who would do it again.
