The Yukon – Unforgettable MomentsA dream comes true. It takes two days of flying to reach this magnificent wilderness. Two connecting flights later, my old friend Fritz picks me up at the airport in Whitehorse. From there, it’s a three-hour drive north in his pickup truck to Kluane Lake. That’s where the real adventure begins.The drive is easy and relaxed. We have plenty to catch up on, and the three hours fly by. We head straight toward Alaska. The light and the landscape are simply breathtaking. From the very first moment, the Yukon has a way of pulling you in.
Once we reached the lake, we loaded our gear into a small outboard cabin boat. Our destination was the far shore. Out here, the weather plays a crucial role. The lake is nearly 100 miles long and a good five miles wide.We were facing strong westerly winds, rain, and heavy swells, turning the crossing into our first real adventure. Fritz, an old hand who had been out on this lake many times in weather like this, simply said, “Life jackets are pointless. If we capsize, those things won’t do us any good. The water is far too cold. And we can forget about rescue out here—apart from ours, there’s only one other boat on the entire lake.”
I’ve known Fritz for a long time, and that crossing was no walk in the park. After two rough and not entirely risk-free hours, we finally reached the camp on the far side of the lake. The alternative would have been to wait a day and hope the wind would die down by the next morning—but losing a full day simply wasn’t an option.
That first evening at camp felt like arriving in a little alpine village back home. Fritz and his crew were all from Upper Austria and the Pinzgau region—a little piece of home right in the middle of the Yukon. That evening, we had steak, a good bottle of red wine, and plenty of great stories from the Yukon. It doesn’t get much better than that. I was ready for the next day. The following morning, I enjoyed one last hot shower before we headed out. At around 9 a.m., we set off north in the cabin boat. This time, the weather was on our side and the lake was calm. It was an easy, relaxed ride, and after about an hour and a half, we reached our destination. Waiting for me at the meeting point was Dustin, my guide, with our five horses. Dustin was 28 years old and fit as they come.
A cowboy, just the way you picture one. We loaded three of our horses with everything we would need for the next eight to ten days in the backcountry and saddled the other two. From that moment on, the real cowboy life began.We followed narrow trails through a light rain, heading into the surrounding mountains toward base camp. Two men and five horses. For five hours, we rode mostly in silence through an ever-changing landscape. The impressions were incredible. This country was simply breathtaking. Every one of those horses had a strong personality of its own. Well trained and incredibly tough. You have to stay focused in the saddle at all times. As sure-footed and powerful as these horses are, this kind of country demands your full attention as a rider.
We crossed raging creeks, climbed steep, muddy slopes, and pushed through swamps and deep bogs. Without our horses, getting through this country would have been impossible.
Serious injuries in this remote part of the world rarely end well—for either horse or rider. There’s no emergency number to call and no mountain rescue team coming to pick you up. Every step, every small mistake, every moment of uncertainty can have consequences out here. After five demanding hours in the saddle, we finally reached base camp. It would be our last night with a solid roof over our heads for the next few days. The horses always come first. Saddles and gear off, horses fed, then hobbled and turned loose for the night.
Trusted companions throughout the entire journey: our Meindl “Coach” jacket in chamois-tanned deerskin, the Inis Meáin Aran sweater, our “Oakwood” trousers, and the Meindl “Glockner” mountain boots.
Every morning, we had to round up the boys again before we could load and saddle them. That alone took us a good hour and a half each day. Packing horses is a skill in itself, and becoming a backcountry guide takes years of hard training and experience. Loading the horses properly is crucial for a safe ride. The cinches have to be secured correctly and the weight balanced perfectly so the pack horses can negotiate the rugged terrain safely, even under a heavy load. One wrong step can be all it takes. Out here, the wilderness has its own rules. You’re part of this country, and the moment you get careless or stop respecting those rules, you lose.
Humility and respect should be your constant companions, because nature is stronger than you—and you should never forget that. I wouldn’t recommend a trip like this to anyone without solid mountain and riding experience. Out here, you are responsible for yourself, and you have to be able to trust your instincts and your experience.Out here, it’s just you, your guide, and five horses. No roads. No villages. No sign of civilization. Just endless, untouched wilderness stretching as far as the eye can see. The country we’re riding through is completely uninhabited—an immense expanse of mountains, valleys, and wild country roughly the size of Switzerland.
It takes three full days in the saddle, crossing mountains and valleys, just to reach a trail that will eventually lead you back toward civilization. Out here, the Yukon plays by its own rules. It is breathtakingly beautiful—and utterly unforgiving.
The weather can change in a heartbeat, driven by icy winds sweeping in from Alaska. Temperatures can swing from 14°F below freezing to 77°F. All in a single day.
The following morning, we packed up the horses at 7 a.m. and rode out. After six hours in pouring rain, we finally found a suitable place to make camp. We pitched our tent beside a small creek, sheltered by the brush. This was real backcountry life. There was a certain romance to sitting around a campfire, the kind we all knew from the old Westerns. But the reality out here had very little to do with that romantic image. It had been raining all day, and the temperature had dropped sharply. Slowly but surely, I began to realize just how alone I was out here. It was a test of both mind and spirit, and I came to understand one thing: freedom also comes with hardship.
Day 4 in the mountains, and so far we hadn’t seen any huntable game. From the stories I’d heard, I knew that on a ten-day hunt in the Yukon, you might get one real opportunity to take the animal you came for. Ten days of hard, unforgiving wilderness for that one moment. And when it comes, you’d better not miss it—or sleep through it. That’s what makes hunting out here different. There are no guarantees. Out here, the wilderness makes the rules.
You can spend hours on the move out here, and every decision matters. You have to constantly play the wind. Where do you put up the horses so you can find them again after dark? Every ridge you crest can expose you and blow the entire stalk—wiping out hours of hard hunting in a matter of seconds.
The game up there is incredibly wary. One wrong move, one careless mistake—even from more than a mile out—can spook them and blow the entire stalk. Out here, every move can make the difference between closing the distance and getting within range, or never getting a shot at all.
By the time we finally rode back into camp that evening, we had been out in the mountains for nearly 14 hours—hours in the saddle, hours on foot, climbing, glassing, and covering mile after mile of unforgiving country. We were wet, tired, and completely spent. First, we took care of the horses. Then we got a fire going, put on a pot of coffee, hung our wet gear out to dry, cooked dinner, and finally had time to take in everything the day had thrown at us.Some nights, we’d sit around for hours talking and swapping stories. Other nights, I’d just stare into the fire and smoke my cigar. Those were unforgettable moments—quiet evenings beneath an endless Yukon sky filled with stars.
Up there, you live with an intensity and a sense of awareness that becomes addictive. Addicted to freedom. To adventure. To hardship.
The nights at nearly 10,000 feet were always something special. Some were bitterly cold, with snow and rain; others were mild and perfectly still. And with those nights came incredibly vivid dreams. The old Indigenous people say it has something to do with the untouched nature of this land—and with the ancient spirits that still call these mountains home.
On Day 5, we finally spotted sheep for the first time. About 1.2 miles out, we picked up a band of Dall sheep. It took us nearly five hours to close the distance and get within shooting range. At times, we were down on all fours, crawling our way up the ridges and hoping the wind wouldn’t switch on us. There were ten sheep in the band. What an incredible sight. Majestic. Seeing a band of Dall sheep in the wild for the first time—every sheep hunter’s dream. There were a few young rams among them, but unfortunately, none were mature enough. After an hour of glassing them carefully, we backed out the same way we had come, crawling on all fours until we were safely out of sight. Then we made our way back to the horses and headed for camp.
Day 6 began with a spectacular sunrise, cowboy coffee, and a few fried eggs. The best cappuccino in the world doesn’t stand a chance against coffee brewed over the fire in an old tin pot. Fueled up, we headed northwest, deeper into a maze of mountains, ridgelines, and valleys. Out there, the peaks don’t have names—there are simply too many of them. One ridge leads to another, every valley starts to look familiar, and once you drop into the wrong drainage, it’s easy to lose your bearings. Staying together and knowing exactly where you are is essential.
From a distance, a lot of this country looks harmless—but that can change in an instant when you get closer and suddenly find the terrain nearly impossible to cross. That day, we had an encounter I’ll never forget. As we rounded the side of a mountain on horseback, there she was—a grizzly sow with three cubs, less than 110 yards away. No warning. No time to prepare. One moment there was nothing but open country ahead of us; the next, she was right there. She rose up in front of us, and for a moment everything seemed to stop. Four grizzlies, three young cubs, and a protective sow between us and the trail ahead.
Most encounters end without trouble. But a sow with three big cubs is harder to predict. Just to be safe, I drew my Mauser from the saddle scabbard and took the safety off. Dustin pulled his Winchester, and I did the same. We were tense, no question, but at the same time completely fascinated by what was happening in front of us. For what felt like a long five minutes, we watched each other—the bears watching us, and us watching them. Then, finally, the old sow and her three nearly grown cubs moved on and gave us the trail back.
We watched them for a few more minutes until they finally disappeared into the thick brush. An incredible encounter—and without question the highlight of Day 6. We hadn’t taken any game that day, but we had witnessed something I’ll never forget as a hunter: standing eye to eye with four grizzlies in the middle of the Yukon wilderness. Not exactly an everyday experience…
Some pieces of clothing don’t just come along for the journey—they become part of it. The Coach Jacket was with me in the Yukon, through wind, rain, and long days in the backcountry, in a landscape that demands everything from you. And that’s exactly what it was made for: crafted from chamois-tanned deerskin, rugged, full of character, and becoming more personal with every wear.
A jacket made for the road. For adventure. And for stories that stay with you.
On Day 7, we decided to break camp and set out on a full day’s ride into another part of the backcountry. At the end of the trail, two small cabins were waiting for us, each with a wood stove and a mattress. After long, cold nights out in the mountains, that kind of simplicity felt like pure luxury.
Day 8We headed out early to make the most of the day. Time was slowly but surely running out. Three days left, and apart from one sighting, we still hadn’t had any real success. We rode into a valley that, as far as we knew, had never been hunted before. The ground was boggy and covered in thick brush, making it tough country to ride through. Then, far in the distance, we spotted a few white dots high among the rocky spires.
After studying the band through the spotter, we decided to circle the mountain on horseback, get above the sheep, and make our stalk from the top. That meant riding all the way around the mountain, tying off the horses, and gaining the ridge from the backside. After two hours in the saddle, we tied off the horses below a rocky outcrop and started climbing. By then it was 10 a.m., and the weather was still holding. Ahead of us were hours of hard climbing through steep scree and fields of huge, unstable boulders. Once we gained the ridge, we started picking our way from one rocky outcrop to the next, trying to stay hidden and keep the wind in our favor. By then, we had lost sight of the sheep and couldn’t tell exactly where the band was—or whether they were even still there.
The wind was finally in our favor, carrying our scent uphill and away from the sheep. So we kept climbing and picking our way forward until we finally spotted the band again at around 765 yards. The second I saw them, the adrenaline hit me hard.
There he was—the big old ram, right in the middle of his ewes. Between us and him stood sheer rock towers with nearly 600-foot vertical faces. “Shit,” we thought. There was only one way forward. We dropped our packs and committed to the climb. The last 550 yards took us nearly two hours, free-climbing our way through the rock.
We couldn’t afford to knock a single rock loose, and the wind couldn’t switch on us. Either one could blow the entire stalk in seconds, and the band would be gone for good. The only place we could see that might give us a shot at the old ram was at the top of a narrow rock chimney, where a small ledge—maybe six by six feet—offered just enough room to set up. From there, it was roughly 220 yards almost straight down to where the band was bedded in the sun, completely unaware of us. So that’s where we climbed. It was crazy—but it was our only chance to get within range of that ram.
Adrenaline is pumping through you the entire time. You’re fully aware of the danger, but this is exactly what you came here for. There’s no turning back now. You trust your instincts. You trust your experience. These are the moments you push yourself for back home—the reason you train so hard, so that when the time comes, you’re ready.First, the rifle goes up onto the ledge. Easy. Carefully. Don’t make a sound. Then you slowly pull yourself up behind it.The band hasn’t noticed a thing. They’re still bedded there in the sun, completely unaware of us.
Now it was time to pick out the right ram. Settle in behind the rifle, control your breathing, and wait. Wait for the old ram to stand. It could take an eternity—or he could be on his feet the very next second. So you lie there on that tiny ledge and wait. Fortunately, the days are long in the Yukon at that time of year. It stays light until nearly 10 p.m. And that matters, because the hunt doesn’t end when the shot breaks. Often, that’s when the most dangerous part begins. If you take the shot, you pack it out. If you make the climb, you make it back down.
That’s the law of the backcountry. Every hunter knows it. And with that in mind, I was hoping the old ram would get to his feet sooner rather than later, giving me the opportunity for a clean, lethal shot and a quick, humane kill. After nearly twenty minutes—which felt like an eternity—the band finally began to stir. The old ram got to his feet and surveyed the country around him. At first, he turned the wrong way. Then, a moment later, he gave me the angle I had been waiting for.
Slowly, I exhaled. My finger had been resting on the trigger for twenty minutes. Now it was time to break the shot.The rifle cracked, and the old ram tumbled down the steep slope. I immediately cycled the bolt and got back on him, ready in case he got to his feet and tried to escape. But he never moved. The shot had been instantly fatal. It took a few moments before it all began to sink in. Then, all at once, the tension and the exhaustion seemed to fall away. I just lay there for a few more minutes, taking it all in and simply enjoying the moment.
We made our way back to the horses, hoping we could reach the downed ram before we lost the daylight. Given the distance and the dangerous terrain we still had to cross, that was no easy task. Thankfully, everything went well. It was 9 p.m. by the time we finally reached the ram among the rocks, exhausted but happy. We broke him down, packed the meat, cape, and horns onto the horses, and started back toward the cabin. By then, darkness had settled over the mountains. We rode for another hour before finally reaching the cabin.
It was a day I’ll never forget. The greatest hunting experience of my life. That night, the cigar and the one beer we had brought along tasted better than any cigar and any beer I’d ever had before.
