Drop Tine Murphy – Part II (horseshit)

We spent the next hour or so walking through the oxbow/meadow complex hoping to bump into another bull that may have been drawn in from our calling. It was unlikely we would see or call in that young bull again, so we made the decision to pack up camp and hit up another spot. 

It was around lunch time when we got our gear together. Oliver cooked up the two spruce grouse that he had gotten a couple of days earlier. Low and slow over the warm coals. It was divine.

When Oliver asked if I wanted to do a moose hunt up in the Yukon with him under a special guide license this spring, I barely hesitated to jump on the opportunity. Not only was there high probably of success given his knowledge of this area of the territory, but, let’s face it, it’s been a tough few years. I won’t lie. I did want to get some more meat in the freezer, but this goal was secondary in my mind. I really just wanted an opportunity to hang out in the bush with a good friend. Good therapy. 

Standing on the side of the river taking in the fall colours, the smell of decaying leaves with a hint of smoke, while listening to the river gently babble along its journey… it was doing me some good. 

We consulted the map once more. There was a stretch of old cutblocks coming up where Oliver has had limited success in the past. However, we eyed another, smaller oxbow/meadow complex adjacent to the cutblocks. It was a spot that Oliver hadn’t called from previously, but it had many of the same attributes as our current spot; just smaller in scale. 

We made the decision to at least scout it out and, if it didn’t look right, then there were a couple of options a bit further downstream. We loaded the raft and began the float down the river, while always keeping our eyes peeled for dark objects on the riverbanks or signs of fresh tracks in sand.

We pulled off just before the meadow. We found a decent spot to set up the tent in the timber and then we started to scout the meadow complex. 

It wasn’t the easiest (or quietest) getting through the blowdown or the old logjams to get into the meadow itself, but once there we started seeing some recent sign. Oliver eyed an elevated bank on which we could get a bit of a better vantage point and 180-degree view of a good section of the meadow. There was a good stretch of conifer forest behind us to cover our scent, and we would be able to hear anything crashing in. This would be a good spot to be the next morning. 

We continued to explore the area. Still more sign. A couple of beds. Did we just flush a sharp-tailed grouse? I am convinced that we did. 

The spot was good, but there weren’t many areas that you had a good vantage point, while also being able to hear through the river’s persistent tune. The only question was where to set up for the night. Set up in the middle of the complex to draw things in without many sightlines and then set up on that bank the next morning? Or, set up on the bank this evening, leave early and get back in the morning? “You never want to shoot a moose in the evening. Butchering and packing it out in the dark... It’s horseshit.” 

I needed a coffee and a snack to think about it. We also needed a better sense of how the wind would play out, so we made our way back to camp to consider our options. I’ll be honest, after not really seeing two moose physically walk into our last sits, I wanted to hunt a spot with a view. After a good feed, a coffee and shooting the shit, we packed up our gear and slowly moved through the forest to get to our spot. 

There was a lot of blowdown to navigate, but we were able to find a decent route. We pulled out our chairs again and got ready for the evening call. The sky was clearing and you could feel that the temperature was going to drop for this night, so we were bundled up pretty good for this one. Oliver took back the reins on the cow calling. I was positioned near the edge of the bank with Oliver deeper into the timber; about 10 feet behind me. I can only describe my state as cozy. 

A couple of hours went by. Nothing. It was dead quiet. I can’t hide that I was a little disappointed, but I knew we were playing the long game. We were just laying the groundwork for tomorrow. 

My mind started to drift. The light was just starting to fade, so we probably only had another half hour, before we would start heading back to camp. I was contemplating dinner when I heard Oliver quietly say, “yup”. 

I slowly turned around and listened intently. Yup. There it was. A low, quiet grunt that sounded like it was at least 150 yards away. However, it wasn’t coming from the meadow. It was behind us. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

Was originally slated to be Part III 

We were positioned at the intersection of a narrow, dried out creek bed and the expansive meadow we’d been watching. “He’s coming down the old creek”, Oliver whispered. 

I quietly got up and positioned myself to have a shot once the bull exited the creek and into the meadow. There were several overhanging branches in the way, but I had a tree to brace myself for, what I thought might be, a 40 yard shot. 

His grunts were coming in more regularly now and he sounded close; 70 or 80 yards. 

I have never called in a bull moose before. I have had them respond, but I inevitably spooked them or the light faded before I can have an opportunity for a shot. This one was coming in on a string. It felt like he made those 75 yards in one or two minutes. 

I was adjusting my stance and looking for new angles for the fast-approaching bull when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a brown/black mass moving through the brush and conifers to my right. He wasn’t moving down the creek bed, but the timber right behind us. And he was already within 40 or 50 yards! 

How he could move so silently, other than his grunts, through the blowdown and brush still baffles me. I gently whispered to Oliver, “I saw him”. 

Oliver’s back was to the moose, and he obviously couldn’t hear the beast move through the forest either. Knowing that he was between my loaded rifle and the moose, he slowly started plugging his ears with his fingers. Like Wiley Coyote as he realises that Roadrunner is going to push down on the detonator for the nearby load of TNT. 

You could hear the bull grunting as he continued his path towards, what he thought was a cow. I didn’t have a shot yet. Oliver slowly turned, recognised the situation and slowly and discreetly tucked himself out of harms way. 

The bull appeared and stopped broadside about 30 yards from us. However, his vitals were completely blocked by a dense stand of trees and a root wad. I had a view of 3/4 of his head or a gut shot. He stood there grunting. His eye directly on Oliver. 

I didn’t want to move; remembering our encounter from the morning. But I had no shot and I would need to move quite a ways to get into a position to have one. Fuck! 

After what felt like minutes, but was probably 20 seconds, he turned right around and started moving again. He was still obscured by the root wad. However, once he got to the other side he turned, took three steps towards us and stopped. He was head on and looking right at me. 

He was probably 20 or 25 yards at this point. I lifted my gun, but I was having trouble locating him in my scope (I would later realise that, in the excitement, I failed to adjust my scope for close range!). It took a few moments, but I had his fuzzy features in view. I put, what I thought was his sternum in my crosshairs, raised it to where I assumed the vitals to be and then BOOM! 

He bucked back and then took off. I reloaded, but he was already out of sight. Oliver was also unable to get off a follow up shot. We heard some crashing and then, “thack. Thunk”. And then… silence. 

Always the pessimist, I assumed that I somehow missed the shot. A 20-yard shot on a bull moose. Yup. Mr. Confidence himself! 

Oliver and I converged. “I am pretty sure I hit him, but maybe I missed?”, I whispered. “Oh, I saw him buck back. You got him”, Oliver responded. The question was, was it enough to put him down? 

It was getting late, so we didn’t want to have to track him in the dark. However, we didn’t want to move and spook him, which would drive him deeper into the woods. We decided to take a look for blood where he was standing. It wasn’t far and we got there quietly. Nothing. Now I am getting a bit worried. 

The “thunk” sound made me think a) it was his antler hitting a tree just as he got himself under control and out of there or, b) his antlers hitting a log as he went down. 

We reckoned that we didn’t have a ton of time, so we started moving through the bush. It wasn’t long before I found him on the ground. About 30 yards from where he was shot. I went over to do the old eye poke test and sure enough he’s dead. Fu. Ck. Ing. Eh! High fives all around!

After a few pics and inspection of our animal, we started making a plan to dress him and get him back to camp. Given the late hour, we booked it back to camp to get some tools and supplies for the long night ahead. 

 Now shooting an animal head on likely means that it’s going to be a messy job. As such, we went with the gutless method. Regardless of the shot placement, I am a big fan of this method that Oliver introduced me to.

As you can see, we had very little meat wastage and, in this case, many of the organs were still in good shape. At one point, when Oliver is cutting through the diaphragm he knicks himself on what he thought was bone, but it was actually the bullet! It was lodged in the diaphragm. We were a diaphragm width away from having punctured the guts! 

The dressing and butchering took a while, and we started hauling meat back to camp around 1 am. Each load was roughly 100 lbs or more and, although it was reasonably flat, the last stretch required navigating through blowdown and alder. We could actually do the first half of the route sans headlamp as we were greeted by the spectacular aurora borealis. Maybe not as nice as the last time I was on this river, but still a special sight and feeling. 

 I am getting a bit soft in my old age, and I couldn’t quite keep up with Oliver’s long legs, but we managed to get everything back to camp, including the full hide (your welcome Oliver😉) by about 5 am. We got the meat spread out on cool rocks and got a fire going to ward off any hungry creatures. 

I think Oliver wanted to stay up to watch the sunrise, but I was spent. 42 is a lot different than 33. I fall asleep in about 30 seconds after hitting my make-shift pillow. 

Dénouement and additional photos to follow…

Drop Tine Murphy – Part I (Familiar territory)

 

Note to Reader(s?): I will be dropping this story in installments.  

I gave the kids one last hug and kiss on the forehead before hopping into the car for the 8.5 hour journey north to meet up with Oliver. Although we could never re-create the last time we hunted this stretch of river for moose, hopefully we would come out with some meat and new stories to tell. We were missing a key member of our team, but we remained determined and optimistic.

After listening to a variety of podcasts and re-visiting the music of my youth, I met up with a familiar, if not slightly more bearded version, of my good friend and guide for this hunt. We made our warm embraces and then almost immediately began the lengthy shuttle of vehicles.

Oliver was able to spend a good chunk of the day scouting a new take out, which would shorten the slow float down the mainstem by ~30 km. The advantage of which meant that Oliver got first crack at some spruce grouse; a good omen to start to the trip. However, this also meant driving down a tight ~9 km stretch of road where alder branches scraped the sides of our vehicles like too many fingernails down chalkboards (more on that later).

I quickly hopped into Oliver’s (Oliver’s friend’s) truck and we began the return journey to the put in before setting up our camp in twilight and eating our pre-trip dinner of roasted chicken, potato salad and slaw; a sort of pre-trip meal tradition for Oliver and I.

There were a couple of jet boaters that were set up for fly fishing for bull trout along the same stretch of river that we were to hunt. They informed us that they originally came at it from the mainstem, but that there was a big log that stretched the entire width of the river near its mouth. We got a rough location and tucked this information away for later. We were confident that, since we were in a raft, this would not prove to be much of an obstacle later in the trip.

The next morning, we finished putting the raft together and loading it with the gear we would need for the next 5 or 6 days. In all honesty, packing for this trip was fairly straight forward. First, Oliver has hunted this stretch of river 8 or 9 times. Secondly, although not fully seasoned, we both have accrued all of the necessary gear (more Oliver than me, but still) to make a trip like this happen, even on fairly short notice.

We consulted the map on Oliver’s phone and made a plan on where to set up for the night’s calling session with a few pit stops along the way to check for sign with the odd chance of bumping into something. The first spot was an old oxbow where we found lots of sign and tracks of moose and some wolf. They were reasonably fresh, so we tried a few cow calls. This was more to warm up the old vocal chords. Oliver was recovering from a bit of cold, so I was going to have to pull more of my weight on this front.

We sat and called at a second spot which had a great vantage point of the river and a meadow. However, we were both eager to set up camp and the main event of the day, which was only a few more turns downstream.

There was a couple of hours of downtime before we would head into our hunt spot for the evening call. We ate a decent lunch and I tossed a few flies at some rising grayling, but we mainly tried to rest. The hunting spot was a much larger oxbow complex/meadow than we had visited earlier in the day with lots of great moose habitat, but also a tall bank that served as the riverbank long ago. The plan was to call in the middle of this complex in the evening with the hopes of drawing in bulls that are in the vicinity. We would then stealthily head back to camp before last light and the next morning we would set ourselves up on that old riverbank that had a great vantage point of the oxbow. This was a strategy that has worked for Oliver in the past and we were confident that it would play out again on this trip. Besides, in Oliver’s words, “shooting a moose in the evening is horseshit”.

As we prepped our gear for the evening sit, there were some ominous rumbles of thunder as the dark clouds began rolling in from the west. At first, I thought it was the rumble of the highway, but sure enough, as we began our trek to the meadow, large drops of rain began to fall. We set up our small camp chairs and donned our raingear as well steeled ourselves for a couple of wet hours of calling and sitting silently. It was quiet. There was a moment where we both thought we heard some movement in the timber, but, in the end, paid it little attention.

We packed up our gear and began the walk back to camp. About 100 yards from where we were sitting, we found what could only be fresh moose tracks in the sand given how much rain we just endured. The tracks were on the smaller side, but definitely looked like bull tracks This lifted our spirits and it gave us confidence going into the next morning. We cooked a hot meal and hit the pillows early that night.

We got up early, ate a quick breakfast with coffee and headed to the riverbank full of quiet anticipation. Oliver had lost a bit of his voice from the calling from the previous night, so I took up the call for the morning sit. There was still a bit of a drizzle and after a couple of hours of calling and listening, I stood up to empty my bladder. Oliver encouraged me to do a call from this new vantage point. A few moments later, we both gave each other a look. Was that something moving down there? The mind can play tricks on you when you are willing something to appear, so I chocked it up to my active mind and sat back down again. Ten or fifteen minutes later, I was still doing the usual scan of the “window” in front of me, including the poke around the tree that was 10 feet in front of me. And suddenly, like some sort of magic trick, there was a moose standing out in the meadow. Where the fuck did that come from? It had literally made no noise and I didn’t see it wander in. It had its head up and was sniffing the air. It looked a bit nervous or agitated. 

Morning sit. Photo courtesy of OEB

 

I had put my binoculars down somewhere when I went pee and, in the excitement, I couldn’t remember where I put them, so I turned around to talk to Oliver. I think I must have woken him, because he hadn’t seen the moose either. “Cow?” I mouthed quietly given that there were no visible antlers with the naked eye. He bolted into action and put his binoculars up, “no, small bull”.

I was in a bit of a daze or shock. Oliver whispered that he would get into position to back me up on the shot and started moving into a better shooting position. I knew from range finding some landmarks in the meadow that the young bull was about 160 yards out. I started moving into position myself, but as I got my scope up, I could see that he was already on the move. 180, 190, 200 yards. At this point he was quartering away and moving out of my range. There were branches in the way and I just didn’t feel comfortable taking the shot. I tried to get him to stop with a weak bull grunt, but he had already made the decision to get out of there in a hurry. He was gone. We blew it.

We kind of looked at each other in a bit of shock. What just happened!?! How did neither of us hear or see that moose come in? I am still convinced that he had superpowers to teleport or used a secret underground tunnel network to get himself into that spot.

I was kicking myself for moving too slowly. Oliver was kicking himself for moving too quickly. However, I think both of us just accepted it for what it was. We had just successfully called in two moose (granted, likely the same one) on our first two calling sessions. We also had 4 or 5 days of hunting to go. Deep down we both knew we would get another opportunity in what I can only describe as quiet confidence.

Ok. Maybe an iota of me thought we may have blown our only opportunity.

The Weight

 

Right Place, Right Time... Eventually

It’s always funny what events have to happen, in what order, for a hunt to come together successfully. A good plan can help tip the odds in your favour, but so much is just about putting in the time and effort to give yourself the opportunity to catch a break.

The place I had sorted out a few years ago - I wanted a bull moose hunt during the rut where rifle season was open, and a hunt by canoe. One place stuck out for opportunity and proximity - Lakeland Provincial Recreation Area. Several big lakes to choose from, reasonable moose numbers, and a low number of tags - only 5 for the early season during the rut. Low competition, good habitat, easy to explore by boat - all working in my favour. It took 7 years of priority but this year I drew the tag and started to plan the trip. I asked around the office and a few of the lakes all sounded promising, but one had a campsite on a peninsula right in the middle of the lake, which would be a handy staging point, and some good intel that a willow patch near the outlet at the south end of the lake was excellent moose habitat. My friend Marcus came up from Edmonton for the last week of September, and it was on. Food dehydrated, dry bags filled, canoe loaded. We pulled into the staging area/campground/boat launch and there were more vehicles than expected. Several quads, a few motor boats. Hmm. Hopefully no direct competition. I chose this lake partly because of the poor quad access - only a couple of spots with designated trails meant that only watercraft would be going to the areas I was looking at.

We pulled into the campsite mid afternoon on a beautiful sunny day. It had a surprisingly nice beach for a northern Alberta lake. Perfect spot for a beer in the sun… but not ideal weather for hunting. 

Camp

As we were getting set up to head out that first evening, a worrying sign - a motorboat zooming down the lake toward the area we had planned to hunt the following morning. They didn’t come back until well after dark. Shit. They’re probably not going all that way to fish burbot. The next morning as we loaded up to head south, there it was again, zipping down the lake. With them in a motor boat and us in a canoe, I didn’t like our chances of beating them down there. Not to mention the sound of the motor putting every moose around on high alert. We’d have to look elsewhere for the time being. 

We spent the next couple days exploring about half the lake with no luck, and not a lot of moose sign.

Watching and waiting

Hopes were raised Monday morning when we didn't hear the other hunters' boat. Maybe they had to work for the week? We headed to the spot that afternoon, found lots of fresh moose tracks along the beach, and made a plan for the following day. 

Good spot for a thirsty moose

The willow patch is a 7km paddle from camp. With shooting light just before 7am that meant a 430am wake up call to have coffee and paddle down the lake. (In the PRA you’re only allowed to camp at designated sites. Frustrating, but the bear proof food lockers were a nice plus.)

Tuesday morning, we get up and start the long paddle in the dark. No sign of the motor boat. We pull into the willow patch before dawn to start calling.

Early starts have their upsides. Photos by Marcus

An hour or so passes when we hear it - a loud grunt just inside the trees beyond the lakeside willow patch. Then another. My excitement gets the best of me and I respond in kind, thinking my grunts would get him charging in for a fight. But instead, silence. I blew it. Panic, sleep deprivation, whatever it was, it was the wrong decision and that was that.

The rest of that day was spent second guessing myself and wallowing in the missed opportunity. Was that the only chance we’d get? Did I scare him off for good?

Every hunt has a low point and I was pretty sure this was mine. However, if anything, our spirits dropped further with the lack of activity the next 2 days. Canoeing is certainly physically less demanding than backpack hunting, but the early starts and late evenings were still draining, especially when the mooseless days made it feel like we were pushing ourselves for no reason. 

Wednesday morning we set our alarms and made it back to the willow patch on a very incredible foggy morning. Felt very moosey. The moose however begged to differ.

I did hear a few branches breaking in the trees ahead of me, but my cow calls were not enticing the bull to come out, and I wasn’t going to start grunting after the previous day’s failure. Of course, I had no way to know if those branches were even a moose. But on a day with no wind, it had to be the bull…. Right?

Shots from the bow on a perfectly calm day. Photos by Marcus

We spent early afternoons having siestas on the beach - given the early wake ups and late arrivals back at camp after paddling back in the dark, it felt like the right decision to maximize our energy for peak dawn and dusk hours. And on days this warm, early afternoon was the wrong time to be hunting hard anyway. Late afternoon and evenings we explored new areas but did not see anything to suggest there was any better bet than the willow patch we’d been working. 

In between calling sessions that yielded no responses, we had the lake entirely to ourselves. There were grouse up every trail (should’ve brought a shotgun), pelicans on the lake, two curious river otters poking their heads out of the water to check us out, a barred owl hooting as we paddled away one evening. On this particular afternoon, we stopped halfway back to glass the lake’s perimeter, and spotted two white-tailed does at the water’s edge…. Playing? They ran back and forth through the water chasing each other for 10 or 15 minutes. Through the binos we could see them panting like they were a couple of dogs out for a run on the beach. They weren’t bothered by the canoe and we drifted to within 150 yards of them. Even if no moose make an appearance, it will still be an incredible week on the lake.

Thursday morning we make for the willow patch again, and if anything it’s even quieter. We blew it. The spot was dead. Between the boat hunters and us, and especially my grunting, we pressured it too much. Debating what to do next, we decided to walk a trail that loops around the south end of the lake, just across the corner of the lake from the willow patch. We hadn’t gone down it yet and maybe it would reveal something new. A few hundred metres from where we landed the boat I noticed a well-used game trail crossing the hiking trail, and further inspection revealed a moose-shaped hole in the surrounding vegetation. Not quite as distinct as the hole Wile E. Coyote leaves in those fake highway paintings the Roadrunner puts across the road. But close enough. We keep going down the trail where it opens to a wide valley, spooking two bald eagles off the ground in the process. There are the odd set of not-very-fresh moose tracks in the valley. But it’s mostly deer.

Ok, I think THIS is my lowest point. We’ve explored every trail, every stream that enters the lake, we haven’t even glimpsed any moose, even a cow, and we’re running out of time. The boat hunters will surely be back tomorrow afternoon - Friday - for a weekend hunt, so at best we have 1 more morning to make it happen. Tired, hungry after a meagre breakfast of granola bars, I stomp off up the trail ahead of Marcus, kicking a few branches on the way for good measure. As I turn the last corner off the trail and pop back into the lake shore, I look back across the water at the willow patch, and there he is.

I do this every time. I spend an entire hunt staring through binos at every dark object thinking maybe, just maybe, it’s a moose/deer/elk. Then when it’s actually the animal, there is never any doubt, even without the binos.

“Marcus!!!! Hurry up!!!! Bull moose!!!” I peek around the bushes and range him at 350 yards. Too far. I said at the start of the trip that 250 was my max, and I’m sticking to it. But he is crossing the outlet at the corner of the lake, getting closer as he quarters towards us through the water. A moment later he is at 300. This is it. I crawl out of the bushes onto the shore, and prop my bag on a large driftwood log and get ready for a prone shot, handing the rangefinder to Marcus so he can tell me when the bull comes into my range. As I look up after settling into a shooting position…. he’s gone. Disappeared. How can an animal this big vanish into thin air? Where did he go? Then I remember the Wile E. Coyote hole - it was in the exact direction he was travelling. That’s his route. That’s his pattern.

Invisible moose, centre of frame. Willow patch to the right.

It’s 1130am. It’s the exact place we had planned to hunt, but we’d only ever stayed until 10am or so with the warm weather and lack of activity. Did we just miss him every other day? Unbelievable. What rotten luck. On the other hand, if I hadn’t been in such a foul mood stomping off down the trail that quickly, then I’d have been 2 minutes later and not seen him at all. Right place, right time.

But anyway, there it is. There’s a bull in the area, and he didn’t get scared off by us earlier in the week. Ok, what’s the plan. Wait until nightfall and catch him coming back across the water? We’d gotten to the willow patch pretty early one evening, and glassed the lake perimeter on several others, and hadn’t seen him before. Maybe he’s a late riser. Stalk after him? The wind is favourable but how likely is that to succeed in thick brush? We decide to have a late second breakfast of oatmeal while he settles into his bed, and discuss our options - no rash decisions this time. Marcus suggests we try calling him back out with cow calls. The bull clearly wasn’t bothered by our cow calls before, even if he didn’t find me attractive enough to pursue. Low risk, and high potential for reward. It’s worth a try. We paddle back across the lake to the willow patch and creep to the edge of the lake where he has just crossed from. I get my pack set up as a rest, give a couple cow calls, and wait.

I don’t have to wait long. I’m looking down for a minute, adjusting my position and getting comfortable, and when I look up, he’s right where he is supposed to be. Broadside, drinking from the lake. (Meanwhile, Marcus was a few metres away from me and saw the bull amble out of the bushes, and he is waving frantically trying to get my attention. Hah.). 

Moose across the water. Photo by Marcus

I line up the shot and miss completely. Nerves. He looks up for a moment, but quickly resumes drinking. I calm myself, and the second shot doesn’t miss. He stumbles forward a few steps, and I hit him again, and down he goes, in the shallows of the muddiest part of the lake. The Northrup hydro-cooling technique, an SS&S classic that I had not yet tried out for myself.

We have our moose, just past 1pm. It took us most of the week, but we finally got the timing right. No siestas for us today.

First moose

We pull him up onto shore as far as we can, helped by a rope-puller/come-along contraption a colleague lent me. Definitely getting one of those for future boat hunts. Quartering was difficult in the mud, with us sinking to our shins constantly, but we had him in game bags reasonably quickly and loaded into the boat for a leisurely early evening paddle back to camp. 

Pit stop. Photo by Marcus

About halfway back, we hear the tell-tale roar of an approaching motorboat. It’s our competition from the previous weekend. As it turns out, we wouldn’t have had another morning to hunt the willow patch with them beating us to it. We got back to camp for dinner, and as we were busy unloading our canoe, the boat zipped by again coming back from the end of the lake. I guess they saw our handiwork and decided to try another spot. Sorry guys. You had the right place though.

After getting the meat set up on a driftwood rack to cool and dry, we relax with a well-earned beer and get some much-needed dinner going. Marcus heads to bed a few hours later, I stay up for a bit just thinking through the events of the day. Thoughts of Oliver’s Yukon hunts and needing to stay up all night to ward off wolves drift through my mind, and I’m not sure I want to chance sleeping, despite seeing no sign of any carnivore all week. Midnight hits, and right on cue, the wolves start howling. Sounds like they are on the same not-very-large peninsula as our campsite. Marcus bolts awake, unconscious but apparently still on high alert (good trait for a hunter), and suggests we load up and head for the truck. It’s about a 5km paddle, the lake is perfectly calm, and our trip back to camp with the moose was slow but perfectly balanced so we didn’t think there was much risk of tipping, even in the dark. We weighed the risks on either side, and decided to make a break for it. 

Fight or flight response to an imminent threat of moose thievery

A slow but thankfully quiet couple of hours on the water later and we’re back at the truck to load up and drive home. By the time we get back to my house it’s 530am. An eventful 25-hour day, to say the least. It may have been on an Alberta lake, but between a dead moose in the water and a midnight wolf serenade, I think we’ve earned our honourary SS&S Yukon river hunt merit badges today.

Hoodoo Ram

The Hoodoo Ram

I'll start by saying that I haven't hunted much since our oldest kid was born. A few extended weekends here and there for deer, but nothing extensive. This year was different. With Covid reducing the number of guided hunts in 2020 and, to a certain extent, 2021, a buddy and I figured that our chances would never be better to do a fly in hunt. The plan was a ten day sheep/caribou combo hunt in the Cassiar mountains. A sheep for him and a bou for me. This was going to be quite a step up from past years.

All trips have their low points. And our trip certainly started in a bit of trough. We had to wait almost three days for weather to clear before flying in.

                                                                A common sight for our first three days

Once the plane dropped us off, we set up a low camp on the lake and got up early the next day to put in a spike camp at the edge of shrub line with 6 days worth of food and good views of a sheepy-looking bowl. By dinner we spotted a group of 8-10 ewes and watched a group of 5 rams playing (head butting) each other on one of the ridges ~2km away. We definitely chose a sheepy place.

Post-dinner glassing. It was a wet ascent.

The rams had moved on by first light, so we spent the morning glassing the slopes of the adjacent valley, while keeping an eye on the group of ewes. This area looked more promising for caribou (and sheep). Just after lunch I spotted a group of 5 rams just below the ewes in the shrubs about 800m away. My buddy worked his way to 100 yards of the largest ram, but he was broomed and looked to be less than 8 through the spotting scope at 100 yards. He could have been legal based on his other horn, but it was tough to get good looks. It was a tremendous stalk that ultimately ended in a pass.

Ewes in the foreground

Day 2 of hunting was mainly spent glassing a new slope.

Late afternoon, I spotted this fella 1.5km away as the crow flies and 600m down in elevation.

Not sure what Pythagoras says about distance, but it was going to be some effort to get down to him and it was getting late in the day. We decided to pass on him and come back the next day with extra food with the plan to bivy.

He wasn’t there on Day 3. My buddy got some more play on that first group of rams, but they ultimately spooked and took off. It was the only action for the day. We ended up bivying that night anyway with the hope of getting an early start to Day 4. I must say, the romanticism of a bivy wears off quickly. I would sleep for an hour at a time using a small foam pad for my legs and my empty backpack for my torso, while wearing every piece of clothing I had.

Listing: Great view, 1 bedroom, $400/night. Minimum 2 night stay

I started Day 4 chilled and disheartened. We checked out the usual haunts, but no new rams. However, my buddy spotted a new group of ~20 ewes that we hadn’t come across yet. So, there was some optimism that something else may wander in. Just after splitting up for our lunch glassing sessions, my buddy yelled, “you’re ram is back!”

Sure enough there he was; bedded down in almost the same spot as two days earlier. We were set to fly out in two days, so this was more or less our final play. Because we bivyed the night before, we only had our lunch and a few snacks for sustenance this day.

We hiked down a steep gully out of view of the bedded ram. As we approached treeline, he went down to feed next to the creek. We quickly made our way through the trees, dumping our packs at some point to maximize our manoeuvrability. The noise of the creek drowned out our movements and we got to within 150 yards of him feeding on our side of the creek. Although we were close, he didn’t give us many good looks. He had an unusual growth pattern to his annuli and although he looked to be full curl, depending on the view, we could never be 100% certain. However, I was getting more and more confident that he was legal.

He went back up to his bedding spot and it was from this vantage point that we could make out that he was indeed full curl. He also looked to be at least 8 years old.

I moved down to a better shooting position. Based on the previous glassing sessions, he seemed to have a regular route from his bedding spot to the creek and I set up to be roughly 100 yards by the time he hit the creek. 120 to 150 yards to his feeding spot. We waited. And waited. And waited.

He bedded down for over three hours. It drizzled off and on, and we regretted leaving our packs so far back. Although we could have shot him from his bedding spot (~250 yards), it was quite the drop to the creek and it looked like he had damaged one of his horns. We didn’t want to break off that horn, which looked to be the longer of the two.

Finally, he made his way to the creek. I had my hiking pole for a monopod and I had used the three hours of waiting to dig out a bit of a chair in the slope. I felt very stable. He didn’t give much to shoot at as he crossed the creek and moved towards the feeding area. Instead, he was methodically moving down the creek; away from me. 170 yards, 180 yards, 190 yards. If he turned the corner, then I would have to make a move and likely spook this wily vet. Although, it was outside of my regular shooting range, I decided to take him before he made the turn.

BOOM! The shot echoed throughout the valley. I heard a “Fuck Yeah!!” from my buddy above. The ram was down.

But only for a few seconds. He was back up, but he was obviously hit. His back legs were not functioning properly. He was moving around too much for me to take a second shot. I was flustered. He ended up in the creek, stumbled and started to drift downstream on his back and side while he continued to struggle.

I took another shot just before he was swept around the corner. At this point, I had one round left. The rest being with my pack; 300 yards uphill. I made a run for the ram.

When I got to him, he was on his side on a sandbar. Clearly exhausted and not long for this world. We locked eyes for a few brief moments. Then, I fired my last round into his chest, while trying to avoid any “meaty” areas. He was done.

Not a bad resting place.

I’ve grown to really love his horns. So many stories to tell in his 10 years.

It was just after 6:30. Sunset was 8:30. We had minimal food. I hadn’t had a sip of water and only part of a meat stick since dumping our packs over 5.5 hours ago. We were over 6km from spike camp with a steep climb out of the creek. We were over 7km from low camp with no known trail. We were set to bivy for a second night. Thankfully, we were well below treeline and there were options for a fire to keep warm. Oh, and a creek for water and a whole sheep for consumption!

After a few quick pics, we started work on the ram. I set up a rough camp just before dark and then we finished up on the animal by headlamp. We made a roaring fire and cooked the ribs, which we consumed between slugs of scotch. We got to sleep just after 1am as raindrops pitter-pattered on the siltarp.

The simple things. Photo courtesy of C.Thiessen

I got about 2 to 3 hours of sleep that night between helping to maintain the fire and finding a comfortable position for rest. Breakfast was leftover sheep ribs.

Bivy 2. Hoodoos in background

Breakfast of champions! Left over sheep ribs.

  

It continued to drizzle, so we loaded up our packs with meat, cape, head and the rest of our gear. Not sure what our packs weighed, but we were glad to be going downhill rather than up.

Photo courtesy of C.Thiessen

It’s tough to describe a 7.5 km bushwhack that entailed weaving through a creek and thick bush/forest. Always searching for the perfect game trail that inevitably peters out. Or that horse trail that is solid for 50m before it completely disappears due to blow down or some other unknown reason. All of this while carrying a load that can’t exceed a 90 degree angle while sitting or you end up falling over or require assistance to stand back up again. We were soaked to the bone and our caloric intake was well below our output of the last two days.

Photo courtesy C. Thiessen

It took us 7 hours to get back to low camp. We dropped our packs and raced for the chips and the beer we had stashed in the lake. The sun was out again, but we were due to fly out the next morning. We still had our spike camp 5km above us, which followed a horse trail for the couple of kilometres, but it was another whack through the shrubs for the rest. It was going to have to wait.  

 

 Photo courtesy of C. Thiessen

  

 Some additional pics.

Morning light

Obligatory ptarmigan pic (white-tailed)

Obligatory sunset pic

 

Late night deer run.

Hunting public land in southern Ontario is interesting. Lots of people, few (shitty) spots BUT I found a little hidden gem 10 minutes from where Kim and I live.  This season was by far the most daunting I have had; 12+ sits, 40+ hours, and not one sighting. Plenty on the camera, just not when I'm there.

Date should be 12-17; my camera is f**ked

I was tired of sitting and about to call it a year. I sat one day at Brent Patterson's house this week, but decided to give my stand another shot yesterday. At 16:30 I had returned to my dark place and had a lengthy internal debate about shooting a lone grouse. At 16:35 I spotted what turned out to be the fork-horn above, walking ever so slowly towards me. At 16:45 with twenty minutes to spare I shot, not sure exactly what sex or age it was.  I spotted blood immediately as these new broadheads I bought do alot of damage:

He bedded close (and I wasn't patient enough...), but he didn't go far.

Photo from today; easy tracking.

Givent he proximity and darkness,  I called up a crew to help locate and drag it out. Recognize anyone?