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?

Fall Wanderings

Thanks for the kick in the pants, O.

September: elk hunting in the newly designated Castle Provincial & Wildland Parks. They took quads out of half of the parks this year, with the rest going foot-access only next year.

Heading in. These few flakes were just the beginning.

Trophy Grouse. Almost close enough to stab with a trekking pole. (I definitely tried this.)

Whose dumb idea was it to walk through the Christmas tree farm?

Dumbass.

About a half hour after this, we called in our one and only bull of the trip. 5 or 6 point, I couldn't quite tell from the brief look I got at him, even at 50 yards or so. Brush was too thick for a shot, unfortunately, but damn if it wasn't awesome having a bull come screaming in at us from halfway up a mountain. I might just have to come back and try this again next year.

Winter wonderland

October - Two hours to hunt in Grande Prairie on Thanksgiving Sunday. Supplemental antlerless WT tag filled. Almost as efficient as Pincher.

Fully bipedal when it matters

So much fat.

November: Back down south to Pincher to visit J&A and have one more crack at an elk. Found a herd, spooked a herd, no legal bulls anyway. Dang.  

Elk were here