Friday 12 January 2024
Drop Tine Murphy – Part II (horseshit)
Sunday 26 November 2023
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.
Friday 4 November 2022
Wednesday 6 October 2021
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.
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 |
Early starts have their upsides. Photos by Marcus |
Shots from the bow on a perfectly calm day. Photos by Marcus |
Invisible moose, centre of frame. Willow patch to the right. |
Moose across the water. Photo by Marcus |
First moose |
Fight or flight response to an imminent threat of moose thievery |
Thursday 23 September 2021
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Morning
light
Obligatory ptarmigan pic (white-tailed)
Obligatory sunset pic
Thursday 20 December 2018
Late night deer run.
Date should be 12-17; my camera is f**ked |
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?