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.
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…
My kind of horseshit!
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