- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Great reads. Keep 'em coming.
Memories of long past hunts
- Thread starter John Y Cannuck
- Start date
- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Air lift
This took place before I joined our moose camp, so I am relating this as it was told to me.
The camp is only about 10 miles from the main road, but those ten miles are suitable only for ATV, or, as it was when this story was set, in the late 1980's, the boys came to camp in a 4wd army truck, with chains on. Only two men had atv's at that time, and one was a 2wd.
The camp has a set limit of eight, that's all the little cabin will sleep, and back then, it was two to a bunk. The bunk beds were made up with double bed mattress.
So, one morning, it was a frosty one, the boys set out from camp. Everyone walked to their spots, even though some of the walks were 45 minutes or so. But this morning, all did not go well. Two guys had left camp, and six remained. Then one of the two came running back to camp.
Art (not his real name) had fallen on a stick that the bark had slid off, on his back on a rock. He couldn't get up.
The boys all raced to the scene, it was not 100 yards from the camp. There was Art on the ground he'd managed to turn on his side. Tears streaming down his face, he was in agony.
With the help of one of the guys who had first aid training they determined that something was broken. He could still move his arms and legs, and after a bit, was able to sit up. It took some time, but the boys managed to get him to camp. Art was a little better than 80 years old at the time. He was (he's dead now) a large barrel chested man. Not easy to move about.
He lay in the bunk for a bit, while the guys discussed what was to be done. Art said no way in hell he was going out on his ATV, or laying in the back of the truck. He was in serious pain.
So, they had a cell call to the hospital and told them they needed an air lift. There was quite a 'discussion' when they located where they were, close to the road. But eventually, the guys got the info on what the chopper needed.
They cleared an area on a bald knoll of small trees etc, and built three signal fires for the chopper, and in it came. The attendants came down to the camp with the gurney, and took Art out by air. The chopper guys, on seeing the camp, and the terrain agreed that there was no other way.
Turned out Art had two ribs broken off his spine. Very lucky he didn't punch a lung.
I think he had to pay something for the chopper ride, but not sure how much.
Sadly, Art decided he would retire from the moose hunt after that experience.
Be careful out there!
This took place before I joined our moose camp, so I am relating this as it was told to me.
The camp is only about 10 miles from the main road, but those ten miles are suitable only for ATV, or, as it was when this story was set, in the late 1980's, the boys came to camp in a 4wd army truck, with chains on. Only two men had atv's at that time, and one was a 2wd.
The camp has a set limit of eight, that's all the little cabin will sleep, and back then, it was two to a bunk. The bunk beds were made up with double bed mattress.
So, one morning, it was a frosty one, the boys set out from camp. Everyone walked to their spots, even though some of the walks were 45 minutes or so. But this morning, all did not go well. Two guys had left camp, and six remained. Then one of the two came running back to camp.
Art (not his real name) had fallen on a stick that the bark had slid off, on his back on a rock. He couldn't get up.
The boys all raced to the scene, it was not 100 yards from the camp. There was Art on the ground he'd managed to turn on his side. Tears streaming down his face, he was in agony.
With the help of one of the guys who had first aid training they determined that something was broken. He could still move his arms and legs, and after a bit, was able to sit up. It took some time, but the boys managed to get him to camp. Art was a little better than 80 years old at the time. He was (he's dead now) a large barrel chested man. Not easy to move about.
He lay in the bunk for a bit, while the guys discussed what was to be done. Art said no way in hell he was going out on his ATV, or laying in the back of the truck. He was in serious pain.
So, they had a cell call to the hospital and told them they needed an air lift. There was quite a 'discussion' when they located where they were, close to the road. But eventually, the guys got the info on what the chopper needed.
They cleared an area on a bald knoll of small trees etc, and built three signal fires for the chopper, and in it came. The attendants came down to the camp with the gurney, and took Art out by air. The chopper guys, on seeing the camp, and the terrain agreed that there was no other way.
Turned out Art had two ribs broken off his spine. Very lucky he didn't punch a lung.
I think he had to pay something for the chopper ride, but not sure how much.
Sadly, Art decided he would retire from the moose hunt after that experience.
Be careful out there!
In Salmon Arm, I found a seasoned hunter to partner up with. We hunted together for about 3 falls, and he was 79 the first of these years.
A powerful man in his day, I'm sure, Thorvald could still carry his share at 80. Short, built like a bull, came from Sweden originally.
He had a vast background hunting Mule deer, and I learned a lot from him, simply by paying attention. An excellent shot, he carried a pre-64
M70 Winchester in 270 Win, and it had a 2½ X scope on it.
On one cold October day, we were hunting together in Mara Meadows, a mule deer heaven. It had snowed about 3 inches overnight, and it was
starting to thaw, so snow was falling off the trees, making it miserable to walk in the bush. We were in a logged over area, and we cut two
nice, big deer tracks that went into a stand of Fir/Hemlock/cedar bush of about ½ a hectare in size.
Thorvald observed quietly: "The tracks look like a couple of big bucks. You should carefully follow them into that bush, you may get a chance at
one of them." I was not particularly anxious to go into that soggy bush, but because of his experience, I started in, walking very slowly and carefully,
stopping often to look around. I had not got into that bush 75 meters, when the two bucks stood up, not 50 meters away. The one I could see best
was partly obscured by a low hemlock, but I could see his rack [nice 4x4] and his chest, so I put a 165 Partition from my 308 Norma Mag into the
vitals. He took one big leap, and collapsed. The other deer, also a 4x4 decided to "get out of Dodge" as fast as he could.
I got the buck on his back, and had not even made a cut in him, and "bang", I hear Thorvald's 270 bark, followed immediately by the "thwapp" of a
bullet making contact. You guessed it, Thorvald had figured where those deer would probably exit, and was waiting when the other buck came out.
When we got together and the deer were loaded he said with that twinkle in his eye: "Vell, Vee had a guud morning, ya?" His eyes eventually failed
him, he left this mortal coil at age 96. Another wonderful hunting partner that I miss to this day. Dave.
A powerful man in his day, I'm sure, Thorvald could still carry his share at 80. Short, built like a bull, came from Sweden originally.
He had a vast background hunting Mule deer, and I learned a lot from him, simply by paying attention. An excellent shot, he carried a pre-64
M70 Winchester in 270 Win, and it had a 2½ X scope on it.
On one cold October day, we were hunting together in Mara Meadows, a mule deer heaven. It had snowed about 3 inches overnight, and it was
starting to thaw, so snow was falling off the trees, making it miserable to walk in the bush. We were in a logged over area, and we cut two
nice, big deer tracks that went into a stand of Fir/Hemlock/cedar bush of about ½ a hectare in size.
Thorvald observed quietly: "The tracks look like a couple of big bucks. You should carefully follow them into that bush, you may get a chance at
one of them." I was not particularly anxious to go into that soggy bush, but because of his experience, I started in, walking very slowly and carefully,
stopping often to look around. I had not got into that bush 75 meters, when the two bucks stood up, not 50 meters away. The one I could see best
was partly obscured by a low hemlock, but I could see his rack [nice 4x4] and his chest, so I put a 165 Partition from my 308 Norma Mag into the
vitals. He took one big leap, and collapsed. The other deer, also a 4x4 decided to "get out of Dodge" as fast as he could.
I got the buck on his back, and had not even made a cut in him, and "bang", I hear Thorvald's 270 bark, followed immediately by the "thwapp" of a
bullet making contact. You guessed it, Thorvald had figured where those deer would probably exit, and was waiting when the other buck came out.
When we got together and the deer were loaded he said with that twinkle in his eye: "Vell, Vee had a guud morning, ya?" His eyes eventually failed
him, he left this mortal coil at age 96. Another wonderful hunting partner that I miss to this day. Dave.
My hunting partner and I were still in high school (mid 70's) but we lived and died for duck hunting.My old 870 remington and his 50"s model 12 winchester were going every chance we could make it.Was watching a barley field on old "Jacks place" one of our spots and new that when they finished harvesting it was going to be good.Phoned him up as he now lived in a different township and said its a go tommorrow at jacks skip school will meet you there 2 hours before sunrise. Good to go had my big cross eyed black lab(got a deal on him) and we met on the edge of the road about a 20 minute walk from the field through some vegetable gardens.Well it was the shoot we could not even have dreamed about ,early in the season and it was almost all Pintail,never seen anything before or for that matter since.We decided to shoot only pintail drakes and tapped out at 15 needed 1 more but were out of shells.We couldn't get the 16 but it was not for lack of trying were not exactly Annie Oakleys back then and they stopped flying.Ok pretty nice shoot my partner says I have one reload left (all we shot back then) but the crimp is screwed up and it won't chamber in my gun.I said give it to me anything fits in this 870 so he did and I rammed it home,What you going to shoot with it on the way in he says ,well never know when one of those old bog pheasants might jump out of the veggy patch.Not in this life he says we have been here all morning banging away and heads back to his vehicle ahead of me so as fate decrees I am walking back to my vehicle and the cross eyed lab bolts into the field hedge up jumps a 30 bar pheasant and I crush it with the last bad crimped shell.My partner turned around after the shot ,what was that about ,I said call the dog and you'll see.There was the rooster in his mouth and he brought it back to my bud,who smiled and said good call ,we better get our asses back to school before either of our old mans find out .Good day Great Day, RIP RJ 
- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Here's another old one, a couple of years before Arts mishap. This again was told to me at camp by the guys who were there.
This particular year, there were two very senior guys in camp, two young fellas, one man in his 60's and two new guys. One empty spot that year.
The boys were wandering in at days end. Most sitting in camp having a few drinks, when in comes one of the young guys, and he's just a bouncing. I got a moose! A big bull!
He's super excited.
They asked him where, as he'd been walking the north ridge, and the young guy wasn't exactly sure. But he'd left his hat on a tree so they could find it. Apparently, when he shot it with his grandad's 30-30, it had run about 50 yards and died in a pond.
So, off they went, six guys, Art and the other older man lets call him Dave, stayed in camp, he being not able to walk that far, stayed in camp to make supper for their return.
They returned about 9, unable to find the moose, with the young lad very dejected. Sitting around the table talking about it, Dave asked for a description of the spot the moose died again. He says "I think I know that spot"
Off they go again, this time with flashlights. Dave slowly ambling along the big ridge to the spot he thought the moose might be, and the two new guys wondering where the hell they were, leaving big streamers of flagging tape all along the route. About an hour later, the young lad found his hat, and once again was bouncing.
There's my moose! Pointing out in the pond. All that could be seen was a black hump and one antler.
With great difficulty the moose was manhandled over to the edge of the pond by lasso thrown around the antler. But this pond had a rock ledge all the way around it. Gutting was accomplished by leaning over the moose. It was decided that morning would be a better bet to get the moose out.
The 60 year old, on seeing the spot, knew a better way to get there, and the following morning, as ravens circled them, the moose was quartered and hauled out on the two atv's.
This particular year, there were two very senior guys in camp, two young fellas, one man in his 60's and two new guys. One empty spot that year.
The boys were wandering in at days end. Most sitting in camp having a few drinks, when in comes one of the young guys, and he's just a bouncing. I got a moose! A big bull!
He's super excited.
They asked him where, as he'd been walking the north ridge, and the young guy wasn't exactly sure. But he'd left his hat on a tree so they could find it. Apparently, when he shot it with his grandad's 30-30, it had run about 50 yards and died in a pond.
So, off they went, six guys, Art and the other older man lets call him Dave, stayed in camp, he being not able to walk that far, stayed in camp to make supper for their return.
They returned about 9, unable to find the moose, with the young lad very dejected. Sitting around the table talking about it, Dave asked for a description of the spot the moose died again. He says "I think I know that spot"
Off they go again, this time with flashlights. Dave slowly ambling along the big ridge to the spot he thought the moose might be, and the two new guys wondering where the hell they were, leaving big streamers of flagging tape all along the route. About an hour later, the young lad found his hat, and once again was bouncing.
There's my moose! Pointing out in the pond. All that could be seen was a black hump and one antler.
With great difficulty the moose was manhandled over to the edge of the pond by lasso thrown around the antler. But this pond had a rock ledge all the way around it. Gutting was accomplished by leaning over the moose. It was decided that morning would be a better bet to get the moose out.
The 60 year old, on seeing the spot, knew a better way to get there, and the following morning, as ravens circled them, the moose was quartered and hauled out on the two atv's.
Attachments
New Camper
CGN frequent flyer
- Location
- Lurking in the woods near SFRC.
I can eat quite a bit, but usually practice restraint... having overeaten and suffered for it is a lesson not soon forgotten. My dad's uncle had died the year previous and he was a keen deer hunter: on this particular day it was just dad and I. Having returned to camp for lunch I wasn't in a great hurry to go back on watch but dad set out after scoffing back lunch and half an apple crisp. A few minutes later I set out having ceased eating at a fourth of the apple crisp. It's funny how seconds can change your life: who knows if by being late or a red light prevented a car collision? This particular moment returning to a place where I would sit on the ground observing fields I had only set my shoulder bag down and was completely surprised by a noise and movement: I don't know what got into what turned out to be the biggest deer I'd ever seen, but there it was running quartered toward me on a course to pass about 15-20y in front. But he didn't pass, and with the echo of my 270win I managed to deliver the 150gr bullet where it mattered and like it was a slow-mo scene his front legs stretched out backwards he fell to his chest, skidded to a stop and fell over. This was the only running deer I managed to take but I've only shot at one previously and no others to this day.
We took care of it a few minutes later and to this day can remember thinking of "Uncle"... his cold induced cherry cheeks and always watering eyes would have glistened as he smiled: he loved to see a deer hanging but as with most hunters, a large one always holds a special place. Of all the antlers he left laying around the farm, this was probably the biggest but he never got to see it. The bases were gnarled, lumpy and still carried chunks of velvet: it's not symmetrical but thick, sporting minimum 12 tines and possibly a couple more... I've never had it properly scored.
I miss those days... being young and so much more carefree: that is to say having responsibilities one really desires. It hasn't been that long really, but it seems so much people have changed or at least I have learned to see. Looking around today is so grieving: deceit, malice, greed... these evils existed then but seem more prevalent now. Why the world is so occupied with that rather than the pleasantness in the seemingly simpler things of life is a mystery. The simple things are simple to the extent that they lack the complication and consequences of the stupidity, but these simple things are far more meaningful and rewarding.
We took care of it a few minutes later and to this day can remember thinking of "Uncle"... his cold induced cherry cheeks and always watering eyes would have glistened as he smiled: he loved to see a deer hanging but as with most hunters, a large one always holds a special place. Of all the antlers he left laying around the farm, this was probably the biggest but he never got to see it. The bases were gnarled, lumpy and still carried chunks of velvet: it's not symmetrical but thick, sporting minimum 12 tines and possibly a couple more... I've never had it properly scored.
I miss those days... being young and so much more carefree: that is to say having responsibilities one really desires. It hasn't been that long really, but it seems so much people have changed or at least I have learned to see. Looking around today is so grieving: deceit, malice, greed... these evils existed then but seem more prevalent now. Why the world is so occupied with that rather than the pleasantness in the seemingly simpler things of life is a mystery. The simple things are simple to the extent that they lack the complication and consequences of the stupidity, but these simple things are far more meaningful and rewarding.
Brutus
CGN Ultra frequent flyer
The deer season was over and us hardy residents of Moose Jaw put our small bore centerfires to work in the frigid winter temps.
On a prairie farm frozen pasture we were put to work lowering the local coyote population.
Greg was superb with his hand held varmint caller. I was to be the designated shooter.
Through Greg's lazer rangefinder we were rewarded with an unusual wildlife encounter.
A spike buck his right rear leg obviously harmed somehow. Was walking with a limp. A mature coyote was dogging him. Every so often that young buck got past annoyance stopped, faced the coyote with his head down. Purposefully presenting his horns. This act backed off the coyote but Wile E. continued the awkward chase just off to one side of the wounded buck.
Greg's call got the coyotes attention. He was at first indecisive. Looking at the limping buck, yet hearing the cry of a wounded jackrabbit.
Wile E. chose to jog towards our hilltop position. A kind of military crest. A snowbank broke up our outline yet we had a clear view of the long, wide lower pasture.
Suddenly at about 320 yards he faltered then stopped.
Sat down on his haunches his two forefeet pointed directly at us. So were his eyes.
As if sensing a need for change Greg changed to a call mimicking a mouse squeeking.
That did it!
He leeped forward breaking into a full run. I seen this all through the 6x42 Leupold mounted upon the 788 in caliber 222 Remington.
This is getting good!
Oops....the wind changed. We could feel it on our faces.
Mister Coyote swapped ends forthwith running fast Away from us now.
Greg asked "are u on him? I can get him with my seventeen!" (.17 Remington)
I quietly said "I got him."
The upward slope he's about to crest was almost exactly 200 yards from us.
Greg asked again, growing impatient and worried I could not make this shot.
I had a good lead on him, and knew it would strike him back of the head with 50 grain SPSX.
The sear broke, inexplicably the coyote looked back at us over his right shoulder.
Instead of back if the head impact, I literally hit him through the right eyeball/eye socket.
I have never done this before or since. Was just sh#thouse luck such little pelt damage.
On a prairie farm frozen pasture we were put to work lowering the local coyote population.
Greg was superb with his hand held varmint caller. I was to be the designated shooter.
Through Greg's lazer rangefinder we were rewarded with an unusual wildlife encounter.
A spike buck his right rear leg obviously harmed somehow. Was walking with a limp. A mature coyote was dogging him. Every so often that young buck got past annoyance stopped, faced the coyote with his head down. Purposefully presenting his horns. This act backed off the coyote but Wile E. continued the awkward chase just off to one side of the wounded buck.
Greg's call got the coyotes attention. He was at first indecisive. Looking at the limping buck, yet hearing the cry of a wounded jackrabbit.
Wile E. chose to jog towards our hilltop position. A kind of military crest. A snowbank broke up our outline yet we had a clear view of the long, wide lower pasture.
Suddenly at about 320 yards he faltered then stopped.
Sat down on his haunches his two forefeet pointed directly at us. So were his eyes.
As if sensing a need for change Greg changed to a call mimicking a mouse squeeking.
That did it!
He leeped forward breaking into a full run. I seen this all through the 6x42 Leupold mounted upon the 788 in caliber 222 Remington.
This is getting good!
Oops....the wind changed. We could feel it on our faces.
Mister Coyote swapped ends forthwith running fast Away from us now.
Greg asked "are u on him? I can get him with my seventeen!" (.17 Remington)
I quietly said "I got him."
The upward slope he's about to crest was almost exactly 200 yards from us.
Greg asked again, growing impatient and worried I could not make this shot.
I had a good lead on him, and knew it would strike him back of the head with 50 grain SPSX.
The sear broke, inexplicably the coyote looked back at us over his right shoulder.
Instead of back if the head impact, I literally hit him through the right eyeball/eye socket.
I have never done this before or since. Was just sh#thouse luck such little pelt damage.
Last edited:
- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Many years back, I had two beagles, the mother, and her pup. Hunting season was coming fast, and the pup was barely larger than a house cat. But, I wanted her to get a taste of hunting, so, fully expecting her to just walk through with whoever was dogging, I took her to camp.
That was the start of a very good dog. Opening morning, one of the other lads was just itching to take his dog and mine out. I was nervous about letting the pup go with a stranger (to her) on her first go, but I finally let him.
That morning we were doing the run 'backwards' that is opposite to the way we usually liked to run it. He would approach the line from the opposite side. I took the very first watch, being as it was the first time we'd tried it this way, I just picked a spot where I'd seen track before. The rest of the guys were on traditional watches we had used for many years.
This run was to be short time wise we figured, as the area was squeezed between a cliff face and a beaver pond, and not large at all. About ten minutes in, I heard the dogs take off well away from me, and shots fired way up the line.
I stood, waiting for the guys to come out dragging, it's two miles to the last watch on that run. Then I heard the typical sound of a deer coming up the end of the ridge towards me. A big doe broke over the top at a bounding pace, bouncing from hump to hump like a damned ping pong ball. I fired the 45-70 twice, missing, or hitting trees, both times, before it struck me to yell. WOE! I yelled. That deer damned near skidded to a stop. behind a bunch of big beech trees. All I could see was her neck. I planted the 405 slug at the base of her neck, and she dropped like a sack right there.
Jacked in another round in the 1886 Win, and wandered over. Clearly dead, as a poke in the eye confirmed, I started to gut her out.
I had very bloody hands when I heard something again coming up slope. I grabbed the big rifle and got ready. But over the rise came the little dog. All by herself, she'd been moving that deer. She was a long ways behind it, and totally silent. Her voice came the following season.
She had no interest in the gut pile, but for some reason, she took and devoured the windpipe. That became a thing with her, and until her very last deer, 17 years later, it was all she ate, the windpipe. For whatever reason, on her last deer, she totally pigged out, but that's another story.
According to the guy with the dogs, the little dog took off on a cold track right away, and was never near the other chase. The other deer was a 4pt buck.
That was the start of a very good dog. Opening morning, one of the other lads was just itching to take his dog and mine out. I was nervous about letting the pup go with a stranger (to her) on her first go, but I finally let him.
That morning we were doing the run 'backwards' that is opposite to the way we usually liked to run it. He would approach the line from the opposite side. I took the very first watch, being as it was the first time we'd tried it this way, I just picked a spot where I'd seen track before. The rest of the guys were on traditional watches we had used for many years.
This run was to be short time wise we figured, as the area was squeezed between a cliff face and a beaver pond, and not large at all. About ten minutes in, I heard the dogs take off well away from me, and shots fired way up the line.
I stood, waiting for the guys to come out dragging, it's two miles to the last watch on that run. Then I heard the typical sound of a deer coming up the end of the ridge towards me. A big doe broke over the top at a bounding pace, bouncing from hump to hump like a damned ping pong ball. I fired the 45-70 twice, missing, or hitting trees, both times, before it struck me to yell. WOE! I yelled. That deer damned near skidded to a stop. behind a bunch of big beech trees. All I could see was her neck. I planted the 405 slug at the base of her neck, and she dropped like a sack right there.
Jacked in another round in the 1886 Win, and wandered over. Clearly dead, as a poke in the eye confirmed, I started to gut her out.
I had very bloody hands when I heard something again coming up slope. I grabbed the big rifle and got ready. But over the rise came the little dog. All by herself, she'd been moving that deer. She was a long ways behind it, and totally silent. Her voice came the following season.
She had no interest in the gut pile, but for some reason, she took and devoured the windpipe. That became a thing with her, and until her very last deer, 17 years later, it was all she ate, the windpipe. For whatever reason, on her last deer, she totally pigged out, but that's another story.
According to the guy with the dogs, the little dog took off on a cold track right away, and was never near the other chase. The other deer was a 4pt buck.
this one is a coyote hunt. my friend and I go to an area he knows coyotes are in there. he told me to bring my mouth-blown predator calls with me. once we arrive at his spot. he says we will wait a while then you start calling with the dying rabbit call. after what seems like about 20 minutes of waiting I start using that call .it was amazing that in about 1 minute I notice something moving at a coyote loping speed to my left side about maybe 60 yards away. I slowly look at him and said there's one to my left. he fires a shot . shoots right over that coyote's head .so he loads another round. now, this coyote is going mach8 up the hill. he fires another round at it. another miss. I'm just laughing so hard . he says what's so funny keep using that call. what a fun day we had.I miss those times with him.
- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Canoe moose hunt.
Years back when I was younger, and able to handle the damp of this kind of hunt, we hunted in northern Ontario with two canoes, and an aluminum boat.
The trip in, depending on the number of guys going, we either had to tow one canoe, with gear in it, or we mounted the two of them on an over head wooden rack rigged up on the big 16' Lund. The Lund was underpowered with the 15hp Evinrude, but the small motor had a lot of advantages in the shallows, and there were plenty of those.
The boat ride down the big lake, and the attached creek took several hours. If it was windy, even longer as we hugged the shore to stay dry from the spray.
This particular trip, as we were about half way down the lake, I remember it as overcast, with just a ripple on the lake, there were three of us. One of the guys shouts "what's that?"
Over we went to investigate what was apparently something swimming in the lake. Well holy crap it's a lynx. I still wonder why it was out in the middle of the fairly large lake that day. But there it was. As we closed, there came a shout from the front not to get too close. It might come aboard. It turned from it's swim and snarled at us. and we slowed to see where it went. It climbed the bank, shook, and like it had an invisibility blanket, simply vanished.
Off to the 'camp' we went. 'Camp' was a small clearing on the north end of the lake. The grass and small shrubs were flattened out with an old round mouth shovel left there for the purpose, and two tent erected. The sleeping tent, and the dining tent. The dining tent consisted of one of those flimsy bug tents, with the poles reinforced with saplings in hopes that if it snowed, it would not all collapse as it did one other year, then the sides covered with tarps at the corners,in addition to the things own flaps, to help keep the wind out.
The sleeping tent was a 10X16 canvas affair. It had no stove, so one of those tank top heaters was placed in the centre. This was to be the only source of heat, and was only used in the morning to take the damp off while we were getting dressed. We all had big down sleeping bags, and slept with toque's on, and a small cloth over our faces.
One year that damned tent leaked on my sleeping bag, soaked about half of it, and I went the entire week with a wet bag. Nobody likes a wet bag.
Need to go out for a leak? yep, unzip the tent and go stand in your underwear out in the weather. The 'outhouse' was two poles rigged up between two trees, a toilet seat haphazardly rigged to that, and a board in front to protect your pants from 'stuff'. Never got around to making a roof for that.
Morning, it was very damp dressing, it's surprising how fast everything in a tent can get cold and damp late in the fall. Headed over to the cook tent, already half froze, wondering what the day would bring. We at around an old card table, the tank heater being brought over from the sleeping tent just as breakfast was plated, so we could make toast in front of it.
Fingerless gloves were a godsend for eating breakfast. Bacon and eggs of course! Lake water heating for dishes while we ate. That done, there's nothing left but to head out to our selected spots. One guy could walk to his spot, the rest took canoes. The area is very flat and swampy.
That morning was perfect, hoar frost on everything, stars out. We slipped and slid down the bank to the canoes, taking out lunches with us for the day. It was bright enough, no lights were needed as we navigated about a mile up the creek to my spot, and the next guy went further. He was only 5-600 yards from me, I could see him when light came up, in his tree stand. I stood on the ground watching over a large beaver meadow that he could not see, and the narrow section of the creek we had just come up. From his stand he commanded a view of a good 1000 yards the other side of him, all flat grassy beaver meadow.
As dawn broke, there were spider webs on everything coated with frost.
I heard a small noise down the swail, and a giant cow broke cover and dropped in the creek. both stands could see her she was half way between us. If we'd had a cow tag that year, she'd have been well ventilated. Even today, the two of us agree we've never seen a bigger cow. We waited in vain for the bull, or even a calf, but none appeared. Tags in that area were getting harder to come by at that point.
I pulled out my camera from it's bag to take some pics. WTF? the lens of the Pentax K was fogged, inside the bag, even the mirror inside the camera was fogged. Grabbed the rifle and flipped up the uncle Mikes to check it. Sure enough, it too was coated with fog. I resolved to wiping it every few minutes.
Probably about 10am or so, the fogging issue finally went away, The sun came out, and beamed in on me, I finally dried out and started to feel warm.
lunch time I saw the orange hat going back and forth across the swail through the meanders, as the other lad came back to eat lunch with me.
The following day, I rotated to the stand I could walk to. On the way I passed several spots were the trail came close to open areas, and over the day I would wander this trail checking for moose, both along the trail, and in these openings.
The watch itself was on the edge of a fairly sizable beaver mash with a dam at the far end. The boys had shot a moose from here one year I wasn't there. a 400 yard shot with the 7mm Rem Mag. The stand has a nice rest for that, you fire from almost prone, leaning on a rock. But I saw nothing that day. I did however hear the crack of the old 303 the other lad carried. And the 'signal shot' meaning moose down.
By the time I made my way back to camp, the big boat was gone. So, nothing for me to do but camp chores as agreed, the guy walking got ready for the other two to get back, unless he shot the moose. Getting the big boat up the creek was a hassle as usual. Tipping the motor, grounding etc, and the moose had dropped in the water of course, so the entire gutting and quartering was done standing waist deep in the creek.
I knew they'd be soaked, so got the tank top heater going in the tent, and made sure there was hot coffee going. They got back about dusk. There'd be no meat hanging there's nothing big enough to hang from. We'd break camp in the morning. Camp is done when the moose is down.
Looking back now, so much could have gone wrong, so easy to get hurt, no way to contact anyone. We had no radios, just the signal shots. But, things were different, you just made do. Nobody ever did get hurt, and we always managed to get over whatever hurdles were put before us.
Years back when I was younger, and able to handle the damp of this kind of hunt, we hunted in northern Ontario with two canoes, and an aluminum boat.
The trip in, depending on the number of guys going, we either had to tow one canoe, with gear in it, or we mounted the two of them on an over head wooden rack rigged up on the big 16' Lund. The Lund was underpowered with the 15hp Evinrude, but the small motor had a lot of advantages in the shallows, and there were plenty of those.
The boat ride down the big lake, and the attached creek took several hours. If it was windy, even longer as we hugged the shore to stay dry from the spray.
This particular trip, as we were about half way down the lake, I remember it as overcast, with just a ripple on the lake, there were three of us. One of the guys shouts "what's that?"
Over we went to investigate what was apparently something swimming in the lake. Well holy crap it's a lynx. I still wonder why it was out in the middle of the fairly large lake that day. But there it was. As we closed, there came a shout from the front not to get too close. It might come aboard. It turned from it's swim and snarled at us. and we slowed to see where it went. It climbed the bank, shook, and like it had an invisibility blanket, simply vanished.
Off to the 'camp' we went. 'Camp' was a small clearing on the north end of the lake. The grass and small shrubs were flattened out with an old round mouth shovel left there for the purpose, and two tent erected. The sleeping tent, and the dining tent. The dining tent consisted of one of those flimsy bug tents, with the poles reinforced with saplings in hopes that if it snowed, it would not all collapse as it did one other year, then the sides covered with tarps at the corners,in addition to the things own flaps, to help keep the wind out.
The sleeping tent was a 10X16 canvas affair. It had no stove, so one of those tank top heaters was placed in the centre. This was to be the only source of heat, and was only used in the morning to take the damp off while we were getting dressed. We all had big down sleeping bags, and slept with toque's on, and a small cloth over our faces.
One year that damned tent leaked on my sleeping bag, soaked about half of it, and I went the entire week with a wet bag. Nobody likes a wet bag.
Need to go out for a leak? yep, unzip the tent and go stand in your underwear out in the weather. The 'outhouse' was two poles rigged up between two trees, a toilet seat haphazardly rigged to that, and a board in front to protect your pants from 'stuff'. Never got around to making a roof for that.
Morning, it was very damp dressing, it's surprising how fast everything in a tent can get cold and damp late in the fall. Headed over to the cook tent, already half froze, wondering what the day would bring. We at around an old card table, the tank heater being brought over from the sleeping tent just as breakfast was plated, so we could make toast in front of it.
Fingerless gloves were a godsend for eating breakfast. Bacon and eggs of course! Lake water heating for dishes while we ate. That done, there's nothing left but to head out to our selected spots. One guy could walk to his spot, the rest took canoes. The area is very flat and swampy.
That morning was perfect, hoar frost on everything, stars out. We slipped and slid down the bank to the canoes, taking out lunches with us for the day. It was bright enough, no lights were needed as we navigated about a mile up the creek to my spot, and the next guy went further. He was only 5-600 yards from me, I could see him when light came up, in his tree stand. I stood on the ground watching over a large beaver meadow that he could not see, and the narrow section of the creek we had just come up. From his stand he commanded a view of a good 1000 yards the other side of him, all flat grassy beaver meadow.
As dawn broke, there were spider webs on everything coated with frost.
I heard a small noise down the swail, and a giant cow broke cover and dropped in the creek. both stands could see her she was half way between us. If we'd had a cow tag that year, she'd have been well ventilated. Even today, the two of us agree we've never seen a bigger cow. We waited in vain for the bull, or even a calf, but none appeared. Tags in that area were getting harder to come by at that point.
I pulled out my camera from it's bag to take some pics. WTF? the lens of the Pentax K was fogged, inside the bag, even the mirror inside the camera was fogged. Grabbed the rifle and flipped up the uncle Mikes to check it. Sure enough, it too was coated with fog. I resolved to wiping it every few minutes.
Probably about 10am or so, the fogging issue finally went away, The sun came out, and beamed in on me, I finally dried out and started to feel warm.
lunch time I saw the orange hat going back and forth across the swail through the meanders, as the other lad came back to eat lunch with me.
The following day, I rotated to the stand I could walk to. On the way I passed several spots were the trail came close to open areas, and over the day I would wander this trail checking for moose, both along the trail, and in these openings.
The watch itself was on the edge of a fairly sizable beaver mash with a dam at the far end. The boys had shot a moose from here one year I wasn't there. a 400 yard shot with the 7mm Rem Mag. The stand has a nice rest for that, you fire from almost prone, leaning on a rock. But I saw nothing that day. I did however hear the crack of the old 303 the other lad carried. And the 'signal shot' meaning moose down.
By the time I made my way back to camp, the big boat was gone. So, nothing for me to do but camp chores as agreed, the guy walking got ready for the other two to get back, unless he shot the moose. Getting the big boat up the creek was a hassle as usual. Tipping the motor, grounding etc, and the moose had dropped in the water of course, so the entire gutting and quartering was done standing waist deep in the creek.
I knew they'd be soaked, so got the tank top heater going in the tent, and made sure there was hot coffee going. They got back about dusk. There'd be no meat hanging there's nothing big enough to hang from. We'd break camp in the morning. Camp is done when the moose is down.
Looking back now, so much could have gone wrong, so easy to get hurt, no way to contact anyone. We had no radios, just the signal shots. But, things were different, you just made do. Nobody ever did get hurt, and we always managed to get over whatever hurdles were put before us.
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- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
Lost?
Day one this particular year, had been a bust. It had started raining while we were out, most of us were soaked, and we'd headed in early. Two of our guys, just came in changed and headed back up the driveway of the old camp, and crossed the road to the old sawmill property. The only thing left of the mill was an ancient sawdust pile, and if you looked hard enough, you might find a board or two of the building of the mill itself. Black spruce had overgrown everything. It was on the edge of a black spruce bog. Very thick, and you have to watch your footing in there, or a wet hole will get you.
Me, I did the same, but headed into the hardwood bush beside the camp for a still hunt.
I returned as light was failing. But the other two were not there. In a very few minutes we got concerned. It was a moonless night, overcast, and black as pitch. The two in question had a history of 'wandering' and directionally challenged in both cases.
I grabbed a light, and headed down the driveway to walk the trail and give them a yell.
As I got to the road, I met the two, walking in from way up the road.
They had decided to 'explore' the bush behind the sawmill. Well, having dogged that out before, I knew what it was like, and instantly understood their mistake.
It's as previously explained, thick in there. Nothing to give you a direction, just featureless black spruce bog. Once in there, they quickly lost their direction. Hey, you got a compass? "Sure, here".
"Which way do we go?"
"I dunno."
this is my imaginings of the next conversation from what I was told.
In a black spruce bog, low light becomes no light very fast, and neither one had a light, so, other than the hard to read phosphorescence on the cheap compass needle, they had nothing, and continued to stumble about in the dark.
One of the guys fell, and as he fell, something of a miracle happened. His hand came down on a tiny Duracell flashlight. It threw about as much light as a key chain light, but helped to keep them upright, and see the compass. They elected to take their best guess on the direction to go, and walk a bit. If that failed, they would double back and walk twice as far the other way.
The direction they were walking was parallel to the road. Near as I could tell, they were never more that 250 yards from that road. If they had chosen to walk at 90 degrees to the direction that they chose, they'd either have gone deep into the bog, or come to the road.
On the first direction, they soon climbed out of the bog. This they knew was a good thing. They had to hit either the very obvious trail, or come to a cabin, if they were walking the other way. They came to the cabin, walked the driveway, and then met me, on the road.
Lessons? I'll let you figure those yourself.
Day one this particular year, had been a bust. It had started raining while we were out, most of us were soaked, and we'd headed in early. Two of our guys, just came in changed and headed back up the driveway of the old camp, and crossed the road to the old sawmill property. The only thing left of the mill was an ancient sawdust pile, and if you looked hard enough, you might find a board or two of the building of the mill itself. Black spruce had overgrown everything. It was on the edge of a black spruce bog. Very thick, and you have to watch your footing in there, or a wet hole will get you.
Me, I did the same, but headed into the hardwood bush beside the camp for a still hunt.
I returned as light was failing. But the other two were not there. In a very few minutes we got concerned. It was a moonless night, overcast, and black as pitch. The two in question had a history of 'wandering' and directionally challenged in both cases.
I grabbed a light, and headed down the driveway to walk the trail and give them a yell.
As I got to the road, I met the two, walking in from way up the road.
They had decided to 'explore' the bush behind the sawmill. Well, having dogged that out before, I knew what it was like, and instantly understood their mistake.
It's as previously explained, thick in there. Nothing to give you a direction, just featureless black spruce bog. Once in there, they quickly lost their direction. Hey, you got a compass? "Sure, here".
"Which way do we go?"
"I dunno."
this is my imaginings of the next conversation from what I was told.
In a black spruce bog, low light becomes no light very fast, and neither one had a light, so, other than the hard to read phosphorescence on the cheap compass needle, they had nothing, and continued to stumble about in the dark.
One of the guys fell, and as he fell, something of a miracle happened. His hand came down on a tiny Duracell flashlight. It threw about as much light as a key chain light, but helped to keep them upright, and see the compass. They elected to take their best guess on the direction to go, and walk a bit. If that failed, they would double back and walk twice as far the other way.
The direction they were walking was parallel to the road. Near as I could tell, they were never more that 250 yards from that road. If they had chosen to walk at 90 degrees to the direction that they chose, they'd either have gone deep into the bog, or come to the road.
On the first direction, they soon climbed out of the bog. This they knew was a good thing. They had to hit either the very obvious trail, or come to a cabin, if they were walking the other way. They came to the cabin, walked the driveway, and then met me, on the road.
Lessons? I'll let you figure those yourself.
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- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
There are "guides" and then there are Guides.
Some years after I joined my dads camp, we had a gent join the camp, who used to guide bear hunters up in the Pickle lake area of Ontario.
Well, I don't know how good he was up there, but he really was good at camp chores, bull crap, and playing poker.
He had a a little 12" beagle that he dogged deer with, and he did like to push deer. He was pretty good at shooting deer with his 12 gauge pump too. Or so it seemed. Most of them were shot in the back of the head with buckshot.
Took me a while to figure out this was by accident, not by design. He was pointing at the tail of a departing deer.
Anyway, one very cold morning, there were only three of us in camp. The rest having gone out for the weekend. The night before, we had been visited by a local who wanted us to hunt his place, and see if we could "reduce the deer chewing up his young cedars".
Always up for a new place to hunt we quickly agreed.
So, that morning, off we go on a short drive around to this guys place. We pulled into an old farm house, with a rickety old barn out back, and here, the landowner separated us from our 'guide' who was to run the dogs. Being a new spot I asked if he had his compass, and was answered with "I don't need no f'n compass, I never bin lost in my life and I ain't about to start now". I thought that rather strange for a guy who professed to being a guide, but hey what do I know?
So, off he went, and off we went, with the landowners brother who placed out the men.
2 hours passed, then 3, holy living crap I'm cold. But I'm the guy the dogger is supposed to come out to. I must be here, or he might miss the end of the line, and the next road is miles away. The terrain is insane, very steep hills and narrow little valleys where I was. I looked out over a ravine at the bottom of which was a heavy trail. 3.5 hours in, the landowner comes down to me. "he should have been out half an hour ago"
He said he'd go up the trail a ways and cross over to where the guy was supposed to come.
4 hrs in, out comes our 'guide' he's soaked in sweat, and white as a sheet. He admitted to being "turned around".
Everyone else was damned near frozen, so off to camp with the works of us. No shots fired that morning.
Turns out his expert hunting experience consisted of an area with circles of logging roads. Hard to get lost when you wander those I guess.
Pity those he guided, if indeed the stories he told had any truth in them at all.
He was by the next hunting season, the owner of a compass, and the camp 'expert' on using one.
Some years after I joined my dads camp, we had a gent join the camp, who used to guide bear hunters up in the Pickle lake area of Ontario.
Well, I don't know how good he was up there, but he really was good at camp chores, bull crap, and playing poker.
He had a a little 12" beagle that he dogged deer with, and he did like to push deer. He was pretty good at shooting deer with his 12 gauge pump too. Or so it seemed. Most of them were shot in the back of the head with buckshot.
Took me a while to figure out this was by accident, not by design. He was pointing at the tail of a departing deer.
Anyway, one very cold morning, there were only three of us in camp. The rest having gone out for the weekend. The night before, we had been visited by a local who wanted us to hunt his place, and see if we could "reduce the deer chewing up his young cedars".
Always up for a new place to hunt we quickly agreed.
So, that morning, off we go on a short drive around to this guys place. We pulled into an old farm house, with a rickety old barn out back, and here, the landowner separated us from our 'guide' who was to run the dogs. Being a new spot I asked if he had his compass, and was answered with "I don't need no f'n compass, I never bin lost in my life and I ain't about to start now". I thought that rather strange for a guy who professed to being a guide, but hey what do I know?
So, off he went, and off we went, with the landowners brother who placed out the men.
2 hours passed, then 3, holy living crap I'm cold. But I'm the guy the dogger is supposed to come out to. I must be here, or he might miss the end of the line, and the next road is miles away. The terrain is insane, very steep hills and narrow little valleys where I was. I looked out over a ravine at the bottom of which was a heavy trail. 3.5 hours in, the landowner comes down to me. "he should have been out half an hour ago"
He said he'd go up the trail a ways and cross over to where the guy was supposed to come.
4 hrs in, out comes our 'guide' he's soaked in sweat, and white as a sheet. He admitted to being "turned around".
Everyone else was damned near frozen, so off to camp with the works of us. No shots fired that morning.
Turns out his expert hunting experience consisted of an area with circles of logging roads. Hard to get lost when you wander those I guess.
Pity those he guided, if indeed the stories he told had any truth in them at all.
He was by the next hunting season, the owner of a compass, and the camp 'expert' on using one.
Talking about Guides.
Some years ago I went on t Moose hunt with Yomomma and a few other guys. The guide said he knew the area “like the back of my hand”. Access was to be by water. He took us out to where some pre-built stands were set up and told us that he would take a boat around to the other side of the bush and would walk through to our location and would arrive at 9:00am. I was set up on the East side of a stretch of water that opened up into the lake further south. I could see several hundred yards to the north towards where I knew roughly that my buddies were set up.
No sign of our guide at 9 o’clock, no sign at 10 o’clock.
Just after 10:30 I see our “Guide” literally fall out of the bush about a hundred yards north of me. He staggered towards me and stopped less than 6 feet from the foot of my stand, obviously unaware that I was there. As he removed his cap and scratched his head I said, “Good Morning”. He jumped about three feet in the air and, as he regained his composure said “Oh, I knew you were there”.
Unsurprisingly, we saw nothing that day although we did find a few sheds.
Some years ago I went on t Moose hunt with Yomomma and a few other guys. The guide said he knew the area “like the back of my hand”. Access was to be by water. He took us out to where some pre-built stands were set up and told us that he would take a boat around to the other side of the bush and would walk through to our location and would arrive at 9:00am. I was set up on the East side of a stretch of water that opened up into the lake further south. I could see several hundred yards to the north towards where I knew roughly that my buddies were set up.
No sign of our guide at 9 o’clock, no sign at 10 o’clock.
Just after 10:30 I see our “Guide” literally fall out of the bush about a hundred yards north of me. He staggered towards me and stopped less than 6 feet from the foot of my stand, obviously unaware that I was there. As he removed his cap and scratched his head I said, “Good Morning”. He jumped about three feet in the air and, as he regained his composure said “Oh, I knew you were there”.
Unsurprisingly, we saw nothing that day although we did find a few sheds.
When I was still living in the Salmon Arm area, we hunted Mule deer extensively. We had a bit of a secret "honey hole" in an old logged off plot
It had been a stand of very large Fir trees, but a lot of smaller trees and deciduous trees left standing, so, an ideal hunting area.
There was an old, small bunkhouse that had been left behind, so 3 of us cleaned it up a bit and put in an air-tight heater, and that is where
we stayed overnight when hunting. All was well for the first season, but the 2nd year gave us some problems. Cutlery, some other smaller,
shiny items, plus some food items were disappearing mysteriously.
None of us had had any experience with packrats, [bush rats] so we did not associate the slight "musky" odor with that vermin. I suspected some kind of
animal must be responsible, so I loaded my 22 and set it within reach of my cot.
Woke up about 2 AM, hearing a "tap", "tap", "tap" sound above me. [My partners both slept the sleep of the dead, so did not even stir]
I turned on a little flashlight, and looked up around the rafters, and lo & behold, there sits Mr Packrat eating something undoubtedly purloined
from our table.
I eased the 22 up and held the light against the barrel, and touched off a shot. The rat dropped straight down onto one of my partners, who was,
now awake due to the report of the 22 in the little shack. Pandemonium broke out then, with hollering, jumping around and a lot of colorful language
being uttered.
I was the only one who apparently saw the humor in the whole mess, but eventually we got settled down again. Interestingly, the thievery stopped
at that point, so now we knew a bit more about packrats, lol. Good side of that particular trip, we shot 2 very nice muley bucks the next day.
Fond memories, indeed! Dave.
It had been a stand of very large Fir trees, but a lot of smaller trees and deciduous trees left standing, so, an ideal hunting area.
There was an old, small bunkhouse that had been left behind, so 3 of us cleaned it up a bit and put in an air-tight heater, and that is where
we stayed overnight when hunting. All was well for the first season, but the 2nd year gave us some problems. Cutlery, some other smaller,
shiny items, plus some food items were disappearing mysteriously.
None of us had had any experience with packrats, [bush rats] so we did not associate the slight "musky" odor with that vermin. I suspected some kind of
animal must be responsible, so I loaded my 22 and set it within reach of my cot.
Woke up about 2 AM, hearing a "tap", "tap", "tap" sound above me. [My partners both slept the sleep of the dead, so did not even stir]
I turned on a little flashlight, and looked up around the rafters, and lo & behold, there sits Mr Packrat eating something undoubtedly purloined
from our table.
I eased the 22 up and held the light against the barrel, and touched off a shot. The rat dropped straight down onto one of my partners, who was,
now awake due to the report of the 22 in the little shack. Pandemonium broke out then, with hollering, jumping around and a lot of colorful language
being uttered.
I was the only one who apparently saw the humor in the whole mess, but eventually we got settled down again. Interestingly, the thievery stopped
at that point, so now we knew a bit more about packrats, lol. Good side of that particular trip, we shot 2 very nice muley bucks the next day.
Fond memories, indeed! Dave.
Several decades ago, I was on a solo Elk hunt in the BC East Kootenay [Sparwood/Elkford area] and had hunted hard for 3 days without any success.
I had relatives living in Sparwood at the time, so had a place to stay.
Since a lot of the area is owned by mining companies, and they are "no hunting" posted, one had to be careful to stay on public land. In the course of
my hunt, I was in shooting distance of one of the biggest Muley Bucks I have ever laid eyes on, but the season had closed the previous week, so I had
to watch him walk away.
Then came what I shall call the "plus" factor, a foot of wet snow fell overnight, making access a bit tougher, but hunting much better of course. I headed up
to a power line that ran parallel to the highway, but about ½ a Km from it. Aha! Elk tracks everywhere, but where were the Elk?
Soon I spotted 2 Cow Elk with 3 calves tagging along [they were only legal on a limited entry, which I lacked] They were entirely oblivious to my presence,
so I just stood and watched as they fed along the side of a small gully away from me.
I walked about 100M up the powerline, being careful to stay close in to the brush. I guess I was standing still in one spot about 10 minutes when I caught
a movement out of the corner of my eye up the powerline about 250 M away. Through the binoculars, I could see a 6x6 bull, but only about 4 inches of his
back, since he was walking in a low area up the line.
Then he stopped, turned around briefly, and lay down on the powerline. Now all I could see through the binoculars was the tips of his antlers. I have a dilemma
now. Do I try to sneak up on him, or..??? I can see all sorts of ways I might spook him, but I wanted him, so I decided to try to close the distance a bit.
The snow is packing under foot, so it is making some noise as I walk.
I finally get to the point where I can see almost all of his antlers, and I am worried that he will hear or see me. I decide to sit tight and see what happens. Over
2 hours later, he finally decides to stand up, and my patience is rewarded. The 308 Norma Magnum barked, and he made 2 steps, and nosed into the snow.
There is something unique about outsmarting a game animal that one can stow away in memory for future hunts. I have one more from that area of BC that I
will post at a later date. Dave.
I had relatives living in Sparwood at the time, so had a place to stay.
Since a lot of the area is owned by mining companies, and they are "no hunting" posted, one had to be careful to stay on public land. In the course of
my hunt, I was in shooting distance of one of the biggest Muley Bucks I have ever laid eyes on, but the season had closed the previous week, so I had
to watch him walk away.
Then came what I shall call the "plus" factor, a foot of wet snow fell overnight, making access a bit tougher, but hunting much better of course. I headed up
to a power line that ran parallel to the highway, but about ½ a Km from it. Aha! Elk tracks everywhere, but where were the Elk?
Soon I spotted 2 Cow Elk with 3 calves tagging along [they were only legal on a limited entry, which I lacked] They were entirely oblivious to my presence,
so I just stood and watched as they fed along the side of a small gully away from me.
I walked about 100M up the powerline, being careful to stay close in to the brush. I guess I was standing still in one spot about 10 minutes when I caught
a movement out of the corner of my eye up the powerline about 250 M away. Through the binoculars, I could see a 6x6 bull, but only about 4 inches of his
back, since he was walking in a low area up the line.
Then he stopped, turned around briefly, and lay down on the powerline. Now all I could see through the binoculars was the tips of his antlers. I have a dilemma
now. Do I try to sneak up on him, or..??? I can see all sorts of ways I might spook him, but I wanted him, so I decided to try to close the distance a bit.
The snow is packing under foot, so it is making some noise as I walk.
I finally get to the point where I can see almost all of his antlers, and I am worried that he will hear or see me. I decide to sit tight and see what happens. Over
2 hours later, he finally decides to stand up, and my patience is rewarded. The 308 Norma Magnum barked, and he made 2 steps, and nosed into the snow.
There is something unique about outsmarting a game animal that one can stow away in memory for future hunts. I have one more from that area of BC that I
will post at a later date. Dave.
- Location
- The Conservative part of Ontario
^^^ nicely done!
this one is a nice black bear I missed .my friend and I decided to go for a walk down this old logging trail, it was in the springtime. prime bear hunt time. as we got down this trail maybe 100 yards or so in. he mentions my name to me. I stopped looked over in his direction. he had his rifle upon this nice black bear standing up.it was close inside 50 yards. as I bring my rifle up to shoot. the bear drops down on all fours and takes off. clean miss .went back in there the next day to look for it .its something I will not forget. I asked him why he didn't shoot it. he said it was my shot.something i will never forget
