Alright, here's a story as promised. Yeah I know the moose isn't a monster, but I'm still very proud of it as it was the first moose I ever guided on:
I slowly raised my finger to my lips, motioning for them to be quiet. Jefre crouched down, and slowly made his way out of the timber line into the pine scrub and willows where I was kneeling. “Alright Jefre, there’s a good bull moose out there, are you ready?” Jefre nodded as I glanced up one last time to make to make sure the bull was still there. He worked the bolt of his Remington 300 H&H, and raised it to his shoulder. “Okay Jeff, he’s out on the left side of the meadow about 200 yards out. When you’re ready, take him.”
* * *
It was day 4 of hunt. Jefre and Kevin, two hunters from Oregon, were a father and son pair whom had come up to Northern BC to hunt moose with our outfit BC Guide Outfitters. Jefre’s dad had taken a bull up near our guide area years ago, and both Kevin and Jefre had listened to stories about that moose rack that stood on Grand-dad’s wall. They were both avid blacktail and elk hunters, and though they had never hunted moose before, they wanted to get a set of antlers to match Grand-dad’s.
The hunters arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. I was out cutting firewood for the cabins, so didn’t get back to camp until after everyone had arrived later that evening. After the customary introductions, I was surprised to see all the hunters we had in camp for the week start to unload all the firewood from my truck onto the woodpile. I had a feeling this was going to be a good week.
At dinner that night, all the guides and hunters conferred as to what the plan was going to be for the next seven days. Kevin, Jefre, and I were going to head out to a wall-tent camp on the river, and drift the banks with my 12ft aluminum boat. The river has time and again proven to be a trophy spot, and as such I felt that the river would give us the best chance at tagging a bull.
The next morning we woke up to a beautiful red sunrise. And while it made for a beautiful scene to look at, the old naval adage of “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky at dawn, sailor take warn” proved to be true. The nice cold, frosty weather that favours moose hunting had suddenly turned to rain as the three of us began making the trip into the river camp. With the previous week having been nice and cold, I figured that this weather wouldn’t keep up for more than an evening, and that we would have no problems in the coming days. Apparently I would make a poor weather forecaster….
After two and a half days of hard hunting on the river, we still hadn’t produced a moose. Lots of sign was seen on the riverbanks and surrounding willows, but we could not find a bull. The rainy weather had played havoc on the moose habits in the area, and while the rain eventually ended, the average day-time temperatures began to increase and get hotter. The decision was made to come back to base-camp, and change tactics to ones that would be more productive in the warmer weather. Sure enough, that evening we saw a cow-calf pair, and with confirmation that our decision was the right one, we began to get the feeling that something good was headed our way.
After a few more days of hunting, we had seen a few more lone cows, but a nice bull still eluded us. That morning at breakfast I chatted with the outfitter, Mark, and he recommended we hunt an old moose meadow that had always been a goldmine for good bulls. The only catch was that if we downed anything in there, we would have to get the pack-boards out to get the meat out, as access to this area was extremely limited. A creek crossing kept us from using horses, and the timber was too thick to get a four-wheeler in. That being said, when a place has limited access and is tough to get to, you’re bound to have a good bull lurking around in there.
Fortunately, when we headed out to the meadow that morning, the weather had turned for the best. I found myself scraping frost off the windshield of the truck as we loaded up and headed out to try our luck. Spirits were high as we drove out to the trailhead, with frost covering the poplar leaves that had began to yellow with the encroaching cold.
The hike in to the meadow had us all quiet with anticipation. We all seemed to sense this morning was going to be different, and both Kevin and Jefre and myself were continually scanning the terrain for moose. The trail was fairly rough, and I worried that 65-year old Jefre might have a difficult time with it. What I didn’t find out until later was that Jefre had done time in the navy in his younger years, and was still tough as nails. Even with a bad knee, he kept right up with his son and me, and I had no doubt that the old-timer could have walked me into the ground if he had wanted to.
The sun was just starting to rise above the tree-line as me made it to the end of the trail. The father and son pair held back on the trail while I slowly made the approach into the tall, yellow-shaded grass, still covered in frost. As I peaked out above the pine scrub, I could see a large, brown shape out in the distance, and watched as its breath condensed in the frosty air: we had found our moose. My binoculars confirmed it, and when I saw his antlers my heart began to race. He was a good bull, exactly the kind that Kevin and his father had been talking about taking all week in camp.
* * *
The crack of Jefre’s 300 H&H broke the silence of the morning. The bull was hit solidly, and he took off for the tree-line. Amazingly. he stopped right on the edge of the timber, giving Jefre another shot at the bull. That one too hit the bull, and he wasn’t going to stick around any longer after that. The bull took off into the timber, leaving us standing there with our hearts racing and big grins on our faces.
We waited a while before going in after the bull. Most of that time was spent recounting the sequence of events in great detail (even if we all saw what happened, none of us ever got tired of telling each other about it), and getting the cameras ready. We all knew the bull had been hit hard, and there was no doubt in the hunters’ minds that they would have the moose antlers they always wanted. Once the cameras were sorted out, and we had repeated the mornings events for the 18th time, all three of us went in after the bull and began tracking. The bull was hit well and trailing him through the brush wasn’t difficult. Not 50 yards into the timber we found him.
After getting over the initial excitement, the high-fives, and the obligatory photos, we spent the rest of the day getting the big moose ready for packing. Mark was right in that there was no other way to get the meat out other than to pack it on our backs out of this remote meadow. Neither Kevin nor Jefre cared though, as it was a small price to pay for an excellent hunt. We spent the next day packing the bull out, and as we sat one night by the fire in base-camp watching a red sunset and swapping stories, I felt it a fitting end to a great week of hunting.
