The moose hunting story....... It is long!!!!

<<<RAIN MOOSE>>>

Rain. Lots and lots (and lots) of rain. Some would say it rained cats and dogs, others might say it rained buckets. I am inclined to think that these two metaphors don’t do justice to the monsoon like conditions which awaited us at our hunting location on the Gulf of Alaska. Not that it surprised me at all. In fact, I told a number of people before leaving that it would probably rain every day for the ten days I would be gone. This premonition came as the result of the having lived on the Gulf of Alaska for 3 years. A place that receives over 160” of precipitation anually. So, when I said it would rain, I was right. 2 to 5 inches of the wet stuff dumped on us every day of the hunt. Not only did we have wet weather to contend with, but also winds which blew anywhere from 20 to 50 mph. Well, poor weather or not, I had come to hunt moose. Nothing short of breaking a leg was going to stop me, especially not the weather.

On this particular trip I was accompanied by my husband, Jeff, and family friend, Mike. Mike had flown up to Cordova from the southeastern part of the state.


After a short flight on Era airlines from Anchorage to Cordova, we met Mike and packed our gear onto a Cessna 206, operated by a local charter service. Loaded to the hilt, the small plane lifted off, patches of sun peeking out from behind a mostly cloudy sky.


As we flew into the airstrip near our hunting location, we looked anxiously out the windows of the small plane for the moose we knew were not far below. Here, the glaciers had long since receded. In their place was a landscape mixed with peat bogs, spruce forests and willow and alder thickets. This lush mixture of forest, willows, swamp alder, and horsetail was the ideal habitat for moose.


Over the course of the next several days, we slogged through thick wet timber, flooding rivers, meadows and swamps, searching for a legal bull. The rain was incessant, stinging our faces and any other exposed skin. The temperature hovered in the mid 40’s, and the wind chill that accompanied the rain required us to don a couple layers of insulating clothing under our raingear.


The day after we arrived we decided to go after two bulls we had seen when we had flown in. It was a long hike down the riverbed, and we had to cross many river channels, swollen as a result of the heavy rain and moving quickly toward the ocean. Occasionally, we stopped to do some cow calling, but we consciously hiked toward our destination.
Finally, after working our way along the edge of a stand of large spruce trees, we came to the area we thought we had seen the bulls. Jeff quietly looked down into a small willow thicket and saw a moose. It was a small bull. I motioned for Mike to get in front of me, in case the bigger bull was there too. Visibility out of the timber was difficult because of the many spruce boughs hanging toward the ground. Soon Jeff and Mike both motioned that there were two more bulls – both much bigger than the smaller one. Mike kneeled down and quickly shot. I watched and saw the blur of brown bodies running in different directions.

After watching the fleeing animals Jeff and I took off after two of the bulls we had seen disappear into the timber. We were not sure if one of them was the bull Mike had shot at and wanted to be able to rule out that possibility.

Mike stayed looking for evidence of a blood trail. When we got back a few minutes later, Mike was still there searching for a blood trail, before the rain washed it completely away. Jeff and I helped him and we all methodically searched the area for over an hour, hoping to find evidence of a hit.
Apparently Mike had missed the bull (later confirmed when Jeff and I returned to the area, and found no presence of bears or birds working a dead animal). We went back to camp discouraged, tired, cold and wet.
The next day we went south of camp, hiking down a four wheeler trail that led to an old tree-stand that overlooked a small river in a willow bottom. We still hunted the small grassy clearings along the way, noticing a number of alders that had been uprooted and torn apart by bull moose. By mid morning we had made our way to the tree stand, and from this location we could see out across a low-lying riverbed that was swathed on both sides by tall willow and alder. We hunted the area for a bit – doing some cow calling intermittently but did not see any moose. As we headed back for camp we came across a fresh set of brown bear tracks that had been made soon after our initial walk in. While not alarmed at the sight of the tracks, we certainly kept a good lookout for bears as they have been known to come in to moose calls and maul or attack hunters. (After I got back home from my moose hunt, I had the bad news given to me that a co-worker of mine had been killed and eaten by a bear while he was cow-calling ).
When we were about halfway down the trail, Jeff suggested I do a little hunting by myself. I agreed and watched as he and Mike continued their walk down the muddy trail. It was now about noon and I knew there was little chance of seeing any animals moving around at this time of day, but I figured that I had only a few days to hunt and I better make the most of them. I quickly found a moose trail and followed it for ease of travel.

Soon I came to a small lake, perhaps 60 yards across and bordered by a mixture of spruce trees and swampy marsh. I climbed up an embankment into a small stand of spruce trees that grew at the water’s edge. I was now out of the weather and out of sight of any animals.

I began to do some cow calling. “URRRrrrrrrrrrr……URRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..URRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”.
The instant I stopped calling I heard what was probably the scariest noise I had ever heard in my life; a low guttural roar that bellowed from across the lake. I instantly grabbed my rifle and let the safety off as I brought it to my shoulder. It was important that I had a clear shot at whatever animal I had just heard challenge my presence, so I snuck down the embankment to the edge of the timber. Then, there was another deafening and startling roar. The sound was very nearby and my senses were on high alert.
After focusing on the area the sound came from – a stand of spruce trees directly opposite me at the edge of the lake – I soon picked up the movement of something very brown and very big just inside the timber……..a cow.

What!? A cow? I had thought for sure the challenger was a brown bear. However, I quickly realized that my challenger was definitely a cow moose. I cow called again, and again she answered with a bellowing roar. (I likened the sound to that of a red stag once I settled down a bit. )
As I watched in disbelief, another moose appeared - a calf. And then…… a bull. He was a pretty nice sized bull, but upon closer inspection I knew he was very close to being a ‘shooter’. He had only 2 brow tines on each side, very typical in the genetics of moose from this area. He was very possibly 50” wide (a legal bull for this area). I watched him as he alternated his attention from me to the cow for several minutes. How that bull whined and moaned over her – sidling up to her, laying his head on her rump and talking to her in his own loving way. She, on the other hand, was very fixated on me, or should I say, the ‘cow’ she thought was coming to lure her bull away. By the her body actions I could tell she did not want another cow anywhere in her immediate vicinity. A couple of times I thought she was going to charge right over to me as she began to trot right into the lake. Her every move was followed intently by the bull, who continued to moan and whine and lick his lips.

After a few minutes of moose behavior viewing I could not come to make myself believe his antlers were 50” and could not risk shooting him. I decided to very slowly and quietly back out of the area and head toward the four wheeler trail.
Once on the trail I hiked to the road. Since Jeff wasn’t there yet, I continued on to camp. I relayed the afternoon's events to Jeff and Mike, who kept saying, “Are you sure it wasn’t legal? Are you absolutely positive?”
“Yes”, I said emphatically, “I am absolutely sure.” Nevertheless, I questioned my decision not to shoot him for the rest of the night.

The next few days were unproductive. We did see at least one bull every day – but they were all ‘tweeners’ – bulls that were neither spike fork, nor over 50”, or having 3 brow tines on one antler.

On Friday, our 7th day in camp, Mike was due to catch the charter plane and head back to his home in Ketchikan. However, the weather did not look promising for any type of air travel. Visibility was much less than a mile, it was raining pretty hard, the wind was blowing, and the mountains were completely socked in. It was doubtful that Mike would make it out, but he needed to stay close to camp in the case there was a break in the weather.

Jeff asked me what I wanted to do. Although I was extremely tired of hunting in the rain and wind, I knew my hunting days were also limited. It was only two days before I had to go home. I wasn’t about to let the damned weather stop me from trying to find a moose, so I said quite frankly, “I want to go moose hunting”. I gathered my gear – this time a hip pack - filled with the bare necessities for a quick hunt - and my rifle, a .375 H&H.
I told Jeff that I was going to hunt toward the beach, making my way to some grassy openings and sloughs that paralleled the beach. Although I had never hunted there, the area looked promising from aerial photos and I prayed God's favor would rest with me.
I grabbed a roll of flagging to mark my trail and headed into new territory. My route started by first having to walk down a flooded meadow. When I reached the end of the meadow, I made my way in a generally easterly direction along a moose trail that wound its way through the timber. After about 45 minutes of hiking I finally found the area I thought I had seen on the map. I cautiously approached the clearing, trying to step quietly on the flooded and mucky moose trail I had found. Upon scanning the clearing and the fringe of the willow and alders I did not see or hear any animals. The wind, thankfully, was in my favor.

I made my way along the edge of the clearing for several hundred feet until I saw a small clump of spruce trees that stood in the middle of the big marsh. I instantly knew this would be a great location to call from. It gave me a 360 degree vantage point to view the surrounding landscape while also hiding me from sight and keeping me out of the weather. The trees in my newly found ‘blind’ were 90+ foot tall Sitka spruce and there was plenty of room underneath them to walk around without having to bend over. The stand itself was probably less than 70 feet long and 40 feet wide.

As I looked around, it became very apparent that moose used this as a bedding area. At my feet, the moss had been flattened and there were many clumps of moose hair and piles of moose manure. I took the hip pack off and grabbed a drink and granola bar, for a quick bite.
After finishing my lunch, I went to the edge of the trees and sat down to do some calling ‘URRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’……… ‘URRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’….. ‘URRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ ……I waited, listening to the drips of water fall from the spruce boughs onto my oilskin hat and rain jacket. I really hoped that today I would see a legal bull – be it spike-fork or over 50”. I had come on this hunt in hopes of finding a big bull, but now it didn’t matter to me if I shot a spike fork. I really (really) wanted to bring some meat home for the freezer, and new this would probalby be my last opportunity.


I quietly stood up and made a circle around the inside of the timber. I scanned the surrounding field looking for antler tips sticking up out of the brush and listened for the tell tale quick ‘splosh, splosh, splosh’ of footsteps through the flooded swamp…. Nothing. I tried to make myself be patient, returning to my seat and waiting for a few minutes before calling again. It is ever so hard to be patient when there is nothing to do but sit and watch. There were no animals to watch, or sun to bask in, or anyone to wait with, just the steady drip, drip, drip of the rain.

I thought about raking the trees and brush with a branch, but after considering the effect this type of calling has on young bulls, I decided against it. I didn’t want to scare any spike bulls that might be in the area. I cow called again, perhaps four or five times, trying to make long, slow pleading calls. I got up and made the circle around my ‘blind’, slowly and meticulously scanning the surrounding area. Again nothing, and again I waited. I was beginning to feel a little chilled from the rain and wind.

I sat down and studied the aerial photo I had brought with me, preparing for my next route. I tried to decide whether I should head back up my trail or continue hunting in a different direction. I figured I had been gone from camp for about 2 hours, and had plenty of time left. After contemplating for a minute or so, I decided to get my stuff and make my way to the beach. However, a gut feeling told me to wait just a few more minutes. I had learned to listen to these ‘sixth sense’ type feelings and doing so had paid off in the past. I sat down and kept watch for a moose, giving myself a few more minutes before I left. When the couple of minutes was over, I got up, bummed that nothing had shown, but not surprised. Then, as I turned to my right to grab my hip pack, I saw what I had been waiting to see for the last 8 days.
The bull had silently made his way toward me from a stand of willows and alders and was now directly upwind and broadside of me. His antlers were massive, with long heavy tines extending out from broad palms. He was bigger than any bull I had ever seen while hunting. I tried to unhurriedly grab my .375 H&H and find an opening in the spruce branches from which I could take a good shot. The bull was only 60 yards away and I knew he could see my movement as he looked in my direction for the cow he thought he had heard. His body language told me he was not alert to the danger that awaited him. I sat slowly down and got a good rest, squeezing gradually on the trigger as I placed the crosshairs on the bull’s shoulder. ‘BOOM’, the rifle roared and instantly the bull went down. I quickly jacked another round into the chamber as the bull got up and took a couple of steps forward, ‘BOOM’, I shot again and he went down again, this time for good.

I watched in total disbelief at what had just transpired. The adrenaline was now coursing through my veins and I was literally in heaven. I took my rifle and made my way to the bull, approaching slowly and from behind him. It was apparent he was dead and I let out a loud whoop of joy and delight and said a prayer of thanks to God who had provided another year’s worth of meat for my family.

The bull seemed even larger up close than he had when I shot him. I laid my rifle between his antlers – there was at least twenty inches from the end of my barrel to the tip of the other antler. He was well over 60 inches wide. Wow, what a monster bull.

As I walked back to camp to get Jeff, I realized I had done something not many women would ever attempt to do on their own. I had successfully chosen my hunting area and called in and killed a trophy Alaskan bull moose. I was proud of myself for passing up quite a few bulls I had seen that might have been legal, but were too close to call. I was proud that I had taken the initiative to go out and hunt in an unfamiliar area. I was proud that I hadn’t let the bad weather get the best of me. But I was most proud for being able to put delicious, healthy, wild meat in the freezer for my family of 6.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: Juli,

Wow!! What a WOMAN!!!

thanks Kieth -
so are you gonna make the trip to AK? (at least once?)

Juli,

Maybe someday, who knows. In the meantime, I have had a number of friends that spent a lot of time in Alaska and share their stories. One close friend worked the Alaskan oil pipeline in the 70's after two rough tours in Viet Nam. Another guy I train with in GJ lived up there for quite awhile and has a couple of nice Labs out of Roy McFall's dogs. He moved back to W.CO. to be closer to family, and there are several others.

Alaska is a special place in a country that is rapidly loosing special places. Now in W. CO., the deer and elk are running scared with all the Halliburton trucks running around in the back country with the gas and oil drilling as public land (Forest Service, BLM ground) hits the auction block.

However, the CO. DOW has had a successful re-introduction of moose in North Park (Walden, CO.)area and also started the same project on the Grand Mesa which is close to home for me. Their numbers will increase as long the out-of-state hunters quit killing them during elk season.

I have some wonderful retriever training close to home (20 miles) on public land on the Grand Mesa. There are places I enjoy that are devoid of peoople but full of wildlife. It is easy to be gone all day instead of just a few hours!

Take care,

Keith

The Grand Mesa - Is that close to Cortez?? My husband grew up there - he has fond memories of hunting mulies and elk....
Go Broncos (and Seahawks )
Juli

The Grand Mesa is 60 miles East of Grand Junction.

I like Cortez a lot and Linda also grew up down there. She has family still living in Cortez and the surrounding area. I head over to McPhee or Narraquinup with the dogs whenever we head that way several times a year.

SW Colorado and the San Juan Mountains from Durango, Silverton and over Red Mountain Pass to Ouray, Ridgway, and then over to Telluride, Lizard Head, Rico, and back to Dolores, Cortez and the Four Corners is the very best part of Colorado. And close to so much more in NM, Utah and Arizona.

Linda has great stories of living at Trout Lake (10,000 feet) just outside of Telluride in the late 60's and early 70's before the ski area was built. Also, the very wild (kinda like Woodstock in '69) first few years of the Telluride Bluegrass Festival (one of my favorite places during summer solstice in June).

Small world. Your husband and Linda may know each other's family. I'll send you a PM.

Keith