As we headed into the slough and purred to the landing spot, we snapped this pic of the sunrise behind us:
Looking forward wasn't too shabby either...you could surely tell that fall was in its glory. As the sun rose higher and we got further along, the colors kept getting better.
Snapped this one right after setting the anchor. See any moose tracks? :)
Walking in the trail was not hard on the eyes, either. Between the currant bushes, the rose hips, and the falling leaves, the colors made quite a backdrop.
When we got to the meadow and called, however, we didn't get any response. At all. Not a single stick snapped under hoof, not a scrape, not a curious cow, nothing. A beautiful morning, though, and we had a great day of hunting still awaiting us to look forward to. Back in the boat we went. We hit several different spots throughout the day, ending up back at home in the afternoon, having seen a couple bulls but nothing that materialized into a shooting opportunity. After a nap and dinner, we decided to head back to the spot right across the river to the meadow Sarah had been going to herself in the early days of the season. The run-down is below..
When you park the boat for this spot, you work your way across the mudflat that is the beach, and you enter the trees on a winter trail (cut for snowmachines). About 15 yards into the trees, there is another winter trail running left and right. Looking to the right side on that trail, you can see a meadow that runs for a few hundred yards. At this point, you are close enough to home that you can hear voices from town, and sled dogs barking, etc. :) But then we continue further straight ahead and after a bit you encounter another meadow (the one we refer to as the 'first meadow' because that riverside one doesn't really count, we always say...or always 'said'. Heh heh. More about that later...
So once you get to the NEXT meadow, what we call the 'second meadow', that is where we set up and call most often when back in this spot. See the picture below to sort of explain all my babble: The straight black line represents the trail you walk in on (though not actually it), in an upwards direction on this photo, that leads almost straight away from the river. The meadows are marked. The riverside one that 'doesn't count', and the other two:
Here is a pic from the "trail" leading in... :)
So, anyways, we got to the meadow, and we set up to call. It didn't take long...just a few scrapes and a set or two of bull grunts, I can't remember exactly how many. It wasn't more than a few minutes, at any rate. I was looking through the pack and trying to find my munchies when I heard Jerry say, "Oh! We got one coming...get down get down...he's running right at us!" After crouching I turned toward the direction he had been pointing and slowly stood up...nothing. Keep in mind the grass is nearly as tall or taller than me, depending where you are standing in the meadow...but there wasn't anything there. At least nothing as big as a moose, mind you. But then I heard it. "He's crossing the pond!" I hissed. Moments later, there he was, emerging from the water, dripping wet and looking black as coal. About 350+ yards out. He may have been running toward us when Jerry saw him, but he surely was going away now, and he wasn't wasting any time. There was no shot to be had before he disappeared into the treeline, pushing back to the next meadow. There was enough time to see that he was a 50+ bull though, and feel that old familiar frustration of getting burned by one. :) It was a good one. And apparently, he was not far enough gone with the rut to lose the wits that had kept him alive this long. There was an awkwardly silent few minutes then, as we three stood there wondering what might have been.
We stuck it out and continued calling, as often there can be more than one bull within hearing range of course. But there weren't any this night, in this meadow. Feeling dejected, we headed back for the boat about a half hour before dark. There was a lesson to be learned here. The same one, over and over, that being a hunter reminds you of constantly. Right about the time you lose faith, things happen. And here it was again. As we neared the river, our walking became less purposeful. Thoughts of frustration were dominating, and I had almost forgotten what a blessing it was to be out in the moose woods in late September. And all of a sudden I popped out into the trail that runs parallel with the river and leads to that meadow closest to the beach - the one we "don't coun't". The meadow I have walked by dozens of times and never seen so much as one moose there. The meadow I have told myself over and over since we have been here that it would be divine to run into a bull in that meadow - what a nice pack that would be! .....and this night, it happened.
As I entered the opening, I looked to my left and almost tripped in mid-stride. I honestly thought my eyes were playing tricks on my brain. There, in a meadow just yards from the river, were 5 moose. FIVE. What the?!?!... I slammed to a stop, hoping I hadn't been seen, but the failing light seemed to have helped, as I could tell one was a bull, and he was looking right at me, but then turned his head and nuzzled a cow near him. What luck! And the good Lord shows me again....don't lose faith. I hissed at Sam. "Sam!...get over here, quick!", flapping my arm like a bird trying to take off. "What?" he replied, approaching. "Look!", and I pointed. We both dropped down and I once again scrambled to get the call out and working. Sam was getting into position to shoot and trying to get settled with a rest...the bull was out there a ways. I scraped and called, but the bull was having none of it. Not too surprising, considering he had all he wanted right there with him already. After realizing just how busy he was with the cows, in fact, I decided we were going to creep up the trail to gain what we could on him. I knew we could do it. He wasn't going anywhere as long as those cows didn't. It took me a minute or two to convince Sam not to just shoot from where we were, but he eventually decided that sounded okay. We crept up the trail, planning to get to the entrance of the meadow before shooting. (That would shave about 75 yards off the distance, putting it in the low to mid 200's.) And we made it without a hitch. I moved to the left and dropped to the ground, and Sam did the same - and the rest, as they say, is history.
When Sam touched off his shot, the moose clearly showed a good solid hit, and bolted to the right (towards the river). Unfortunately that also meant he was running towards the thick willows, which would make butchering more challenging than necessary. I belted him in the neck. However, as we would later find, my neck shot this time didn't hit the spine, rather it went just (and I mean JUST) low, hitting the major blood vessels and esophagus instead. Fatal...absolutely... but not anchoring. The bull did stop though, to sort out this mew development. I remember saying, "Odd he didn't go down..I could see the bullet hit him in the scope...I wonder if I just nicked him?" to which Sam immediately replied, "I nicked myself..." That threw me for a second, until I looked over and saw him grinning in the near-dark, with a tiny rivulet of blood running down his forehead. The .300 WSM had scoped him, just like it did me on the goat nearly a decade ago. We shared a good laugh about that for a few moments, and then I refocused on the task at hand. The bull was standing there, coughing, and a couple of the cows were still milling around him. I tried to put another neck shot in but low and behold, I got some of the good old Yukon silt in the action somehow ( I thought) , and it jammed on me. I asked Sam for the .300 as he still had a shell in, and put another one in the neck. The bull disappeared as he dropped down below the grass. This time for good. We turned around and gave Jerry, who was filming the whole time, the "Come-on-up" yell. We grabbed the gear and the three of us headed across the meadow. We would pace it off around 220 yards in the end. Almost the same as Sam's shot last year. So much for close encounters. :) I think the trouble with me is I just don't like waiting when there is a rifle in my hand. Comes from my long stint hunting Pennsylvania whitetails, I guess - you don't wait, and you go for the neck - that way they don't run over the next hill and get shot at by someone else. Old habits die hard. Besides, moose necks are a hell of a lot easier to hit than running whitetail necks are. :)
Sam's bull was a dandy eater, with a big body and not at all stinky with the rut. Which may seem odd seeing as he had a small harem with him - even as a 50 inch bull was not far off and apparently okay with that...hmmmm... Anyways, here is the beast!
A glimpse of the neck shot that didn't hit bone..this is the entry side...looks like it would have connected, doesn't it? but nope...
Sam with his moose. Sarah says he looks like Jack Nicholson in this picture, and he hates it, but we only got two , and this is one of them... :)
The other of the two, which he also said he doesn't like... :)
A pic from the next day during the pack-out showing the meadow. River is to the right, through that treeline.
Sam with his bull completely in the boat. That is where we park, and yes, that is town you see glimpses of there at the upper left. It is a beautiful thing...and gives close to home a whole new meaning...
Next up in the Moose Week posts is my bull...
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