THE BEST TRIP YET: HUNTING MOOSE IN NEWFOUNDLAND - PART TWO: A Journey of 1,400 Miles

Table Mountain, Newfoundland

    My first stop on the roughly 1,400 mile journey from NYC to Newfoundland was in Connecticut, to see my brother Mikey and to collect the 100 liter cooler that he was lending me for the hunt. Cooler real-estate was something my dad and I were nervous about not having enough of, so we aired on the side of bringing too many coolers. Truth be told, we were airing on the side of bringing too much of everything. John Gierach has a funny line about overpacking in his book Another Lousy Day in Paradise, "I try to pack sensibly and efficiently for trips, but somehow my pickup always looks like I'm off to spend a couple of years exploring a new continent." I could relate. Newfoundland is known for having four seasons in a single day, and much of the island is a soggy bog, so we needed clothing to cover a lot of scenarios. After leaving Mikey's, I stopped into Cabelas in East Hartford and picked up a pair of waterproof bibs. I also grabbed a cheap oversized poncho, and one for my dad as well. 
    It was early evening when I got to my parents house in Northern New Hampshire. My first task was to cut out the foam in my Pelican double rifle case I'd bought for the trip so my dad's 30.06 (Gillian) could fit. Then we had to fit both of our firearms with trigger locks, and finish filling out our paperwork from the Canadian government to bring firearms into the country. For anyone planning to head to Canada for a hunt, I highly suggest doing all of your firearm paperwork ahead of time. You'll need the Canadian form, RCMP 5589, which is the non-resident firearm declaration form, and you also need a form from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection, form CBP 4457, which is form that declares your ownership of your firearm. You need this form to re-enter the United States from Canada with your firearm (it basically ensures that you didn't purchase the weapon in Canada.)  These are available at border checkpoints, so you have to be sure to stop on the U.S. side of the border before crossing into Canada. More on this later...
    After getting the firearms cozied up together in the case, we finished loading our platoon of hard-sided coolers into my dad's Tundra (our vehicle for the trip) and packed the rest of our gear into the back seat of the truck. The next morning, after breakfast, it was finally time to hit the road! We said goodbye to my mom and to Seamus, my dad's black lab, and started driving east toward Maine. 
    By mid afternoon, we were nearing the U.S. / Canada border, crossing from Calais, Maine into St. Stephen, New Brunswick. Pulling up to the bridge to cross into Canada, we first stopped at the U.S. side to get the CBP 4457 forms. I informed the border patrol agents that we were going into Canada for a hunt, asked them for the forms, and I filled out one for my weapon, and one for my dad's. I had all the serial numbers on my Canadian paperwork, so after I filled out the forms, the agent stamped them as official and wished us good luck on our trip. He also handed me some forms from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife agency which we would need in order to bring wild game meat/antlers/hides back into the U.S., and he suggested that we have them already filled out when we approached the border coming back in. I thanked him and then it was time to cross over.
    When we crossed the bridge and approached the Canadian checkpoint, a friendly officer greeted us from the guard booth. After saying hello and handing her our passports, I immediately told her that we were entering Canada for a hunt, and that we had firearms and ammunition to declare. I showed her that we'd already completed the paperwork for this, and after reading over our forms, she asked us a bunch of questions. She wanted to know where we were hunting, what species we'd be hunting, if we had any other weapons besides the rifles (I told her we'd each packed a few knives as well) any large amounts of currency (we each had a sizeable stack of cash to tip our outfitter), and told us that we would need to pull into the parking lot, and bring our firearm paperwork up to the inspectors inside. Once inside, we handed our forms to the officer behind the desk, paid our firearm paperwork processing fee of $25 each, and then they asked us write down every town we'd lived in for the past few years, (presumably so they could run a background check on us.) After hanging out for about 15 minutes, they told us we were good to go and had us sign our rifle declaration forms, and then the agent stamped them as being approved. We were then told that we had to carry this form on our person the whole time we were in the country, including while we were out on the hunt, as the form would act as our firearm license, which is required in Canada for all firearms, rifles and shotguns included. The agent told us that he would then accompany us out to our vehicle to inspect the weapons and make sure the serial numbers matched the paperwork, and then we'd be on our way. They had a stainless steel table next to where we were parked, and the agent had me take the rifle case out of the truck, lay it on the table and unlock it. He complemented me on having the best-packed rifles he'd inspected all day. He didn't ask to inspect our ammo, but did ask us how it was stored, which was locked in a separate ammunition case as per Canadian law. The officer then told us we were all set, and wished us a great hunt. We were in! The whole process was easier and less stressful than I'd anticipated. 
    Moncton, New Brunswick was our destination for the night, just another four hours and change further Northeast from the border.  We'd decided to stay in this town so we could break up the journey a bit, and not have to do all the driving all at once. The town also has a Bass Pro Shop, so we planned to make a quick stop there in the morning before heading to the boat, in case we thought of any last minute gear shortcomings. We arrived at our hotel, the Hampton Inn and Suites, right around 8pm, and ordered a couple steaks to be delivered to our room, and watched a few episodes of Meat Eater on my laptop. 
    The next morning, my dad picked up a pair of waterproof bibs at the Bass Pro Shop, and then we were back on the road. The drive took us along the coast into Nova Scotia, with beautiful views for most of the drive, especially once we neared Cape Breton. The landscape reminded me of the area around Acadia National Park, in Maine, but even more rugged. By 5 o'clock local time, we'd reached the town of North Sydney, where we would pick up the ferry to Newfoundland. We decided to have dinner at a little restaurant near the ferry terminal called the Lobster Pound and Moore, and soon enough it was time to line up for the ferry.

The Ferry to Newfoundland


    The word "ferry" typically conjures a very different mental image than the colossal ship we found ourselves parked in front of. This was closer in size to a cruise ship than anything else. Once it was time to drive aboard, we really began to realize the scale of the boat. We drove up onto deck 3, but our cabin was 5 stories up, on deck 8, and then there were another 3 decks above that! The ship had a gift shop, several restaurants, a sun deck, and every cabin even had its own bathroom complete with a shower. After exploring the ship a bit, we settled into our cabin for the overnight ride to Newfoundland.  The beds were comfortable and the seas were pretty calm, so after two days of driving, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep.
    Staying asleep was a different story though. I awoke suddenly, around 2:00 am, with that weightless feeling in my gut that you get when you're on a roller coaster as it starts plummeting toward the ground. As the boat descended back down the wave, you could feel the bow slam into the water, and I sank all the way into the mattress, and could feel my back hit the slats below. Then the weightless feeling returned again as the boat rode up the crest of the wave, and then back down again. I was afraid to look out the small port hole for fear that I'd get a visual of exactly how terrifying the seas were that we were currently traversing. I kept my eyes closed and took some solace in the fact that there were no alarms going off, and I couldn't hear any signs of panic outside our cabin. But still, for a boat of that size to be rocking that much, we must have been in some really serious waves. My dad was awake too. We didn't speak, but I knew he was awake on account of a lack of snoring from his side of the room. I think we were both too nervous to say anything. I didn't get back to sleep for the rest of the trip. By about 5:30 though, the waves seemed to have calmed down considerably, and I decided to take a shower and go hunt for coffee. Before hitting the cafe though, I went up on the top deck and braved the heavy winds to get my first glimpse of the Newfoundland coast. I could see the lights of Port Aux Basques, the town where we'd soon be docking, and the very mountainous silhouette of the island. By the time I got back down to our cabin, an announcement was made over the PA that we were about to dock, and to start heading toward the car decks. 
    Finally driving off the ferry, and thankful to be back on dry land, we stopped to fuel up the truck, as I'd been warned that the island has very long stretches of highway between towns and gas stations, and that you should always fuel up whenever you have the opportunity. When I pulled up to the gas pump, there was no credit card slot or place to tap to pay. I went inside and stated I wanted to fill up on pump number 2, and guessed that it would probably need at least $60 worth. This was where it really him me that we weren't in Kansas anymore. The woman behind the counter looks at me like I have two heads, and says in a thick Newfy accent "Well now, how [am] I s'posed to know how much to charge ye until ye finish fillin' 'er up?!" I was at the only gas station I'd ever been to that operated fully on a system of trust, where you fill your tank completely, and then go inside and pay.
    Newfoundland, or "The Rock" as the locals refer to it as, has an incredibly rugged landscape. The Table Mountains loom over the horizon line soon after driving North from Port Aux Basques along the Trans Canada Highway, rising hundreds of feet straight out of the ground, with nearly vertical facades leading up to a high plateau that looks more like the Scottish Highlands than anything else.  We were dog-tired from the poor night's sleep on the ferry, and needed to stop for coffee several times before we made it to Deer Lake, the closest major town to our outfitter's lodge.  In the lobby, I was greeted by the hotel's manager, Wilson, who happens to be a dog.  Wilson lives at the hotel and is collectively cared for by the employees, and sits behind a plexiglass wall with a large hole cut out, so you can reach in and pet him. No one seemed to think this was at all unordinary. Newfoundland is fantastic.


Wilson, hard at work.

    The next morning, caught up on sleep and fueled up on mediocre hotel breakfast, we hit the road again heading East, further inland toward the lodge. After an hour of driving, the pavement ended, and we drove another hour and a half on a bumpy dirt road, with absolute wilderness on either side of the road, passing hardly any houses or structures of any kind.  But before long, we saw the sign for Red Indian Lake Lodge, and pulled into the driveway shortly thereafter. We met Ron, the lodge's cook, and he showed us to our cabin, a sparse but cozy little shack with two bedrooms, a small bathroom, and most importantly, a wall mounted gun rack made of birch logs. We had a bowl of moose soup that Ron had made, and we met the two other guys in camp, a military guy from North Carolina named Donnie and his father-in-law, Alan.  The afternoon was getting late, and Ron told us we should probably each fire our rifles to make sure they were still sighted in after the long journey, so we all went out to the lakefront and found the makeshift 100 yard range.  Valtteri is sighted in for 200 yards, so at 100 yards he hits about 1 and 3/4 inches above center, which is exactly where my two shots touched the target.  My dad's bullets were a bit high and a bit to the right of where we wanted to be, so with the help of Donnie and Alan, we made a few adjustments to his scope, and a few shots later he was closer to center. While a moose has the largest vitals of any cervid in North America, you really want to be sure your rifle is shooting straight.  


Red Indian Lake Lodge



    Soon it was time for dinner, and as we were milling about in the main lodge, our guide Fred arrived with his wife, Shirley, and their yellow lab, Henry.  We sat down for a lovely roasted turkey dinner and got to know each other. Fred is one of those people who you feel like you've known your whole life, even when you've just met for the first time. He told us all about his lodges (he has several, including an Atlantic Salmon lodge, and a remote moose lodge that's only accessible by helicopter) and how the moose season was going so far. We were the second-to-last booking of the season, in the post-rut phase of the hunt, where the moose aren't quite as responsive to calling, but encounters can include multiple bulls, as they tend to group back up again once the rut has cooled down. Fred told us that the hunting had been a little tough the last few weeks, but that every one of his hunters had opportunities on moose. Some had decided to pass on shots, hoping for a bull or a larger animal, only to not have a second opportunity. With that being said, asked us what our goals were: whether we were looking to only take a trophy bull, or whether we we'd consider taking a smaller bull or a cow. We both told him that while we'd love to have a giant moose mount for the wall, we were both there for the adventure of the trip, and the hope to return with hundreds of pounds of meat. Fred was happy to hear this, and he assured us we'd definitely get the adventure we were after, and hopefully the meat too!  

My moose license and tags.



    After dinner we got down to business with, you guessed it, more paperwork! We were each assigned a tag, one tag for a bull-only, and one tag that was good for either a cow or a bull. My dad and I were then each made the sub-permittee of each other's tag, that way either of us could tag whichever moose we encountered first. In other words, we didn't have to decide beforehand who would be able to tag a cow moose, and who would only be able to tag a moose. This was very different from the way big game tags work in the States, but it was a welcome idea that our options were open for what animal we could harvest. The physical tags were different too, they were metal and there were five of them: one jaw tag, about the size of a military dog tag, and 4 long metal locking strip tags, one for each leg or moose quarter. 
    With the formalities out of the way, we all said our good nights and returned to our cabins. Breakfast would come early, and so would begin our first day of the moose hunt.
    

Comments

Popular Posts