THE BEST TRIP YET: HUNTING MOOSE IN NEWFOUNDLAND - PART THREE: Wind, Close Calls, And a Long Shot
The sun was just coming over the horizon as our eight-wheeled Argo climbed along the ridge into Management Area 12. From our vantage point, you could see miles in any direction down into the surrounding valleys. Fred told us to keep a sharp lookout, as we could spot a moose at any point along the route. I tapped his shoulder from the back seat, thinking I might have spotted one well down below us where a pond narrowed and became a small river. Grinning, Fred slowed the Argo to a stop so we could jump on and glass for what he knew was definitely just a dark spot on the landscape, and not a moose like I thought I had seen. But it was as good a spot as anywhere to stop and have a look, he told us, and to try and get our eyes trained on what a moose would look like on this vast expanse of land.
Over an hour later, and after driving over countless logs and boulders that I never would have believed any vehicle could traverse, we arrived on a knob overlooking a valley where Fred told us he always finds moose this time of the year. It was an area he hadn't taken clients yet this season, too, so he thought it would be pretty undisturbed. Fred set out an electronic call, and made us a hot lunch while my dad and I found a comfortable seat to glass from. After a few hours of glassing, we hadn't seen moose yet, so we climbed back into the Argo and headed further inland to another spot. Here we repeated the same routine, calling and glassing. With less than a few hours of daylight left, Fred called us over to where he was glassing, and showed us where to aim our binoculars to see the lone moose he spotted. It was a cow, a pretty large one, too, but it was miles away, and there would be no chance we'd be able to put a stalk on it that night. It was a good start though, as we now had a pin on where we might get our first chance on moose. We headed back to the lodge, where we heard that the other guys in camp had seen three moose, one being a small bull that was within rifle range, but that they'd decided to pass on it in hopes for a bigger one. The look on Fred's face gave away his feelings on the matter, and he confirmed his thoughts to us, encouraging all of us to not pass up on an animal early in the week that we'd be grateful to shoot on the last day. My dad and I ensured him that there would be no such pause from us!
The next day, Fred's wife Shirley joined us in the field, and we took two Argos back to the same area where we'd glassed the lone cow moose the previous day. The morning saw the land covered in a thick fog that only got thicker the higher we went into the mountains. Visibility wasn't much more than 15 feet in any direction, and as we motored along a trail cresting a ridge, to my left there suddenly appeared a herd of caribou running alongside our vehicle. It was like a ghost herd that had just appeared out of thin air, the way they suddenly came into view, and just as soon as I'd spotted them, they turned and disappeared back into the fog. The encounter was so brief, and so surreal, that I momentarily questioned whether or not I'd imagined in.
We soon reached a hillside where Fred and Shirley had a small lodge that they use primarily in the winter as a snow mobile destination camp. It overlooks a small lake and has terrific views all around, so we decided to stop and call from there for a while. After an hour or so we continued onward to the knob where we glassed the cow the previous day, but while motoring our way up hill, Fred spotted a bull moose near the trail we'd just driven up, probably 150 yards up. We all jumped out of the vehicles and I grabbed my dad's rifle for him. We'd decided that he was going to have the first shot at whichever moose we got into range of first, and he climbed out of the Argo and we followed Fred down the hill on foot towards the moose.
Unfortunately over the years my dad has had some health complications that have left him unable to cover ground on foot very quickly. As we descended the hill in pursuit of Fred, he slipped in some mud and went down on his rear. I was carrying his rifle for him so thankfully there wasn't any concern of the scope getting knocked out of alignment, but as I helped him up and encouraged him to just relax and breath so he'd be calm enough to execute a shot, we saw Fred walking back up the hill.
"He's gone, we spooked him." Fred told us. In the chaos of trying to get in place and ready for a shot, my dad hadn't been able to lay eyes on the bull. The bull was on edge from the get-go, Fred told us, and this was the first of several encounters we would have that week with very edgy moose that were quick to bolt for the safety of cover. We glassed a few more bulls that afternoon, but none was close enough to pursue with the remaining daylight left, so we headed back to the lodge. As we pulled into the driveway, we saw a small bull moose hanging from the lodge's meat pole! The other guys had connected on the animal early in the afternoon. Congrats and slaps on the back were in order as they recalled the day's encounter and success. This was all good news, the moose were there, we just needed to bide our time.
Our third day brought with it a torrent of wind and rain. Determined not to miss a chance, we put on rain gear and headed afield anyways, even though the foul weather would most likely keep the moose in thick cover, out of sight of our binoculars and scopes. We gave it hell, but the rain and wind were unrelenting, and we opted for a long lunch next to the fire in Fred and Shirley's snow mobile camp. We kept the electronic call going outside of the camp though, in case there was a bull in the area that might be tempted to brave the weather and come out in the open near the camp to investigate. The rain let up briefly and I made a loop through some thick timber close to the camp where Fred thought the moose we'd seen on the previous day might have headed, and when I got into the timber, there was a lot of fresh moose sign. Tracks were everywhere, and you could see several trees that had been just demolished by a moose raking his antlers. Soon I heard the unmistakable sound of a moose quickly get onto its feet and taring off through the thicket. It was very close, probably within 30 yards from where I stood, but there was zero chance for a shot. As close as I was to it, I couldn't even see the movement of the animal through the dense patch of woods. Fred wasn't surprised when I got back to the camp and told him I'd jumped one in the thick cover. There were moose all around us, he assured us, they were just too skittish to come out into the open with all the wind and rain. As we were getting ready to hop back into the Argo to return to the lodge, the clouds finally parted and the sun came out, making possibly the most beautiful double-rainbow I'd ever laid eyes on. It was so beautiful that we'd temporarily forgotten all about our lack of shot opportunities, and just stood there marveling at the view and soaking it all in.
My dad and I were on opposite sides of the Argo, both crouched on the ground aiming at the hillside with our rifles. I got my crosshairs onto the moose quickly, mimicking what Murph had taught me in New Jersey.
"One of you's shoot that moose!" Fred encouraged, and I whisper-screamed to my dad to ask if he was on target and was going to take it. I didn't get a response though, so I held steadfast on the moose, waiting to hear the crack of his rifle. The moose was staring right at us and I knew he wasn't going to wait much longer before taking off, and a few seconds later he turned abruptly and took off, out of sight. My dad had been unable to locate the moose in his scope. I could tell he was feeling really down that we'd missed another opportunity, but I'm glad I didn't shoot. The whole situation unfolded so rapidly that there wasn't time to get the shooting sticks out that we'd brought, let alone to get an accurate range on the animal. After the moose was long gone though I pulled my rangefinder out and ranged the hillside where we'd spotted him, and it was over 350 yards. Even though they have the largest vitals of any deer species, 350 yards is still a hell of a long shot, especially given how windy it was that day. In hindsight, I don't think either of us should have taken that shot, even though I was prepared to squeeze the trigger at the moment. Feeling slightly dejected, with the nagging feelings that it might not come together for us on this hunt, we continued on back to the lodge.
That night after dinner, before we went to sleep, my dad told me that he wanted me to take the next moose we see. He was upset that he hadn't been able to react quickly enough to seal the deal on either of our close encounters, and told me not to hesitate the next time we saw one in range. After asking if he was sure of this decision, I agreed that I would do my best to take the next moose we had a chance on. Our opportunities so far were very brief, and we both agreed that we'd have a better chance of leaving Newfoundland loaded down with moose meat if I tried to take the next one we got close to. We decided to bless our rifles, using the Latvian spell that Janis Putelis's dad used to bless Steve Rinella's rifle on the episode of Meat Eater where the three of them were hunting moose in Alaska. I watched the clip from the episode over and over again on my phone while writing out the blessing phonetically so I could recite it for our own rifles. This was just for a laugh, but at the same time, I thought it couldn't hurt to give it a try!
With the change in game-plan and some Latvian magic on our side, we found ourselves heading up into the mountains once again on our last day of the hunt. We were heading back to the same glassing knob as the first few days, but this day we finally had a break in the near relentless wind we'd experienced most of the week. About an hour into our trip, I saw a jet black shape just outside of a patch of dark timber a few hundred yards away. This time there was no question that I was looking at a moose. I rapidly tapped Fred's shoulder and yelled "MOOSE!" and pointed off to the right of where we were heading. Fred, knowing our new plan, hit the brakes and the two of us were out of the vehicle in seconds, Fred setting out the shooting sticks, while I jammed the clip into my rifle and chambered a shell. I slowed my breathing as best as I could while getting the moose in the crosshairs. Fred told me the moose was "goofy horned", but I didn't care. Two hundred and sixty yards away from me was an animal that would yield at least a year's worth of meat for both my dad and myself. The horns, goofy or not, were a secondary consideration. As Fred called to try and turn the bull broadside, the moose turned to the left so that he was slightly quartering towards us, but I didn't like his body language. He seemed just as on-edge as every moose we'd encountered so far. Before waiting for a more perfect shot to present itself, I exhaled, held my breath, and gently squeezed the trigger, holding just to the right of his front shoulder. He bolted to the right, into the patch of woods. Racking another shell into the chamber, I could hear Fred yell to me to aim toward the clearing next to the woods the moose had run into, and to look for him to emerge into the open. We waited for what felt like an eternity, (it was probably only 30 seconds though) but the moose never emerged from the woods.
"He's probably hit good, let's walk up." Fred told me. I felt very steady on the shot, but the moose was out of sight after the shot before I could read his body language for any clues of how well he was hit. But Fred told me that because he never emerged into the clearing, that he suspected a good hit. I made sure the safety was on, and we started a wide loop toward the clearing and around the patch of woods where the moose never emerged from. Down the hill behind the patch of woods, we spotted the bull. He was laying down, but with his head up.
"He's sick." Fred told me upon spotting him. This statement filled me with dread. I thought Fred meant I'd shot a diseased moose, that something was wrong with him, and we wouldn't be able to consumer the meat. He must have read the look on my face, because he went on to clarify.
"I mean he's hit real good, he wouldn't be laying down like that otherwise, let's get closer." I was flooded with relief, but nervous about the follow up shot. When we got to about 75 yards, I thought that we were plenty close enough to shoot again. But Fred kept walking, and whispering for me to come a little further. One of the episodes of Meat Eater my dad and I watched back at the hotel in New Brunswick was the episode where Steve walks right up to a wounded moose, realizes the moose isn't dead yet, and gets charged by the moose after his rifle misfires on the follow-up shot. As we got closer and uncomfortably closer, my moose suddenly stood, facing us, though it was a struggle for him to stand up.
"Wait for him to turn a bit... I'm gonna walk to one side to get him to turn, ok?" Fred whispered, then made a wide circle around to the side of the moose. The moose never budged though. Fred whispered for me to walk over to where he was standing, as the moose was not budging.
"Tell me when." I told Fred, who kept instructing me to come a little further around so I'd have a perfect broadside shot. I kept the rifle on the moose the whole time, half expecting him at any point to charge toward me like the moose that almost gored Steve.
"Right behind that 'fore shoulder." Fred instructed, and I let out a slightly shaky breath.
CLICK.
My rifle had misfired, right on cue, just like the Meat Eater episode, except thankfully, in my case, I was not charged. The moose just continued to stand broadside to us while I quickly ejected a live round and racked a fresh one. I re-steadied the crosshairs on the moose's vitals, and this time the rifle cracked, and the moose spun around 180 degrees as I racked another shell into the chamber.
"One more?" I asked Fred as the moose staggered.
"Nope."
"One more?!" I asked again, not having registered his first response. Keeping the gun raised on the moose still, I watched as he buckled slightly, then raised his front legs in the air, and almost as if in slow-motion, fell backwards onto his back, giving a last few powerful kicks into the air with his legs, mud from under his hooves flying skyward. As I clicked the safety back on, the moose expired. I let out an immense breath, feeling the relief of the kill being over, and the immensity everything that had just happened. We slowly approached the moose, and after giving him a gentle prod with my rifle to be certain he was diseased, I knelt down next to him. I was flooded with all the emotions I feel after taking a deer's life: the gratitude, the relief, the sorrow... but it was so much more intense kneeling before this massive creature, and feeling the heat of his body against my hand as I leaned on him, and thanked him.
"How's about that for a little excitement in the morning?!" Fred asked. I was too overwhelmed to respond. I just sat there staring at the moose. I set my rifle down and looked around at the vegetation near us. The area was covered in knee high wild blueberry bushes, and I asked Fred if the moose at the branches. He told me they did, so I pulled a few and placed them in the moose's mouth, as a ceremonial send-off meal. I think Fred could sense that I needed a moment to let it all sink in, so he told me he was going to walk back and get my dad and drive over in the Argo. I got to spend a good amount of time alone with the bull, feeling incredibly grateful that the universe aligned our paths that morning, and so lucky to be able to go on this hunt, especially alongside my dad. I couldn't wait to see his reaction when he saw the moose up close.
"BEAUTIFUL, RY!" my dad yelled, grinning ear-to-ear as they pulled up.
"One down, one to go!" I replied, really hoping that we could get him on a moose before the end of the day.
We took a ton of photos, and then we began the process of gutting the moose and preparing him for transport. Fred was honing the blade of a truly giant knife while I tried to start moving the moose onto its back so we could begin. It took such an enormous effort just to get the bull repositioned, their size and weight are really hard to wrap your brain around you're confronted with the reality of trying to move one. Fred quickly made a large incision to expose the guts, and then using a hatchet, he cut through the ribs to full open the cavity. He then made several vent holes to allow the blood that had pooled in the cavity to drain, making it easier to remove the guts. In a different situation I'd have wanted to do most of this work myself, but our time to hunt was running out and my dad still had a tag to fill, so I was happy to let someone as experienced as Fred make quick work out of the job so we could get back to looking for more moose. Watching him break down the animal was truly remarkable too, from the time he finished sharpening his knife to the time the moose was gutted, halved, and hidden away in the shade of some limbs he cut to keep meat safe from carrion, only about 12 minutes time had passed. While Fred worked on the animal, I couldn't help but notice that unlike every deer I'd ever gutted, the moose carcass had a very pleasant smell emanating from the carcass. Fred told me it was all in the diet, and that most of the moose he's ever gutted in this area have a pleasant smell when they're being gutted.
With the meat secured, we continued motoring up toward our glassing knob we'd originally set out for, but unfortunately the wind was picking up again, and by the time we got to the knob, it was just as windy as it had been on the previous few days. We spotted caribou after caribou, even getting to watch a few sparring with each other, but alas, we didn't see another moose that afternoon. Around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, we made the decision to head back to collect my moose, with the hopes of being able to get it to the local meat processor in time for him to have it ready for our departure the following day. We loaded the enormous halves of the moose into the back of the argo, and I rode on top of it, as there wasn't any other option but to run alongside the vehicle the whole way back to the lodge.
Arriving back to the lodge, the other guys in camp were busy getting their second moose, a large cow hoisted up onto the meat pole. We then all got to work skinning the two moose and separating the quarters. Just after dark, we loaded all eight quarters into the back of Fred's pickup and drove the 20 minutes into the town of Buchans to Rick's Meat Shop. Rick met us after normal business hours, and agreed to have both moose carved up and vac sealed by 11 o'clock the next morning for no extra rush charge, which I thought was incredibly generous of him.
Dinner that night was especially festive, with lots of cheers all around to our shared successes during the week. Fred's season was winding down, and he was thrilled that'd we had such a great week despite the unfortunate wind that kept the moose on edge and in thick cover. My dad and I decided to call it an early night, as we had a long few days of travel ahead of us. We slept in the next day, and after breakfast we repacked the truck, arranging the coolers toward the back of the truck so we could load the meat easily and keep replenishing the ice during our trip home. We said our goodbyes, and then collected our meat from Rick's meat shop. Rick and his wife helped us pack the nearly 350 pounds of vac-sealed meat into our army of coolers, and sold us enough ice to keep it all cool until at least we landed back in Cape Breton.
We then started our drive back West toward Table Mountain and the city of Porte Aux Basques, where we'd board the ferry back to Nova Scotia and continue our drive home. There wasn't much open in Porte Aux Basques for dinner, but we found a pizza place and had a couple sad slices before driving over to the docks and getting in line to drive up onto the ferry. On checking in, the woman in the security booth who scanned our tickets just immediately asked us if we'd gotten a moose or not, and congratulated us when we told her we had. Waiting for the ferry proved to be a lot of fun too, as most of the vehicles queuing up were also moose hunters returning home. Once in a while a pickup would pull in with enormous antlers proudly riding among coolers and duffle bags, and then the truck would be swarmed by other hunters asking to get a closer look, and to see what outfitter they used on the island. It was hilarious. Everyone was so excited to share their hunting stories and photos with everyone else.
Thankfully the seas were calm on the way back. I had time on the ferry to fill out all the U.S. Fish and Wildlife paperwork to import our meat, double check all of the export paperwork to bring the meat out of Canada, and go through some photos and videos from the trip. Before long we were landing in Cape Breton, then the only stops we made were for gas and more ice for the coolers until we got to the border crossing in St. Stephen. The border process was pretty straightforward again, we told the CBP officer that we were returning from a successful hunting trip, that we had moose meat and firearms, and then I presented him with our passports and the stack of paperwork that was already filled out. He seemed impressed that we had the paperwork done ahead of time, and told us to pull up and come into the office inside so they could go over everything and ask us a few more questions. Our paperwork got stamped for approval, and then an officer came out to check the serial numbers on our firearms to be sure they matched our forms, and then we were on our way! It was a relief to be back stateside with all of our meat, but we still had another 9 hours of driving until we reached my parents' house. We called my mom to tell her we'd crossed the border, and to ask her to double check that their giant storage freezer was plugged in and cold, and then we kept on trucking. We finally pulled in after midnight, unloaded the coolers of meat into the freezer, and then collapsed. We'd left the lodge almost 37 hours earlier, with only about 6 hours of sleep on the boat to get us through the journey. We were wiped, but with the meat now in the freezer, we could finally relax.
We divided the meat up the next morning, and I loaded my two coolers up and started making my way back home to Manhattan. As I sat in traffic that night, it dawned on me that I was likely the only vehicle in the entire city hauling moose meat. My dog was happy to see me, and when I got the antler out for him to sniff and told him how much meat I'd brought back, he was quaking with excitement. Our rule is that he gets to sample meat from animals I hunt, and we were both going to be eating well for a long time to come.
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