Having spooked a nice 38” bull on Monday morning a footstep away from a striking window, almost getting a chance at a “unicorn” bull oddly followed by a cow and a spike bull on Tuesday morning, stalking an impressive 48”-plus bull to the end of a valley, and having a 35” bull with a nice palmation get a scent of us after a strenuous stalk through a spruce forest and a river crossing hopping over rocks, Tuesday evening, you knew that it was going to be the hard way or no way at all.
Returning from the 35" bull stalk
These were the close encounters though we were seeing a lot of game in the distance. Monday we saw 18 moose which included 4 bulls. Tuesday we had seen 30 moose in total, the guides record of any single day in his career, and it included the most magnificent moose the guide had ever seen. We saw it after the odd trio encounter, while glassing from high grounds. It was enormous at a distance of about 3 miles. The guide had seen it several weeks ago and deserved him to call that bull “king of the hill”. I told him I’d double the best tip any client had given him if he got me within striking distance for my bow. A quick nod and we put on a fast pace down the hill and across a few bog fields, then we evaluated under safe cover at about a mile and a half. There was no need for binoculars. You could see the bull and his palmation like satellite dishes, keeping a pair of cows with him. Then, it rose its head and kept it pointing towards us, “has he heard us?” – we were only whispering and the wind was in our favour. A closer look revealed that it was checking out another cow on a hill on our right. So we were dealing with a greedy bugger..
The cow hadn’t seen us either yet, so we decided to go towards where she was and call him. We crossed the end of the bog field towards the hill without spooking the bull or his cows, until we reached a decent spot. We worked him out for at least half hour, but he never came.
Glassing after the odd "Trio"
At that stage, we had reached the end of the valley where we’re hunting, and the grounds became of very dense spruce trees, with a string of ponds (mind you, about half a mile wide each), closed by a river we’d never be able to cross and forest grounds we’d never make it through. We could see a lot of markings and droppings, as well as a few berries still hanging, and obviously, bear tracks. The tracks must have been a week old and were 4-plus inches across. We figured they’d belong to a five foot tall bear. We carefully walked towards the edge of a manageable area and called the bull. Again nothing. Obviously you don’t get this big by being stupid. We got closer to where we had seen him from a mile away, and figured the cows left first, and the bull with them.
Even though this stalk didn’t yield half a chance, it was truly spectacular and certainly worthwhile. The nature was incredible, with a collection of areas with low brush and caribou moss on the ground, giving it that rare velvety look.
Caribou Moss
Making our way back Tuesday evening, Quentin, my guide, dropped it with a “you can leave your bow with the weather coming”. Hmm, was that a statement or what? He’d made a point that he preferred to hunt with a bang as opposed to whizzing arrows. I told him I’d think about it.
The unseasonal snowstorm hit Newfoundland without much warning as the forecasts proved optimistic. It snowed intensely on Wednesday and Thursday on the hills and the low-ground temperatures dropped below freezing point at night, though any snowfall was washed off during the day. The snow accumulated fast up in the hills, it wasn’t just a snow spraying what fell down, to the point that another hunter and his guide had the bad luck to have their rear-wheel-drive truck, get stuck up the mountain with a broken drive shaft. The outfitter reckoned he’d be able to recover it alright, in spring. At least our truck had 4x4.
The storm peaked on Wednesday afternoon with solid winds of 40-50 mph, which meant only demented moose would come out the woods under those conditions. Standing there absorbing it all, made you wonder who the bigger moose really was..
Where did the moose go?
At some point through the snowstorm, it was clear that unless I’d come across a moose standing on the side of the road like a shifted airline crew in an unfamiliar airport wondering how they got there, I had less of a chance than a soaked straw at a nailing contest. It was decision time.
End of the day, I had gone to hunt, so the bow would have to wait its turn. If the weather threw us a left hook like that, then I’d change the rules of engagement too. I told Quentin to grab the “long bow”, so soon after I was sporting a synthetic stock Vanguard .300 Weatherby, with just about as much rust as a sunken ship and a cheap scope without covers. At least the bolt cycled smoothly, the bore was good and I was told it was dead-on at 200 yd with the 180 grain soft points.
Friday arrived and the skies had cleared somewhat, the air before dawn was crisp and cold but the storm appeared to be giving us a breather. We set-off soon after 5:30am, a bit earlier than previous days. Motoring miles fast over the disused railway road, with potholes the size of dustbins that made me promise never again to complain about them when I’d be back in Montreal, we headed once again towards our hunt area called locally Miller’s Camp. Along the way and over the largest bridge over Kitty’s Brook, we stopped to gauge the water levels. The guide knew that if the water would stream smoothly past over a specific rock, we’d not make it across the brook that was the only entry point to our area. Flashlights out and we saw the rock with water streaming nicely over it. But it was also breaking upstream. It was now or never.
The accumulated snow had begun to freeze and there was a nice inch or so of solid pack below the truck tires. On the way to our intended glassing spot, the track suddenly got filled with fox and moose tracks everywhere. Either the circus was in town or everyone was stretching their legs making the most of the weather.
With the quad down from the truck and glassing the hills across the valley 3 miles or so away, we started spotting groups of moose, but they were all cows. Then Quentin went “there’s one bull, there’s another, let’s go!” so the dead-man run begun. First we had to cross the brook on the single seat quad, so I let the guide skid it down the 30 ft bank into the brook. Once through the river, the water was at ankle level while over the quad and moving strongly. We made it through and up the less inclined bank on the other side. The hunt was on.
We had a couple of miles of track to negotiate with the quad, and at 15 mph, it felt pretty fast given the frequent corrections to stay on the frozen track. Yet, the spirits were at the highest and sitting on the aft rack, my mind was with the rifle across my legs and enjoying the view of this incredible land, truly deserving being branded God’s place. Quentin cut the engine and we were off with a jump, then straight uphill. We had about 300 yd to negotiate to a first ridge on this rolling hill. The wind was on our face, which also meant that this side of the hill had a lot more snow accumulated by the wind loading. Shoving our feet through the knee-high snow as fast as we could, we made it to the first ridge, with your chest about to explode and legs burning intensely. Timing was everything, and we knew he was moving. We got to the ground for a moment, peaked beyond the ridge and I saw it for the first time, it was a young bull with a four-pointer rack and a nice chocolate hide, looking at about 700 lb. I wasn’t going to get picky and he was not further than 65 or 70 yd.
He hadn’t seen nor smelled us and without wasting more breath, ran to the second ridge over compacted snow, leaving you now, totally exposed. Everything went into slow motion. The heart beat was still on your ears and the lungs screaming for air. You kept thinking of the four-second cycle used in archery to control the breathing – No time!
I quickly threw my right hand glove away and pushed the safety forward while dropping on my knees, cycled the bolt and chambered a round. Quickly raised the rifle and aimed the crosshairs right behind the shoulder and a little low. The moose had now seen us and was beginning to turn away from its broadside.
BANG! Went the Weatherby and when I recovered my stance I saw the bull make a run to the left. Had I missed him? The bolt cycled again for a second shot while aiming again, but I couldn’t find him on my crosshairs, then Quentin shouted “you got him, you got him!” All I saw as I lowered the rifle, was the moose do a tumble and it was down.
We celebrated and cheered each other for the tough and incredible week we had just gone through as well as that last incredible run, and the shot. I stood up and looked back at the view downwind into the valley. It was Friday October 28th, 2011 at 8:40am, one week to the end of the season in Newfoundland and well beyond the rut, yet, I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful setting, with the fresh snow covering hills and bog fields already becoming frozen tundra, with only the ponds and some water ways breaking the white. We walked to the moose and observed it had run no more than 20 yd. After a few pictures and reviving the last few moments loudly, we set off to the skinning, gutting and quartering it for transportation. When we were done, it had taken us about 1½ hours to clean and 2½ hours to take it down to the quad.
Downwind into the valley
There was one last surprise waiting for us yet. We needed to cross the fast-raising brook on our little quad, with what turned out to be 397 lb of quartered moose, the hide and head, ourselves and the gear. We were riding it with each on each side and knees over the quad seat, so it was easy to jump off when needed for the quad to make it through deeper snow or negotiating ground obstacles. Finally we arrived to the river bank and as expected, we pretty much skidded the last few yards until the water. Wary looks between us and water to our ankles over the quad again, Quentin pushed forward into the 50 ft river, rocking hard over the rocks at the bottom. Then it happened.
About a third of the way in, the quad jumped over a rock and had got jammed and we weren’t going anywhere other than sideways by the thrusting efforts and the water pushing on us. Clearly imbalanced, the few attempts of reversing didn’t go very well and almost lost the quad with its cargo. The only way out was for me to step off the quad and for Quentin to pull the last trick off his sleeve. But as I was on the downstream side of the quad, and what appeared to be a pattern of rocks that may allow a crossing, located upstream, that was easier said than done.
Somehow we managed the swap without getting wet and you could just about reach for a nearly surfacing rock, followed by a quick step into another rock with a foot of snow over it. With the rifle on my back, I had cleared the quad and watched the guide and the quad rock violently to no avail. Quentin stepped off the quad onto the same first rock I had used and tried again. This time it gripped and almost got run himself over on reverse, but he got lucky and the quad was gripping again. He reversed to the river bank and thrusted forward avoiding a jam again. I watched his advance across the river, certain it was all going to end upside down in the water at least a dozen times.
Then, I had my share of fun crossing the rest of the river, constantly repeating to myself “easy does it”. Slowly but surely, eventually, we both made it through, leaving the uphill bank to negotiate. We released the winch aiming to loop the hook around a fallen tree on top of the bank beyond a turn we needed to take. It looked far but it was the only hooking chance we could take. The cable kept worming itself out and as fate would have it, it stopped a lousy single yard from the tree. That was it, all was out.
Eventually while thrusting the quad repeatedly, we managed to swing enough cable to loop it around the lug. The winch did his part and we finally made it out across. Then, we knew we had made it out.
Winching up the bank
All in all, it was an incredible experience worth every ounce of the effort it took, and one that I’d repeat in a heartbeat. Between Friday and Saturday, two more hunters got their game, and only one hunter out of the initial nine, left empty handed. The last night was celebrated with beer and wine from the local store in Howley, back at the lodge. All hunters had gone through one sort of ordeal or another during the week and truly enjoyed sharing and listening to our collection of stories.
I left from Deer Lake Airport with about 10 lb less and with 250 lb of boxed meat plus the hide. The four-point rack somehow fit inside my luggage and only the security officer operating the X-ray machine gave me a funny look.
Flight back into Montreal
A good volume of meat packs were shared between friends and colleagues back at base, and I was pleased that everyone enjoyed it with a wide sortie of forms and recipes: stews, steaks, roasts, pies, curry, burgers..
Well, I hope you enjoyed my story and I wish to write of another successful hunt some other time.
Until then,
Shoot straight.
