| Rutting Moose |
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Templeton, R. (August 2008) Rutting Moose. Bow & Arrow Hunting, Volume 46, No 6, 62 - 66. The powerful engine of the Turbo Otter roared as the pontoons sliced through the glassy water and lifted off the lake. Golden-yellow, red and orange fall colors of poplar, willow and birch pocked the landscape as we headed north. It was a picture-perfect setting for our late-September rut hunt. When the plane landed we found ourselves in familiar territory on a chain of lakes in northwest Ontario, Canada. It was the second season in a row that my brother Tracy, friend Mark Alexander and I had booked a hunt with Gene Halley out of Minaki, Ontario. Once again, our friend Carman McCann took a few days off from his hectic job to join us. McCann is the Unit Commander of the Forensic Identification Services base in Kenora, Ontario. Carman doesn't hunt, but he's one heck of a cook, and keeps us in fresh pike and walleye from the pristine lake surrounding our camp. Our guides Steve Seitler and Loren Knopt met us at the dock. Steve and Loren arrived the day before to do a little scouting. From all indications the rut was getting underway and there were plenty of moose in the area, including two big bulls they spotted from the plane while flying over camp. On our previous hunt, Mark and I had both shot moose, so our expectations for a repeat were running high. Needles to say, we were pumped up and ready to get started. Within minutes we were unpacked and shooting a few practice arrows. The winner of a coin toss found Mark hunting with Loren. Tracy and I paired up with the "master guide," Steve. After a quick lunch we loaded up the boa and navigated down a narrow stream that meandered through a large marsh to a spot where Steve and I has a scary encounter with a "mad cow" the year before. For whatever reason, the cow had an infatuation with the 15-foot canoe and charged into the water several times. It took nearly 45 minutes, but we were eventually able to navigate around her. From the height of the water in the marsh it was evident the beaver had been busy building dams. Even so, the thick vegetation choked off the motor several times in just a mile or two. Upon arriving, I looked for a piece of dry ground to set up. A scattering of bones along the edges told the story of a moose that had fallen victim to the wolves or perhaps the harsh winter. It could have even been the bones of the crazy cow that refused to leave her sentry post. As the sun began to set on the horizon it became obvious the first evening would end without a sighting. However, when returning to camp, Mark and Loren told us a different story: They hunted an old snowmobile trail and had a close encounter with what they believed to be a big bull. Unfortunately, Loren's best calling efforts couldn't bring the bull into the open before dark. They backed out quietly, hoping the bull would still be in the area the next morning. The latest extended forecast indicated that the winds would be shifting from south to northwest, bringing with it cooler temperatures - exactly what we had hoped for. We hovered over the map that evening and put together a game plan for the morning. With any luck, the cooler weather would kick-start the much anticipated rut. Temperatures dipped into the mid-30s overnight, and a light frost covered the ground. We decided to hunt the area where Steve had seen a 50 inch bull two days before. Not more than a half-mile from camp I spotted a cow standing among the trees in a cut off the main lake. We debated whether or not to stop and wait for sunrise but, for whatever reason, we chose to continue on to the big marsh. There were several instances last year before when I though a decoy might have been nice to have. With that in mind, I came prepared with a collapsible Montana decoy. The marsh seemed like the perfect spot to set up for maximum visibility. Expecting a moose to come in downwind, Tracy hunkered back in the shadows on a rock ledge 30 yards from Steve near the lakeshore, and I set up 40 yards away on the opposite side in the marsh. Not more that 30 minutes later I heard the grunting sounds of a bull approaching from behind and circling toward the lake. I couldn't see him, but I was pretty darn sure Tracy could. Suddenly I heard splashing water and what sounded like a moose crashing off. At that point I was almost certain Tracy had arrowed his first moose. Only a couple of minutes had passed when Steve appeared in the marsh below me. He explained that Tracy had the moose standing broad-side at 7 yards, but chose not to shoot. I asked Steve how it was. Steve said, "The bull was probably 42 to 45 inches wide, but Tracy said it wasn't big enough. He wanted to hold out for something bigger, perhaps a 50-inch or better to mount." "What?" I asked. "The guy has never seen a moose, much less shot one, and turned trophy hunter on us?" In all honesty, I envy Tracy for refraining from shooting something he wouldn't be happy with. On the other hand, however, I couldn't help but think about the 500 pounds of the excellent eating that had just thundered off to parts unknown. Ironically, when returning to camp, Carman explained that the same bull had been just 40 yards from th cabin earlier that morning. It hung around for a while before swimming across the lake, apparently in pursuit of the cow that we had seen earlier. Mark and Loren had gone back to the same area where they had the close encounter the evening before, but failed to call the bull up again. We could only assume he had wandered from the area in search of an estrous cow. The weather turned warm and the winds prevailed out of the south for the next three days, which not only shut down movement, but also limited the areas we could hunt. We were half way into our hunt, and there still wasn't a bull on the ground. On Wednesday afternoon we huddled around the map again and eyeballed a new area on the far end of the lake, 7 miles away. We'd have to carry a boat motor across a portage through the timber into a smaller lake, where Gene had a boat dry-docked. It seemed like a lot of work at the time, but little did we know our efforts would payoff in a big way! Navigating through a narrow inlet led us to a small marsh bordered by a rock shelf on one side - Jack Pines _ and willows and spruce on the other sides. With fresh droppings, beds, tracks, and tree thrashings everywhere, the area looked exceptionally promising. We quickly set up and started calling. Not more than a half hour had passed when I heard a faint response some distance away. It was a cow. Every time Steve grunted and followed up with the sounds of a lovesick cow in heat, she answered back and each time a little bit closer. Her responses were long and pleading, sometimes lasting 30 to 45 seconds. Another 30 minutes went by when, suddenly, a spine-tingling guttural grunt brought the entire marsh to dead silence. We couldn't see the bull, but every time Steve grunted we could hear him pacing back and forth, pawing the ground, thrashing trees, and grunting. I thought for sure the bull would appear at any time, but it just didn't happen. In fact, the cow moved further away, and the bull followed. "In all my years of moose hunting and guiding, that was the very first time I've ever heard a bull make that sound. That wasn't your typical grunt, but more like a guttural growl," explained Steve. There was no doubt we were dealing with a big, mature bull that obviously ruled the roost. And there was confidence among the ranks that the bull hadn't been spooked, so if we played our cards right, there was a chance one of us could still get a crack at him. I was hoping it would be me! Mark and Loren hunted an area that morning where they had a bull quite worked up. Unfortunately, the wind shifted and the bull caught their scent. Ont the way back to camp, however, they spotted a bull and cow swimming across the lake. They quickly set up where the moose entered a marsh and tried calling them back. Unfortunately, their best calling efforts couldn't persuade the bull to leave the cow. TRACY SCORES The following afternoon found us back in the same bay hunting the bull we nicknamed "The Growler." Tracy and I set up on both sides of Steve 150 yards apart. A half hour before sunset, Steve's long, drawn, pleading cow calls and intermittent grunts eventually drew a response from the opposite end of the marsh and slowly closed the distance. with only minutes of shooting light left, the bull shut up. Steve switched to more aggressive calling tactics buy grunting, cow calling, and thrashing trees and brush on occasion with the boat paddle. With any luck, the bull would think another bull had found the lovesick cow first and come in to size up the competition. I hunkered behind a clump of willows with an arrow nocked, expecting the bull to appear in a narrow opening directly behind me. I heard the bull grunt again but much to my surprise, it sounded like he was moving further away. Ironic as it seemed, the bull had actually slipped by without being seen or heard and was headed straight toward Tracy. With little warning, the bull suddenly appeared on the rock ledge. A couple of soft grunts brought the bull lumbering down the hillside and into the marsh, swaying his head back and forth and grunting with each step. For whatever reason, the bull stopped and started to get antsy. As he turned to walk away, Tracy locked on the vitals and sent a Muzzy broadhead deep into the chest cavity. The bull whirled around and charged off in the opposite direction. Steve and I couldn't see where the arrow struck the bull, but Tracy expressed his concerns. We agreed to take the conservative approach and wait until morning to take up the trail. We were back at sunrise and found the bull just 50 yards from where it was last seen running. Most interesting is the fact that the bull was found facing the opposite direction in which it had been seen running. we could only assume it bedded down right away and died watching its back trail. Upon field dressing, a quick autopsy of the vital organs revealed that the arrow had only diced one lung. There's no doubt Tracy made the right decision to wait. Had we gone after the bull, there's a good chance we wouldn't have recovered it. This makes a good example that stresses the importance of giving an animal time to expire before taking up the trail. As the old saying goes: "When in doubt, back out." Considering the weather had turned warm, a quick call to Gene Halley had a plane on the way. It took a bit of finagling through the shallow waters, but Halley was able to dock the Cessna within 100 yards of where the bull had dropped, which made loading the 700 pounds of meat and antlers onto the plane much easier. THE GROWLER APPEARS Even though there were only two days remaining, I still had high hopes of connecting on The Growler and made plans to sneak into a small hidden marsh that Steve and I figured was the bull's core area. The fog was so thick the following morning you couldn't have cut it with a knife. It took 45 minutes longer than expected to navigate our way down the lake. Even so, by the time we arrived, the fog still hadn't lifted and visibility was less than 50 yards. I set up on a rock shelf bordering the marsh on the downwind side. It was dead-calm, and the fog set he stage for an eerie morning hunt. As I sat waiting for the fog to lift, my mind began to wander stray. At one point I thought to myself, "How cool would it be to see a giant bull emerge from the fog?" I got my wish just 5 minutes later when I heard muffled grunts somewhere out in the fog. I couldn't see the bull, but the grunting noises and thrashing of trees was getting closer by the second. Suddenly I spotted something moving above the 8-foot-high Jack Pines, just beyond the break line in the fog. As I brought the Nikon binocular into focus, I spotted the antler paddle of a giant moose wavering at treetop level. It took only one more grunt to bring the prehistoric-looking creature out of hiding. The bull postured across the marsh straight toward me, grunting and rocking his massive headgear back and forth with each heavy step. My breathing became shallow and I gasped for air each time the bull lowered his head and thrashed a tree with the huge paddles and long tines. Just the sounds of the bull's deep guttural grunts in rhythm with his hooves splashing through the marsh sent shivers up and down my spine. If the bull continued on the same course, he'd pass within 15 yards of my ambush. About the time I fugured it was a done deal, he took a hard 90-degree turn and stopped in the worst possible place. A small stand of Jack Pines covered the vitals, and there wasn't a prayer's chance of threading an arrow through it, either. He only needed to make one mor step, but the instant the bull's oversized nostrils flared out and his head jerked back, I knew the gig was up. Our scent had followed the contour of the hillside behind me and leaked through a small depression in the rock ledge. The enourmous crature swapped ends; in less than a half-dozen thundering steps, he covered enough ground to exceed my range. I couldn't believe what had just happened. In a matter of seconds I'd gone from the ultimate high to the lowest point possible. I'm certainly no authority on judging the size of moose, but according to my guide - who has 25 years of experience and twice as many moose to his credit - the bull was well over 60 inches wide and would easily tip the scales at 1,200 pounds or more. Moreover, it was the largest he had ever laid eyes on. I knew then there wouldn't be a second chance at The Growler, but turned to Steve and said: "That, my friend, was the most exciting experience I've ever had in all my years of hunting. And if I don't get another chance at a moose this year, that alone was worth the price of admission." THE FINAL DAY On our previous hunt it took about two days to figure out that the guides grew less enthusiastic about calling the further we ventured from the shoreline. Considering the amount of work it takes to get a half-ton animal quartered and hauled to the boat, I can't say I blame them much. Even so, I've always believed in putting forth 110 percent, regardless of whether it's the first or last day of the hunt. With only one day remaining, I coaxed my guide into scouting a new area, perhaps a half-mile or more from where we pulled the boat ashore. It seemed like a great plan, but, unfortunately, our efforts didn't pay off. By 11:00 a.m. we hadn't seen or heard anything, so we tucked tail and headed back to camp. That afternoon we went back to the same lake where I had the close encounter with the big bull, and trolled the lakeshore looking for a place to set up. On the far end of the lake we pulled the boat ashore and followed a trail for about 400 yards, which eventually led to a small lake. With less than a hal hour of shooting light remaining, I spotted a bull across the lake. It appeared to be heading our way, but any hope of scoring deteriorated with each passing minute. As the sun glowed softly on the western horizon, the reality of going home empy-handed sunk in. Even so, I knew then I'd come back in 2008, if for nothing else, another chance at The Growler! There's little doubt why moose make the short list of my favorite big-game animals to hunt. The mere sight and sounds of a 1,000-pound critter standing 8 feet tall at the antler tops is nothing short of intimidating. If hunting these enormous creatures during the rut doesn't get your hear pounding, then you might want to check for a pulse. |
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