Sunrise found me slipping through the willows and alders on the East side of the valley, staying out of sight, while glassing the opposite slopes. This was the last day of the trip. I was putting everything on red and decided to concentrate all efforts on one little area where we had seen a lot of moose, and the scene of our first close encounter (see “Your mother mated a donkey!”). Once I had climbed high enough, it didn’t take long to spot three moose in the aspens above the bottom meadow. It took a while longer to confirm that one was a bull; a small one, but a small bull tastes better than no bull.
The prevailing winds were doing their usual: swirl, switch, stop, and then gust, change direction, and then do it all over again. An approach from the bottom seemed ill-advised, so with a climb, a ridge walk and a short descent, I was across from the moose, about 200 yards away. The bull was small indeed, maybe on his second set of antlers, one of which he broke off, leaving a stub. With the above assessment about the taste of bulls in mind, I tried some cow calling. No reaction. Against better judgement I did some half-hearted raking, which made the little guy take off. So much for that plan.
But wait, there were still three moose in that cover. Must have missed one from afar. A medium-sized bull appeared, maybe 40″ in spread. Surely this one would be in for some sparring. More cow calling, more grunting and raking, trying to create a scene worthy of investigation. I don’t think he even blinked. I skirted the edges of various thickets to see if there was a way I could get closer. One hundred and eighty yards to their cover was about the best I could find.
That lone pine tree was not big enough to block the view of both the cow and bull moose that were bedded in the aspens behind, so I abandoned the idea of crawling closer along this route.
After picking up my pack that I had dropped on the first approach, ingestion of some food and water, and more fruitless calling sessions, and with this being the last day, I decided the situation required some courage on my part. The moose had bedded down, facing downhill (no approach), with the unpredictable wind mostly in their backs. The only way to get near was to cross the 180 yards of open hillside.
Two-step, glass, two-step, glass, move when the wind covers the noise, with their noses and ears out of the equation I only need to fool their eyes. When I started the stalk I couldn’t see any of the moose. About halfway through I spotted the cow. So I moved uphill, as I had seen the bull bed above her. About 50 yards from cover I spotted two moose: the bull another 50 yards into cover, and the calf in front of him but much closer to the edge.
After a lifetime of weighing options, I figured closer was the only way, keeping the trunks of two six-inch aspen trees between me and the bull’s eyes. I could see antlers sticking out left and right, but I could not see his eyes. Half an hour later I was 20 yards from cover, when the calf got up to feed. The stage was set, I couldn’t move now, so I settled in and hoped the bull would get up too at some point and feed the edges. A small chance, but a chance anyway.
Twenty yards from the cover where the bull was moving back and forth without presenting a shot.
Fast forward 90 minutes. The calf had been within 30 yards but fed back into cover. The bull had been at 50 yards at best, but had now turned around and was feeding away. Six hours into this endeavour, I figured one more all-in gamble couldn’t hurt. I flattened out behind 6″ tall grass, and grunted. The bull stopped. Another grunt. He turned. This was going well! One more.
The bull was not buying it. He turned and walked away. A cow call then. He started trotting uphill! The cowardly bastard (or just a very smart bastard) was having nothing of it; he left his cow and her off-spring to face whatever was making those noises.
A little defeated but full of excitement of having spent so much time so close I hiked out, and drove back to camp to pack up. One more evening stalk around another ridge didn’t produce any moose, but a whitetail doe and her fawn dropped by to say hello as I was still hunting through the trees underneath the crest. They could just not figure out what I was. Wearing a plaid shirt for camo works.
The next day another snow storm pounded the hills. Prospects of finding a bull within longbow range are diminishing, as the rut winds down, but hopefully I can squeeze in a few more days before rifle season starts.
FD