To borrow from Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” My brother Jim called, saying, “Let’s go on a moose hunt to Newfoundland.” That’s a long way from Arizona, but after a few minutes of consideration, I concluded with, “I’m in!”
As the departure grew closer, I packed the necessary gear. I chose my Ruger M77 in .338 Win. Mag. with 250-grain Nosler Partitions. Our lengthy flight ended in Deer Lake, and we departed by floatplane to a remote camp on Long Pond.
The camp was rustic but comfortable with a woodburning stove and a functioning shower. Our camp cook provided exceptional fare and the scenery was spectacular. Our guides were introduced, and we retired to our bunks full of hope. A hurricane was passing the east side of Newfoundland and windy, rainy weather was predicted.
The next morning, Jim’s guide chose to sit atop a rocky outcropping west of camp. Jim caught the worst of it with gale-force winds and rain. Travis, my guide, led me to a wooded knoll where we were more protected from the weather. I learned very quickly when traversing the low-lying areas to avoid the numerous potholes. We did glass a nice woodland caribou, but he quickly vanished into the woods.
Jim’s guide had a family emergency and was flown out, so Travis took us both under his wing. We decided to try the outcropping again as weather improved. As dawn broke, I immediately spotted a large set of antlers swaying on a distant ridge. Travis advised that it was a long trek and was close to the border of Gros Morne, but he was probably worth going after. Took me a heartbeat to say, “Let’s go!”
We hiked and crossed three lakes. Travis quietly led us to the backside of a small hill overlooking a small pond. I had first shot, so we inched our way over a granite overlook and there he was, lying beside the pond. I was able to secure a prone position, and the first shot made a solid hit. He struggled to his feet and my second shot put him down for good. At the sound of the shot, the valley literally erupted in moose. Jim had his eye on the biggest bull and managed to drop him before he made it to the park boundary. Mine was an ancient bull with a giant frame. Travis snapped a few pictures while Jim went to claim his trophy. It was the best of times indeed!
Travis started me on caping and went to help Jim. As I started to work, the sun came out and as the ground warmed, literally hundreds of thousands of blood-sucking flies and mosquitoes emerged. I had never witnessed a plague of this magnitude. With no repellent and a headnet packed at camp, we became banquet fare. So, with my head down, he was caped and boned out in two hours. My face had the appearance of taking a full load of No. 9 bird shot.
Jim and I stuffed a few bags of meat in our packs and hoisted our antlers. Since Travis could not lift his pack, so he proceeded to lie on his back with the pack underneath. Jim and I got him to his feet and down the hill we went. Jim and I were completely exhausted by the time we hit the lake, but Travis went back for two more loads. Meanwhile, the bugs kept up their bloodthirsty attack and I began to wonder if a transfusion was in my future. It was indeed the worst of times!
Travis made his last trip, and we headed back to the moose. We decided to cache most of the meat and carry what we could the last mile to camp. We stripped out of our sweaty clothing and spread it over the cache to deter bears. The next morning, we returned to the cache and spent the day hauling meat. My old guy was the camp winner that year with a spread of 36 inches and 13 points. On my game room wall, he continues to provide memories of the best of times.
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