Last year would find my motley moose crew heading north to once again hunt “the terrible moose.” This would be my fourth season in seven years hunting the homestead and thus far I had a steady diet of $1,000 tag soup. Camp belonged to a friend, an 80-year-old patriarch, Ron, who had homesteaded a 40-acre parcel. In 2021, my friend Jim and I were part of a crew that helped Ron build his dream cabin. With this sweat equity, Jim and I were given keys to the cabin.
We rendezvoused in Anchorage, gathered supplies and proceeded to Talkeetna. We toasted to our future success at our favorite watering hole. With dreams of a successful hunt and new adventures, we were at the bush pilot’s dock at first light to fly to our lake, which was just south of the great one: Mt. McKinley. The crisp and clear day gave us beautiful views of the fall colors meeting the dropping snow level, and we arrived at the lake with the anticipation that opening day brings.
The trail we’d cut two years prior was unrecognizable. The Alaska bush’s ability to reclaim humans’ attempts at civilization is incomprehensible. Thankfully, we always mark it with flagging. Shuttling our supplies 2 miles north to the cabin via foot and four-wheeler was exhausting as we hacked our way through the deadfall, overgrowth, mud bogs and devils club.
As the leaves dropped along with the snow level, we could feel the rut approaching as the moose became more interested in our best attempts to sound like a lovesick cow. Morning found me on a rickety treestand. Jim was 300 yards away in “the nest” watching another branch of the large meadow.
Suddenly, a mature bull appeared out of the tree line, but much to my dismay he did not have three brow tines, and I judged him to have a 40- to 45-inch spread, disappointingly shy of the required 50 inches. This bull was definitely rutting as he kept making his way to Jim’s calls, and then to mine. But despite our best efforts we could not make him grow a third brow tine or spread his antlers to 50 inches. It was exhilarating to get some action, and we realized the rut had finally arrived.
Bullwinkle had just disappeared into the tree line again when I heard a much louder ruckus emitting from where he had just disappeared. Anxious that this new racket may indicate another, larger moose, I let out another mournful love song, and a bull trotted out of the timberline 250 yards away. I grabbed my Vortex rangefinding binocular and confirmed it was the same lovesick Bullwinkle. I cursed him for not bringing his big brother then another bull emerged.
I could tell this one was over 50 inches with my bare eyes. Bringing up my Seekins PH2 with a suppressor topped with a Leupold scope, I cranked the power to 14 and counted three brow tines. Now we’re talking! Over 50 inches and three brow tines!
He turned his head so I could not see his headgear. I started to doubt myself: “Is he really over 50 inches? Did I really see three brow tines?” I reassured myself, then I sent a 200-grain bullet from my .300 Win. Mag. into his boilermaker, and heard the satisfying thwap.
He turned and started for the tree line. I let another bullet fly and again heard the satisfying report of a solid hit. He continued to plod along towards the tree line. Though I knew he was dead on his feet, I didn’t want him to get in the trees, complicating the recovery. He was angling away and behind some spruce. I quickly took another shot and missed. “Calm down,” I breathed, racking my last remaining shell. I anchored him before he could get any farther. I put in a fresh clip and racked in another shell, observing him before scrambling down the tree and shuffling across the muskeg to where he lay.
Now the real work began. An Alaska moose is much bigger than the elk back home. Fortunately, many hands make for light work, and with six men working we had him hanging back at camp in no time. Prayers of thanks, bloody handshakes and a stunning sunset at the cabin made for the perfect end to a great hunt. Tag soup’s finally off the menu!
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