The Hunt That Almost Wasn't

Perfect Night for Hunting - Scan of 1995 film photo

This is the first installment in a series of special “To The Point” outdoor themed blogs, based on my hunting, fishing, and outdoor-related activities from the past thirty-plus years. Each one will share an interesting story, and contain some life lessons in the process.

It's now the 25th anniversary of our fateful fly-in moose hunting trip in 1995. Before 1995, our moose hunts were almost always unsuccessful. Finally, after a particularly frustrating trip in 1994, a wealthy businessman in our group decided he'd had enough. He wanted to go to a top-quality spot and would subsidize some of the costs for the rest of us to get there.

His mandatory requirements were:

1.) Guaranteed Seclusion.

2.) Guaranteed Moose population.

To guarantee those two requirements, it meant a fly-in trip.

My father was nominated to do the research, and after reviewing three options, we chose an outfitter based out of Elliott Lake. Elliott Lake is a small Northern Ontario mining town located about 550 KM, or a 6-hour drive, north of Toronto.

This trip pre-dated the Internet as we know it today, so online reviews were not available. However, based on our research, the outfitter appeared to be well regarded, and the lake was definitely secluded. The closest logging road was over 6 KM away, so there was no question we would have the resident moose population all to ourselves.

For the purposes of this article, I will not share the name of the outfitter or the lake. The intent is not to incriminate, but to share our adventure and give you some thoughts to consider should you ever embark on a similar trip. As an FYI, the outfitter is long since out of business.

I was in my 4th year of university, and it was a shock when the 2:00 AM alarm jolted me out of a deep sleep. I was more accustomed to going to bed at this time! Making the guys wait would not be tolerated, so I immediately rolled out of bed.

It was a clear, cold morning, and I could see my breath as I dragged my gear out to the curb in front of my basement apartment. The stars were shining bright in downtown Waterloo as the lights of a pickup rolled around the dimly lit corner. 2:15 on the dot, right on time. I knew it had to be my Dad.

We loaded the gear and made the obligatory stop at one of the oldest Tim Horton's, at the corner of King & University in Waterloo. The truck was filled with the pleasant aroma of coffee, and I was starting to wake-up as we headed towards Kitchener to pick up Al. Al, the elder statesman of our group, was nowhere to be found, and his house was dark when we arrived. Dad had left him to the end because he anticipated this may happen.

Dad, who had been friends with Al for many years, went into his house and found him asleep in bed. As he shook him, Al's wife Erika shrieked, "Al, you've slept in again!" Thankfully, he packed the night before, and all of his gear was ready to go. I loaded the truck while Dad worked to get Al mobile, and it all worked out in the anticipated time-frame.

We pulled out of Al's driveway and soon arrived at our pre-determined rendezvous point at 3:00 AM sharp. We saw a Buick Roadmaster wagon and a Ford F-250 idling in a haze of cool morning mist. We rolled down the windows and, with a minimum of pleasantries, confirmed everyone was set to go. We were on a mission. Like a road train, our three vehicles pulled onto the road in unison and disappeared down the highway in a cloud of misty morning dust.

We were finally on our way to the hunting trip of a lifetime!

It's a good thing there was no police presence that morning. I can remember my Dad commenting, "it wouldn't make any difference if we got there 15 minutes later."

The drive was uneventful, and we arrived at the Dunlop Lake floatplane base at 9:00 AM sharp, as requested. We hopped out of the truck, stretched our cramped and aching muscles, and sucked in gulps of fresh, cold, northern air. It was a picture-perfect fall morning, with the mist slowly spiralling up in plumbs off the mirror-calm lake. As we walked around to the back office, we were invigorated by the smell of conifers mingling with fresh lake water. We all paused for a quick handshake before embarking on stage two of our journey.

It was going to be a great day!

On the drive up, we had visions of the floatplane already idling and waiting for us to load our gear. While we didn't see a plane, we did see the bright yellows and oranges of the fall foliage reflecting back at us in the water. It was an ideal morning for flying. No question, we should be into camp in time for brunch.

The outfitter, a shorter stout man who appeared to be in his early fifties, greeted us with a hearty handshake and asked us to back around and load our gear onto the dock into three evenly distributed piles. He said the plane would be arriving shortly and we should go into his office and enjoy a coffee.

We hadn't stopped for breakfast and weren't too concerned because we knew it was only a 30-minute flight. Our plan was to cook up a hearty meal when we arrived at the outpost camp.

We waited. We waited, and we waited.

After several hours of waiting, we asked the outfitter what the hold-up was. He said the plane was out on urgent deliveries.

We were starting to get hungry and impatient, and around 12:30 PM, we overheard the outfitter on a frantic sounding phone call. Apparently, the pilot had just left Toronto, and there was some confusion about which day he was supposed to arrive.

We were considering driving back into Elliot Lake to get lunch, but the outfitter urged us not to leave. He said the plane would be arriving momentarily, and there was no time for delays. We would be taking a Dehavilland Beaver, which meant three trips, and he wanted to ensure we were all in before nightfall.

Finally, about 2:30 PM, we heard a deeper rumble than the Cessna's we had seen coming and going all day. We watched as a bright yellow Beaver swooped in for a perfect landing and taxied over to the dock. The pilot hopped out with no greeting and began ripping our three neatly arranged gear piles apart. He wanted lighter gear to go with heavier people on the first trip. The heaviest items, such as food and drinks, would go on the last trip when the plane had the least fuel and the lightest people.

We loaded the first pile into the plane and chose the three men that would be flying first. It was a remarkably light load, mainly clothing, bedding, and not even close to 1/3 of the gear. We didn't argue, the pilot seemed to know what he was doing. The outfitter pushed the plane off from shore, and with the loud, deep roar characteristic of the Beaver, they were on their way.

A gust of prop wash and light spray from the propeller hit us as my Dad, Mike, and Don raced down the lake and soared into the air on their adventure north.

A little over an hour later, we heard a distant hum on the horizon and saw the Beaver come back into view.

I was included in the next three passengers, along with Dave and Gary. We loaded the second pile into the plane and pushed off in under 10 minutes. As we were starting to accelerate for takeoff, I looked out the window and noticed an anchor, rope, and marker ball hanging off the right float's rudder. I thought it looked odd and yelled to the pilot. He cut the engine, turned around, and taxied back to the dock.

He hopped out onto the float, untangled it, and started screaming and shaking his fist at the outfitter, yelling something about the importance of keeping the dock area clear of obstructions.

We immediately turned around, and he pointed the nose into a slight breeze and hit the throttle. In what seemed like seconds, we were off! As we climbed, it was amazing to note the vast web of logging roads and trails extending throughout the dense bush. The roads appear almost white, the forest dark green, and the lakes a dark inky blue. The network of roads and paths revealed a lot of access beyond what is shown on the maps. We looked at the webs weaving north, and all agreed there are still many remote areas that can be accessed if you have the time to scout and explore.

The inside of the Beaver was very spartan, all-metal with no effort put into aesthetics or comfort. The cockpit was filled with ancient-looking instruments, gauges, and dials. It felt like being in a WWII movie, and I had visions of the pilot turning to us and asking us to parachute out. It was extremely loud inside the aircraft, and we had to yell to communicate with each other. The pilot had earmuffs on and only spoke about 3 words the entire trip. We didn't mind, as the cruising altitude of just under 2500 feet kept us busy looking out the windows.

It's amazing all the detail you can see on the ground when flying that low. This was the way to travel in the north. Bogs, swamps, rivers, lakes, and portages that would have taken days to traverse by canoe flew by in minutes. We spotted several moose and saw some lakes that looked great for fishing. It was a remarkably smooth trip with none of the thermal bumpiness often felt in floatplanes.

After about 25 minutes, the pilot started dropping in to land on what appeared to be a shallow weedy lake. He banked the plane quite sharply to the right and looped back towards the centre of the lake. At one point, we could see the water entirely below the side windows of the aircraft. It was an exhilarating turn, and he shed a tremendous amount of altitude in the process. Gary, Dave, and I glanced at each other and shared a smile as we enjoyed the bonus roller coaster ride.

The lake was quite calm, and it was interesting to observe how visually deceptive the landing was. I was sure the floats were going to hit several times, but in actuality, we were still 20 feet above the water. After a very smooth landing, we taxied up to a small ramshackle dock, partially falling into the water. We spotted the little cabin set high up on a grassy knoll above the lake. The pilot hopped out, lashed the aircraft to the dock, and started firing gear out with nothing more than a series of grunts and gestures.

Not wasting any time on idle chatter, he asked for a push-off while muttering under his breath about a lack of time. He slammed the door shut, fired up the engine, and hit the throttle. This created a roar and strong gust that rolled our bags up the dock and sprayed us with water. The Beaver popped off the water, banked sharply around, and headed almost due south for the 80 KM flight back to Dunlop Lake.

Within two minutes, the plane's sound disappeared into the distance, and we stood in northern silence on the dock.

It was indeed a small and weedy lake about 3 KM long by about 1 KM wide at its broadest point. The whole area had a fishy, swampy type of odour. While not unpleasant, it was not the same refreshing crisp smell we enjoyed at the floatplane base. The lake was not attractive for fishing, but very intriguing looking for moose. There was also an abundance of black flies and the odd mosquito welcoming us to their secluded haven.

Dad, Mike, and Don walked down to greet us. After a quick inventory, we found our gear consisted of all the bedding, clothing, and personal bags. It was a light and easy portage up the sloped path to the cabin.

As we approached the cabin, it was evident everything was in a state of disrepair. Dave and I, in our 20's at the time, were the youngest members of the group back in 1995. Prior to leaving, the outfitter had offered the two of us a case of beer if we would dig a pit and relocate the outhouse. A quick glance at the awkward angle of the dilapidated outhouse and the bedrock it was sitting on indicated there would be no extra beer. A hole would be impossible without a stick of dynamite, and the structure would crumble if we attempted to shift it.

We stepped inside and noted the roof was solid, and there were no signs of water damage. While in rough shape, at least it would keep us dry and warm. The old pine floor creaked in protest as we moved around on it, and the two-toned brown and beige stained interior created a dingy atmosphere. Minimal light penetrated through the small bedsheet curtained windows in translucent dusty beams shooting across the room. The cabin had a musty old type of smell that reminded me of a farmhouse fruit cellar.

We assessed the sleeping situation and found 1 small bedroom with twin beds. The cabin was advertised as sleeping 8 people comfortably, and we located two more bunk beds at the back. The bedroom, bunks, plus an old couch provided accommodations for seven. This deficiency did not come as a shock. We had previously been on fishing trips with optimistically calculated sleeping numbers and had come prepared with two tents.

We chose our beds, threw our bags on them, and decided it was time for one of the beers that the guys had chilling in the propane fridge. We didn't have any food, but Mike did insist on a case of beer against the pilot's vigorous objections. Mike let him know how important a cold drink would be while setting up camp and waiting for the two remaining flights. Thank you, Mike!

At the time, Mike had no idea how important this decision would be.

Unfortunately, the woodpile was empty, and the outfitter had taken $50 off our bill because he had been far too busy to cut wood. Dave and I took a stroll around and located numerous dead trees in the immediate vicinity. When our chainsaw arrived on the next flight, a couple of hours of hard work would yield enough wood to keep us warm for the week. The only kink in the plan was the axe seemed to be missing, and we'd need this to split the wood. We finally located the axe lying broken at the bottom of the wood box. Mike said he knew the soaking process to reattach the head, and he would tackle this project tomorrow.

We sat down at the kitchen table to relax, enjoy our beer, and noticed a tiny logbook lying on the corner of the table. Previous guests had listed their experiences, and it was filled with comments such as, "this lake sucks" and "nothing but weeds and baby pike."

Based on the reviews, it was a good thing we didn’t come for the fishing!

It was starting to get later in the day, around 5:30 PM, and we were ravenous. We hadn’t eaten anything in nearly 24 hours. Thankfully, we knew the last flight would be arriving momentarily with food and drinks.

After another hour passed, we were starting to get concerned about the guys and what we were going to do if they didn't show up. Gary set down his beer and proudly announced, "I've got a surprise!" He went over to his bag and pulled out a foil platter of rolled ribs! His wife had made them as a treat, and he smuggled them along with his personal items.

After congratulating Gary and telling him how wonderful he and his wife were, we tried to start the oven, but it wouldn't light. We knew there was propane because the fridge was running, but we couldn't smell any gas reaching the oven. Something was blocked. We didn't have the time or the energy to troubleshoot it and found a BBQ sitting outside to heat them up.

Not eating for 24 hours and waking up at 2:00 AM was starting to catch up with us.

Thankfully, they were pre-cooked, and an hour later, the delicious aroma of BBQ ribs was wafting by our famished nostrils. Gary's wife, Dorothy, makes the best rolled-ribs using an old German recipe. They were steaming hot and fall-off-the-bone tender.

As we dug into the ribs, we knew something must have happened, and it was unlikely we would see the remainder of our crew, food, and drinks before tomorrow.

Attempting to Fix the Stove - Scan of 1995 film photo

We didn't have the bottled water or any of the juice we had packed. But we did have the remainder of the case of Labatt Genuine Draft. A ration of two beers each would have to last the evening. Life was good. We weren't going to starve, and we had adequate fluid to last until our supplies arrived tomorrow morning.

In hindsight, we often wonder what would have happened had Gary not smuggled the ribs in.

After supper, we laid out all of our gear and took stock of what we had. Thankfully, all the clothing had come in, and everyone had their personal bags. This meant all necessary medications, toothbrushes, and other personal items were accounted for.

We had two guns, all the fishing equipment, and two tents. Basically, we had all of our gear, and the only items missing were food, drinks, guns, and the chainsaw. It was at this time we started to question the pilot's logic. In theory, the fuel to weight ratio of packing made sense. But practically speaking, it didn't make sense to leave people stranded in a remote area without the necessary supplies for survival.

We chuckled as a group. This first day of the trip had not played out quite the way we had imagined.

Instead of our traditional first-night feast and party, we were on rations, down three men, and only had two guns for six hunters.

It was a beautiful calm evening, and around 7:45 PM, a cloud of darkness was starting to descend upon our lake. Since our day had started at 2:00 AM, and we were out of beverages, we decided it was time to turn in.

The bunk beds consisted of a thin army-style mattress laid on a basic plywood platform. While they weren't going to win any luxury hotel awards, it was actually quite comfortable. The cabin went absolutely pitch black when the lights were extinguished. After saying our goodnights, we all drifted off almost immediately to a loud chorus of snoring.

We woke up around 8:00 AM, enjoying nearly 12 hours of the deep restorative sleep that only seems possible when you are off the grid.

We were greeted by a cloudy, misty day, with the odd clap of thunder in the distance. Not a terrible day, but Mike, also a pilot, said it was doubtful we would see the floatplane arrive in the morning.

We were all thirsty and hungry, and our first order of business was to get some water. Dave went down to the dock with a large pot and dipped it into the lake. It was a shallow, weedy lake, and the water was clear but filled with little organisms we called "scooters." We were able to get the stove burners lit and started the boiling process. My job was to pick out as many scooters as possible while waiting for the water to boil.

The water had a very organic, dirt-type smell that got stronger as it heated, and it generated a white frothy foam on the surface as it started to boil. We assumed this was dead organic matter separating from the water.

After about 15 minutes of boiling, we collectively deemed the water safe and poured off the white foamy head on top and let it cool until it was drinkable. Instead of morning coffee to start our first full day in camp, we toasted each other with a warm glass of scooter water.

Now that we had the water problem solved, our next project was sourcing out food. Thankfully, we are all avid fishermen and were confident in our abilities to catch some fish. If there were fish in the lake, we would get some.

While virtually no hunting equipment made it in, we did have a full complement of fishing gear. Four of us rigged up our rods with an assortment of spinners, spoons, and jigs and walked down to check out the boats. A small aluminum rowboat with an old 9.9 Evinrude outboard and a square stern canoe with a 4.5 Evinrude were pulled up on shore beside the dock.

We skidded them through the squishy wet grass into the water, and the outboards started without complaint. We loaded in our gear, hopped into the boats and drove around the lake surveying the options. The lake was indeed precisely as the guestbook reviewers claimed. Shallow, grassy, and devoid of structure or features. A fisherman's paradise it was not.

There was no deep water to be found, and the real challenge was trying to pop or pull the lure along the surface to keep it free of weeds. It seemed to be a consistent 4 to 7-foot depth, and you could see the entire weedy, mucky bottom below the lure.

However, the northern pike were cooperative. Nothing of any size, mostly 2-pound hammer handles. But, they were not picky eaters, and within an hour, we had 7 for breakfast.

We went back to the dock, cleaned and filleted the fish, and carried them up to the cabin for a fish fry. Unfortunately, we did not have any oil or batter to cook them in. We poached the fillets in a thin layer of water at the bottom of the frying pan.

We found salt & pepper sitting on the table, and each enjoyed about 1 pound of fresh pike for brunch. It was remarkably satisfying. Gary had done a magnificent job with the fillet knife, and there were virtually no bones in the tender chunks of white meat.

Not an easy feat to accomplish with 2-pound pike.

Now that we were fed and watered, it was time to review our situation. It was about 1:00 PM, and it remained a cloudy, dark, and unsettled day. We heard several floatplanes passing near our lake, so flying was possible, but our plane had not arrived.

We had no way to communicate with the outside world, so we had to assume that the delay was weather-related.

Virtually nobody had cell phones in 1995, and even today there is no cell signal close to where this lake is located.

Mike, our resident pilot, said the day was "iffy" for flying but felt it was possible. He said what he didn’t know was what the weather conditions were like 80 KM to the south at the floatplane base.

It was now Friday afternoon, and we decided we would go out scouting to find some spots that looked good for hunting. The lake is about three kilometres long, providing lots of room for 9 hunters to spread out. We took the boats out to explore the various options and find the key areas. We found creeks at both ends of the lake that were loaded with moose sign. We also found several other shallow mucky bays with an abundance of aquatic vegetation that the moose were actively feeding on.

Gary, Dad, and I chose to set up at the extreme north end of the lake. Dad wanted to sit next to the creek dumping in on the Northeast side, Gary on the rocky point in the middle, and I selected the rocky point on the northwest side. Fresh moose track was everywhere; there was no doubt all three areas were hot spots.

Encouraged by finding so much sign, we hopped back in the canoe and drove the 4.5-horse back to camp. We shared news of how much moose track we saw, and all agreed our flight was unlikely to arrive today. It was time to catch more fish for supper.

The pike were again cooperative, and within 45 minutes, we had 6 more 2-pound pike on the stringer. Gary worked his magic with the fillet knife while Dave and I boiled some more scooter water.

We enjoyed another poached pike meal, and while not incredibly satisfying, it quelled our hunger pangs. Mike and I were the only two with guns and decided to go out and do what we had come to do.

It was a beautiful evening, and the sun even teased us, poking through the clouds near dusk. We heard some cow moose calling in the distance but saw no signs of bull moose that evening. The black flies were very intense and made sitting out a challenge.

Near sunset, I caught motion out of the corner of my eye, and spotted a beautiful white timberwolf walking along the rocky shoreline. It was stalking silently along the shore about 200 yards away and was coming straight at me. I lifted my scope to get a better view and found it was a large female, standing much taller than you might expect, and there were absolutely no patches of grey or black. Her coat was entirely snow white.

I watched her moving along the shoreline for several minutes, picking her way among the rocks, weeds, and deadfalls. She was clearly on a mission and would intermittently glance up into the bush to communicate with the remainder of her pack with little barks and yelps. The wolf slipped into the underbrush about 50 yards from me, and I never did hear a noise. Not even a twig crack. She remains one of the most beautiful wild animals I've ever seen. Her image is one of those indelible memories never to be forgotten.

I packed up my rifle at dark, hopped into the canoe, and chugged the 1 KM across the calm lake towards a campfire I had recently seen appear. The guys were sitting out relaxing by the fire, taking in the majestic northern scenery.

They were making the best of a hunting trip with no food, beverages, or guns.

They asked how it went, and I said no moose, but described the gorgeous white wolf. We then debated if wolves were a serious deterrent to a large bull moose at this time of year. While we didn't arrive at any conclusive answers, we all agreed the wolves certainly didn't help the hunting effort.

Mike arrived back from the other end of the lake with similar results. His wildlife action consisted of a family of beavers working around him all night. He said they were very industrious creatures and never took a break in the 90 minutes he observed them. Apparently, they made excellent progress on a small lodge they were building at the southern end of the lake.

We relaxed by the fire, and, as it died, the bugs came to life in epic proportions. We needed some cold weather, this unseasonably hot and humid air mass was not good for hunting or bugs. As the wall of bugs continued to grow, we decided that was our cue to pack it in for the night. We hoped for better weather, friends, and food to arrive in the morning. We filed into the cabin, except for Don, who had pitched his tent just outside. The fresh northern air worked its magic, and we were asleep within minutes.

We woke up around 7:45 AM, right at daybreak, well-rested and ready to go. We were told there was a deep hole at the lake's southern end that held tasty whitefish. We wanted to shake up our northern pike diet, and so we packed up our gear and made our way through the dewy grass down to the boats.

The lake was covered with a layer of dense fog rising in plumes twisted by the light breeze. Three to a boat, we hopped in and revved up the outboards. I led the way and pointed the boat south into the bright orange glow of the sun. The sun was trying to win its battle with the fog, but it appeared destined to lose. It was a picture-perfect start to the day, gliding through the early morning light leaving sparkling wakes trailing along the uninhabited lake behind us. We had high hopes for good things to happen.

We arrived at the hole and dropped our jigs down. While the water was definitely deeper, the deepest water we could find appeared to be about 30 feet deep. We jigged for about 45 minutes and fanned the two boats in all directions looking for deeper water, but could not locate the 59' depths the outfitter had said to look for. We had no hits and started to doubt the claim of 50+ feet of water and vast numbers of succulent whitefish lying in the depths.

After another 30 minutes of fruitless jigging, we abandoned our whitefish efforts and went back to pike fishing. Unfortunately, the clouds had won, and a cold front was fast approaching. The pike fishing was not nearly as productive as the day before. It took us almost two hours to get 4 fish, and we were fortunate Dad landed a six-pound "monster" that would reign as the largest fish of the trip.

Gary went about his task of filleting the fish while Dave and I set to our water boiling job.

While still in good spirits, we were all starting to feel draggy, and a couple of us light-headed. I didn't feel bad but did detect some mild lightheadedness. Our bodies were beginning to protest against the lack of carbohydrates and fat in our diets for the past couple days.

We didn't panic, though, and, at this point, we were in no imminent danger of starving. Things carried on at camp pretty much the same as Friday, with two pike meals accompanied by boiled scooter water.

Again, Mike and I went out hunting in the evening, and the other guys sat by the campfire, told stories, and relaxed. It was another beautiful evening.

While no moose presented themselves, I had the feeling I'd chosen the right spot. Kind of like a sixth sense, saying it's the right area for action.

Mike and I met back at camp around the same time and debriefed. A lovely evening, but no moose. The guys were joking about how odd this trip of a lifetime had started out.

No guns, no food, and nothing to drink was not their idea of a great time!

We like to enjoy a good cigar on a hunting trip, particularly at the beginning and when celebrating a successful hunt. The ironic part was the cigars were still back at the floatplane base, and we had Al's carton of cigarettes in his personal bag with us. None of us were smokers, so they were quite safe, but we were confident Al had taken a run back into Elliot Lake to re-stock!

We sat by the fire, wondering what was going on – did the plane crash? Were there mechanical troubles? We had seen numerous float planes throughout the day, and while Mike said it wasn't a great day for flying, it certainly was possible. Lots of pilots were flying, but not ours.

No booze, no junk food, and early to bed and early to rise. Exactly what the guys didn't want to do on their annual getaway! It felt more like a boy scout trip! We also realized that we only had seven full days to hunt, and we were now moving onto day three with only two guns. About 9:00 PM, we let the fire die out and headed back up the path to turn-in for the night.

We woke up Sunday morning and, for the first time since arriving at camp, we were greeted by a foreign site. Blue sky and sunshine! It was a glorious morning with a fresh breeze and mile-high blue skies. The sun lit-up the weedy lake that had appeared so dark and dingy for the previous 3 days. We were all plagued by intense hunger this morning and starting to feel grumpy. Not enough that we had any arguments, but enough that we agreed we were not going to catch any more pike. No one relished the idea of another meal of water poached pike fillets.

We were 100% confident that if our plane had gone down, a plane of some sort would be arriving today to either give us bad news or bring our friends and supplies in.

It was interesting to note that four out of the six of us had dreams about food. We had lots of time to dream because we were averaging over 10 hours of sleep. Very abnormal for a hunting trip.

I dreamt about fresh bread and butter, which was strange, considering it was not something I normally ate. It turns out we all had similar dreams and attributed it to our subconscious, reminding us we were severely lacking carbohydrates and fats.

We all sat out at the picnic table in front of the cabin, relaxing in the sun and discussing what we were going to eat first. Food had become the primary focus of our thoughts and conversations. The light breeze kept the bugs mostly at bay, and our confidence was rewarded around 10:45 AM when we heard the deep drone of what sounded like a Dehavilland Beaver. It seemed to be getting closer! We chatted excitedly among ourselves and, as soon as the plane crested the horizon, we knew it was our group!

Everything moved quickly after that as the plane came soaring 100 mph over the lake and made a beeline for the centre. The pilot arched into a steep bank approaching from the opposite end of the lake we had arrived from. He taxied up to the dock, threw the ropes out, and Frank, Al, and Gerry hopped out along with all our food, water, beverages, guns, and chainsaw.

The nine of us made fast work of lugging it up to the cabin. Before the plane had even disappeared from view, we had bacon in the pan and beers cracked to celebrate the official start to our hunting trip. We learned the pilot had been very worried about the weather for the past couple days and was not confident flying the 80 KM north. The guys were concerned about us because they knew we had nothing to eat or drink.

It turns out they had a much worse time at the floatplane base than we did at camp. While we were out fishing, scouting, and relaxing by the fire, they were huddled in the cramped confines of the floatplane base, worrying about how we were doing.

We had no way to communicate, so they had no idea we were able to catch enough pike to sustain ourselves until they arrived. Apparently, there were several heated exchanges with the pilot and outfitter concerning our safety.

Soon the wonderful aroma of bacon overcame us as we forgot about past troubles and cracked eggs into the sizzling pan. Our dreams came true as we ate several pieces of toast and butter to replace the fat and carbs missed over the past three days.

It's amazing when you have gone without food for several days just how good a bacon and egg breakfast can taste. The orange juice and coffee were also a welcome change from the lukewarm scooter water.

Now that Gerry had arrived, he worked on the stove while we did the dishes. We aren't entirely sure what he did, but with the help of a coat hanger and his mechanical engineering degree, he got it running. He also worked with Mike to fix the axe handle so that we could split wood now that we had a chainsaw. The timing was good because a new weather pattern had arrived and it was getting colder.

Everyone was now full, and we decided it was time to do what we had come here for. Let's go hunting. It was a gorgeous dead calm fall evening, and the sun was just starting to drop down from its mid-October arc at 5:00 PM. We would have around 2 hours to sit out and do some calling in search of the elusive bull moose.

Leaving for Our First Full Hunt - Scan of 1995 film photo

I went back to my point on the Northwest corner, Gary in the middle, and Dad on the eastern shore. It was an idyllic evening, with the lake lying like a mirror on the water reflecting the sky and shoreline. The colours aren't quite as bright on a northern lake with more greens and dull yellows, but still beautiful on a rare evening such as this. The downside is we paid the price with massive clouds of black flies that were taking advantage of their last blast before the frost arrived. They seemed determined to hit us with everything they had in wave after wave of unrelenting attacks.

I sat as still as I could for about 1.5 hours doing the odd call every 15 minutes. The constant barrage of insects clouding around my head, bouncing behind my glasses, flying into my ears, and up my nose was very frustrating. It was actually becoming disheartening. As counter-intuitive as it was, I found the stiller I sat, the less aggressive they were. Waving and swatting did nothing but stir them up and encourage more to swarm in.

Just Dropped Off - Perfect Night for Hunting - Scan of 1995 film photo

While scanning the marshy shoreline at the northern tip of the lake, a glimmer caught my eye. I looked again and, sure enough, something was out of place. It appeared as though there was a light coloured object bobbing along the distant shoreline.

Then I noticed below the glinting white object a big black body standing motionless on the shore. The moose was standing still, feeding on vegetation along the shoreline, and it was his antlers I saw glinting in the sun.

It was a fairly far shot that I estimated at around 250-300 yards. I had a 300 Weatherby Magnum hand loaded hot with 220 grain Nosler Partition bullets, so this range was very doable with my gun and load. According to my chronograph, the muzzle velocity was a sizzling 2877 fps. I was sighted in 2.5" high at 100 yards, which would put me about 1" high at 200 yards and 5" low at 300 yards. I set it up this way so the crosshairs could be held dead on at any range from 0-300 yards and result in a killing shot on a moose sized target.

I like cartridges like the 300 Weatherby because it takes some of the guesswork out of hunting and reduces the potential for wounding an animal. This was before the days of readily available range finders. With this load, as long as I could estimate the animal was somewhere between 0 - 300 yards, there was nothing more I needed to do. Hold the crosshairs dead on and let nature take care of the rest.

The moose was in no hurry, and it was actually only about 100 yards from Gary, but there was no way he could ever see it from the other side of the rocky point.

I laid down and rested the Remington Model 700 across my seat cushion, which I had placed on a large flat rock. I dialled the Bushnell scope up to 9 power and centred the moose in the crosshairs.

I reestimated the range, and my best guess was 270 yards. Absolutely below my 300-yard maximum, so shooting was a go.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds, though. At a range of 270 yards, even a moose sized target doesn't look very big in a 9 power scope. Everything was going to have to go perfectly to make this shot work. Thankfully, I had lots of time because the moose didn't seem to be moving at all. It was continuing to stand still browsing on shoreline greenery. It appeared to be stripping the leaves off a low shrub.

The problem I was running into was my breathing was anything but smooth. The blackflies' constant harassment was agitating me, and they kept getting into my eyes, nose, and ears when I was trying to concentrate. The precarious perch on the rock, coupled with the bugs, was much different from the relative comfort of the shooting range. Even though I was drenched in Deep Woods Off, the flies kept coming at me in swarms and were also bouncing around and crawling on the scope's lenses.

I took several deep, slow breaths to steady myself and attempted to block out all of the distractions and only focus on the task at hand. I took two more slow breaths while holding the crosshairs dead centre on the bull and then squeezed the trigger. The big magnum roared to life, and, after the recoil, I rescoped to find the moose still standing there, looking in my direction. Strangely, the moose hadn't moved at all. It then took several steps forward, stopped, and looked my way again.

I resighted on its chest and slowly squeezed off another round. Boom!

Some say the 300 Weatherby Magnum has an objectional muzzle blast, but I have never minded it. I feel the extra noise is the price you pay for a gun capable of shooting this flat. After this shot, the moose took off jogging back into the swampy bush and disappeared into thick brush.

I was still watching when, about 30 seconds later, I saw Gary climb over top of the rocky point. He was looking around, trying to see what I was shooting at. I called him on the two-way radio and let him know I had shot at a large bull moose. I saw motion to my right on the lake and saw the square stern canoe already halfway across the lake. My father must have immediately hopped into the canoe after the first shot!

Three minutes later, he arrived and asked, "what did you shoot at." I said, "a large bull moose." He asked, "is it hit?" I said, "I think so, but not totally sure, it didn't drop or stagger."

We drove over to the shoreline, where I had last seen the moose. By the time we arrived, the sun was setting, so we turned on the flashlight and scanned the shoreline for blood. Fresh moose track was everywhere, and it was difficult to tell which were the bull's tracks. It was absolutely impossible to track it into the swamp due to ankle-deep water mixed with sphagnum moss, thick grass, and twisted shrubbery. With each step, a human track or moose track disappeared as fast as it was made.

We didn't see any blood where the moose was standing, and things didn't appear promising, but we gave the area a thorough search. We spread out and slowly walked back in the direction the moose had travelled. The shoreline where the moose was standing was a narrow strip of mucky land separating the lake from the swamp. We had to look for blood spattered on the small trees and bushes because it would be difficult to see any in the ankle-deep water.

We slowly fanned out and worked our way through the soupy black muck and green mossy tufts of grass poking out like islands in a black sea of mud. We squished and sloshed back another 50 yards, and things were starting to get concerning.

Then we both heard something. In the distance, we distinctly heard deep shallow breaths and a couple of deep huffs. It was unmistakable, and the deep resonating sound gently echoed throughout the dark swamp.

We could no longer see much beyond the narrow beams of the flashlight cutting through the darkness and highlighting the thick bushes, deadfalls, and swampy mess surrounding us.

We immediately swung northwest in the direction of the sound and saw motion in the underbrush 15 yards from us. There was a large black object lying beneath a deadfall almost submerged in the thick green vegetation. As we approached the moose, it was clear we had heard his last breaths. It was fortunate we were close enough to detect them.

Where We Found Him - Scan of 1995 film photo

It was a very large bull topped by a small rack for his size. The rack was about 34" wide, and the palms were narrow, which was strange to see on a moose of this size. We later learned that he was an older moose – estimated to be about 9 years old. Apparently, after about age 6 or 7, moose start to lose rack size, signaling to cows and other bulls that they are past their prime for mating.

Dad and I jumped for joy and called for Gary. Gary arrived about a minute later and, after a quick cheer, we decided we had better gut the moose immediately. Dad would then go back in the square stern to pick up the other guys to help pull it out.

Gary was an expert with the knife, and we had the moose gutted in no time. Dad was soon on his way back across the lake to recruit the remainder of the guys to help pull this 1000 lb + beast out to the shoreline.

Upon cleaning, it was revealed I had only hit the moose once about 14" to the right of where I was aiming. The bullet went into the moose on an angle, clipped the outer edge of the lungs, and pierced the liver on the way out. The Nosler Partition had done its job perfectly at nearly 300 yards, going through the entire body and creating a substantial exit wound.

Two things remain a mystery to this day. Why couldn't we find any blood from the large exit wound, and how had I missed by over a foot to the right?

Heightwise, the shot was absolutely perfect, but I was not expecting to be off by such a wide margin to the right. It just goes to show that under field conditions, anything can happen. The moose also ran a long way for such a devastating wound dead centre in its body, travelling approximately 140 yards back into the bush before laying down.

We stood on the rocky point waiting for the guys, and it was now pitch black, and the water had turned into a black inky mirror. We couldn't see where the water ended, and the sky began. Gary pulled a little 4 ounce flask out of his pocket and said he had some nectar saved for such an occasion, and the shooter deserved the first sip.

To this day, I'm still not sure what it was, but it was good and warmed my throat and stomach after all the excitement of the past hour. It had also gotten remarkably cold after the sun went down. This first clear night brought the traditional October cold with it, and the evening bug show that plagued us the past three nights was now gone. We saw an orange fire appear on the shoreline about 3 KM south of us and soon heard the drone of 2 outboard engines churning our way through the darkness.

This brings to mind another sight and memory I'll never forget. There was no moon, and everything was utterly black except for the stars twinkling above us and below us in their mirror image on the water. It felt like we were standing in a snowglobe. Stars are vividly bright in the north, and getting double the display in the sky and water is something you have to see to believe.

Soon, the rest of our team arrived and, after congratulations and handshakes all around, we bent our backs to the task at hand. Even with 8 of us, Al stayed back to tend to the fire, we could not budge the bull from his resting place in the mucky swamp. We wanted to avoid quartering the moose, so we cut it into two pieces.

It took us 20 minutes to pull each piece out. It was impressive to see the teamwork and chain of men working in the dark, knee-deep mud, all pulling to accomplish the same common goal. This is what teamwork is all about.

We rotated with two guys on the antlers holding the head up, stumbling through the mud and thick brush pulling on a rope, with the lead man holding the lantern and setting the direction. Who knew 140 yards could be so hard-fought? Don carried the lantern for the first while, uttering many choice words as the narrow sphere of light illuminated deadfall after deadfall, often too late for us to avoid.

We zig-zagged and detoured around so many obstacles the 140 yards seem like 250, but we worked together to get the job done.

Soon we had both pieces of the moose loaded into the square stern canoe, which said it had a maximum recommended load rating of 1200 lbs. We knew the gutted moose was just under 1000 lbs, so it would be tight with me and the motor, but doable. It was a glass-calm evening, and we had all the time in the world, so we tied two life jackets to the moose as insurance and putted in tandem back towards camp.

Author with Entire Bull Moose Loaded in Front of Square Stern - Scan of 1995 film photo

Al had a magnificent blaze going to help guide us, and it seemed like we were in outer space as we floated through the reflected stars with no defined transition between water and sky. It was all black, and there was no horizon line visible, but the fire made navigation easy.

It was amazing that, even on a dead calm night, the smell of woodsmoke greeted us from over a kilometer away, signaling that our journey was nearly complete.

We only hunted as a group for a total of two hours, and we were already successful. It's funny how things work out sometimes.

A trip that started out poorly, and could have been disastrous, had all come together in the end.

We achieved our goal of getting a moose. We had a great party that evening made better by having our whole group together along with food, drinks, and no bugs around the campfire. A radical departure from the previous three days.

We learned numerous things in the process that helped us in subsequent fly-in trips. The most important being to never take a flight anywhere without your essential items for survival and enough food and water to last for several days should there be any problems.

Thankfully, we travel with a great group of guys, and nobody got too frustrated with being forced to spend the first three days of the hunting trip of a lifetime with no food, drinks, or guns.

We took it in stride and, as soon as we got our team assembled, we took action, did what we had to do, and successfully harvested a moose. We had achieved our goal and checked off Frank's final mandatory box.

Looking back now, we all have fond memories of the trip, and it's funny how we don't remember the hunger pangs, the insecurity of not being able to communicate with the outside world, and not knowing where the plane was.

We focus on the good times, the laughs, and the successes we shared together as a group. We learned a lot of important lessons on that trip. One of the most important being, even when times are tough and uncertainty is surrounding you, keep working hard and moving forward with an optimistic outlook.

You may not always go in the direction you initially anticipated, but it’s a better solution than inactivity and worry. Keep a goal in mind, and don’t give up!