ANECDOTES OF THE MOOSE. A LARGE BULL IN THREE HOURS.
MOOSE WILL ANSWER A CALL. TWO PERSONAL EXPERIENCES.
FROM A GUIDE'S STANDPOINT. CRACK SHOTS. A JACK, A
MOOSE, AN ACCIDENT. A NOBLE ANIMAL--BUT 'T WAS JUNE.
THE ABLEST ROMANCE IN MOOSE HISTORY.
Picture a hungry group at supper around the camp-fire as night shuts down,
when the noisy jest and laughter are suddenly interrupted by your guide.
Listen! There it is again from over the lake,--the fierce challenge of the
bull and the horn-like note of the cow! I'll not try to record the many
exciting incidents of those glorious morning and evening watches; how this
one saw his lordship in broad daylight swagger across the open, just out of
rifle range; how that one, in the darkness of the homeward trail, called a
jealous bull so near that he could hear him breathe ere the tell-tale human
scent turned his course; or how another stalked a cow moose by mistake, and
watched her some time, vainly hoping her lord would call; for every hunter
knows of these slips, making success more pleasant when it is yours.
I must tell you, however, of that still October morning, of the faint mist
rising from the lake, of the bright hills so fairly mirrored by the clear
waters, and of the rising sun so dazzling on the mist and the water.
Suddenly the guide and I drop the half-prepared breakfast and take to the
canoe in haste. We had heard that note of notes--the angry challenge of a
bull moose. The remembrance of that morning brings back the sound as I
heard it a few miles away over the hills. Watch how the guide is carefully
following the course of the sound. We soon reach the other side. There he
is, head on! Wait! he may give a better shot. No! he sees the canoe. Shoot
now or he will be gone! Bang! A miss, for he did not flinch! The smoke
hides him! Bang! Bang! The guide has fired, too, but the smoke hampers
both. There he goes, crashing through the thicket! Let's give him another
for luck! He certainly was hard hit, and in that event it was best to let
him go, for after a short period of time he would lie down, become stiff,
and die. We paddled back to camp, finished breakfast, and in about three
hours returned to the place from whence he had entered the woods, and there
we found him, cold in death. He was a monster! A wealth of black, glossy
hair, a splendid bell, and massive antlers, fit to adorn any mantel.
[Illustration: _Under full head of steam_
_A Summer
Episode in the
Life of a young
Bull Moose_
_Nearing terra firma_
Photographed from Life.]
Three days later another fine bull fell to my party. Just at sunset he was
called out from across a pond, and strolled with that majestic woodland
swagger through the shallow water. The first shot so confused him that he
turned and came directly towards us, but soon veered off. At a closer range
this might have been interpreted as a fierce charge of the dying bull,
though it was merely an aimless start of surprise. He fell, with the ball
behind his shoulder, and we found him quite dead. It was a fatal one,
though it failed to stop him until he had gone fifty yards.
There was one section I had not visited, and this was to the east, in the
direction of the brook which had proven too small for floating logs. So it
was that after pulling the cabin door to, I made tracks toward the stream,
which I knew must be asleep under four or five inches of ice and two feet
of snow.
[Illustration: Off for t'other side
Safe ashore
What's that?
Bound inland
Photographed from Life.]
In half an hour's time I had reached the bank and crossed over, keeping
close to it all the time. I had not gone far beyond the ravine-like
formation with the brook hugging its lowest point, when there were
unmistakable evidences of large game. Moose it was. Tracks as large as a
cow, great rents in the snow crust, through which the brown earth showed in
spots; these were some of the traces. I went back across the ravine and
proceeded up-stream, following the east bank; saw several fresh tracks, but
they were cows, and along in the afternoon, while travelling up an old
brook, I saw the imprints of a large bull, and they were big ones, together
with a cow and calf. It did not take me long to decide what to do, and as
they followed the brook I knew that they had not heard me. The wind was
favorable and they were working up into it. Finally they left the brook
and that necessitated more caution on my part. I had covered about half a
mile and I heard the cow calling. Suddenly she came into view. I worked up
to within forty yards of her in hopes to find the bull, but ran into the
calf, a two-year-old; luckily he did not see me. Things were getting
interesting, with a moose on my left and another in front of me. Working my
way cautiously along I heard the bull in the thick growth. He was so
covered that I could hardly see him. By careful inspection, one antler and
part of his shoulder showed. Raising my rifle I fired, at which he stepped
into the clearing and stood defiant. What a noble looking fellow he was,
and a monster in size as he stood there shaking his head, blood running
from his mouth and nostrils. Once again I fired. As the last one struck he
went down, the shot breaking his shoulder blade--another victim of the
30-30.
The experience of a young New Yorker will serve to exemplify both the
uncertainty of moose calling and the manner in which it is prosecuted. He
was hunting in the Bear River woods, accompanied by one of the most expert
guides of that section. Two nights of calling proved fruitless. The
sportsman frankly told his guide he had no faith in it, and that he did not
believe a moose would come to the call of a man. This considerably ruffled
the guide's conceit, and he resolved, if possible, to make a lasting
impression to the contrary on the mind of his employer. That afternoon an
ideal place for calling was chosen. The tent was pitched beside a giant
boulder, on one side of which a narrow, open bog stretched away between
wooded banks, and on the other a sort of natural park extended to the foot
of a ridge covered with hard wood. The guide exacted the promise that his
companion would not shoot until he gave the word. All arrangements being
complete, as the sun was nearing the western horizon, the guide climbed to
the top of the boulder and sounded the call.
[Illustration: BULL MOOSE IN CARIBOU LAKE.
Photographed from Life.]
Almost immediately, from the ridge, about two miles away, came the
deep-voiced answer of an old bull. A few minutes sufficed to show that he
was coming at a rapid pace. The guide continued to call at regular
intervals, and in a few minutes another answer was heard far down the bog,
though this time from a smaller moose. A few seconds later brought a reply
from a third, in another direction. The sport was getting exciting. The
guide came down from his perch on the rock and stationed his employer and
himself behind a smaller boulder, over which it was possible to look while
lying on the ground. The guide thought the young moose would not come up
for fear of the larger ones, and of course the one he wanted was the
monster that had first answered. In that, however, he was disappointed. The
distance was considerable, and while the big bull was still a long way off
he was interrupted and turned from his course by another party of
hunters. The little one on the bog ceased to answer, but the large one that
had started last was, when the sun went down, already quite near, and
coming steadily along. When the moose was about breaking cover the guide
climbed partly up the big rock and noted the direction from which he was
coming, satisfying himself the game would appear on the side of the boulder
on which they were stationed. Another call, and the bull's hoofs were heard
beating the firm ground as he trotted up the slope toward the men. In full
view of the hunters, and about ten yards from them, grew a bunch of sapling
birches. There the moose paused and began a furious onslaught with his
antlers. Having tired of that, he turned toward the hunters, and going
down on his knees plowed his horns along the ground some distance, tossing
them, well loaded with vines, moss, and earth. With a snort, he shook these
from his head, the dirt falling on and around the two men lying behind the
rock. The city man about that time was enjoying his first acute attack of
moose fever. His teeth fairly chattered, and the guide had to grip his
rifle barrel to prevent it from rattling against the rock. Again the moose
came on and stood with his broadside toward them, not more than twelve feet
from the muzzle of the rifle. That was about as close quarters as the guide
cared for on his own account, so he gave the word to fire. The moose went
down with the shot, but immediately rose to his feet again. Again the
rifle spoke, and down he went, only to rise again. The third shot, however,
dropped him for the last time. Any of them would have proved fatal, but the
moose was too close for the men to take any chances.
The sportsman was convinced a moose would come at a man's call, and was so
excited over the fact that he slept none on that night.
I recall an experience of mine with an old bull on Pockwockamus Dead Water
(from my note book), Oct. 21, 1899.
I had gone only a few steps when I heard the splashing of a moose around
the bend of the stream ahead. There was a stretch of sand that led to an
island for which I made. There I concealed myself in the brush. I could
hear the big fellow wading along and ploughing through the reeds. I first
saw his antlers above the brush, and then his majestic head appeared. That
was all he would show, as he suspected a hidden foe and was on the lookout
for any apparent danger. For distance, he was about one hundred yards from
me and close inshore. Finally an opportunity presented itself, and I raised
my rifle and let go through the leaves where his neck should be. At the
report he made a quick turn and disappeared in the thick growth. I dashed
through the water, which was only about three feet deep, up the opposite
bank, and pushed my way through the bushes to where I had last seen him.
There he lay. My shot was fatal. As I appeared he snorted at me and tried
to regain his feet, but his efforts were ineffectual. I then put him out of
his misery with a shot through the heart.
[Illustration: COW MOOSE IN UMSASKIS LAKE.
Photographed from Life.]
Still another is worthy of mention.
At one time the guide and myself were coming back to camp, just about dusk,
after a long tramp, and were within sight of the tents, when we heard a
moose off to the right and close to the trail. The guide tried to coax him
out of the thicket by gently sounding the birch horn, which he had with
him. The moose turned with a crash and ran towards us, grunting all the
time. We were crouched behind a pile of birch brush. The big fellow kept
coming, until it seemed as if he might at any moment jump over the brush
pile and appear before us. It was too dark to shoot, so I slightly changed
my position, thinking I might see the moose outlined against the sky. Just
as I moved, the moose turned, ran some distance back into the woods and
stopped, grunting again as if he was not certain about it all; but he was
soon off, this time silently.
The next morning I was out early examining the tracks, and found it only
sixteen paces from where we were behind the brush pile to where his
lordship had been standing. I could see where he had barked the trees with
his antlers when he was first frightened.
It is fortunate for some of the sportsmen who journey to the north woods
after big game in the fall that their guides live so far away, otherwise
their reputation might suffer. This concerns both their personal traits and
their ability as hunters. Camp life brings out a man's true qualities. The
experience of a sportsman during his first attempt to lure a moose from his
home in the forest is related as follows:--
One of the party tried his luck at calling. He left the guide at the camp.
Quietly hiding among some shrubs, he gave a gentle but long-drawn-out call
and waited results. Hardly had the notes died away than there was a
tremendous crash, the alders parted, and the head of a large bull moose
appeared in the leafy frame within ten feet of the hunter. This abrupt
entrance dumfounded the sportsman whose confusion and consternation were
pretty evenly balanced at a moment when he needed his wits. Who was the
more frightened it was hard to tell. At any rate the caller returned to
camp posthaste minus his gun, horn, and hat, and with an expression that
was indeed pitiable.
A guide, who had a well-known preacher in the woods for a short time one
season, refused to take him the following year. On being asked the reason
he said:--
"That man cares only for himself and thinks his guide can be wound up with
a key to work like a machine. He may be good enough to preach the Gospel,
but he ain't good enough for me to guide."
[Illustration: YOUNG BULL AND COW MOOSE SWIMMING.
(Lobster Lake.)
Photographed from Life.]
Many are the stories told by the guides about the unsuccessful sportsmen
who lack the moral courage to go home empty-handed. So accustomed have the
guides become to this sort of thing that they take it for granted, unless
instructed to the contrary, that they are to kill the game their employer
is to take home with him, provided he does not meet with success in the
early part of the hunt.
Another guide has to say of visiting sportsmen: "Some of them shoot all
right, of course, but others are regular Spaniards. I had a fellow up this
way last fall that thought he was death on anything walking on four legs,
and that his gun was the best shooting tool ever turned out of a gun
factory. I paddled him right up to a bull moose standing in the water one
day, and he fired every shot in his magazine at it without rumpling a hair.
"He didn't know enough to stop pumping the lever when all his shells were
gone, and just about then I chipped in with my rifle and put a ball through
the moose's shoulder that dropped him handy to the bank. The sportsman was
in the act of pulling the trigger of his empty gun, when he saw the moose
fall, and he didn't for a moment doubt but what he had killed him. He felt
so good that he rose right up in the canoe and yelled, and the next thing I
knew the canoe kind of slid out from under us and over we went into four
feet of mud and water."
[Illustration: BULL MOOSE IN CARIBOU LAKE.
Photographed from Life.]
A New York sportsman had his guide call a moose into the East Branch
thoroughfare one evening just before dark, and the guide tells of his
difficulty in pointing him out to the sportsman, who happened to be
nearsighted. The moose walked right out into the water away from the
concealment of the bushes and stopped. The guide nudged the sportsman and
whispered to shoot.
"Shoot what?" said the sportsman in a louder tone than was prudent under
the circumstances. "I don't see anything to shoot."
"Shoot the moose," he whispered again, "there he stands under that
broken-topped spruce."
The lawyer craned his neck and peered into every shadow but the right one.
Two or three rods below the moose was a clump of bushes growing out beyond
the general shore line. The lawyer finally singled this out as the moose
and opened fire. He was perfectly cool, and every one of his shots went
straight to the centre of the object at which he was firing.
Moose are notoriously slow to start when alarmed, provided they have not
scented the hunter, and the one in question stood motionless until the
sportsman had fired five shots at his inanimate target and had but one
cartridge left in the magazine. Then the moose turned to escape, and, as
luck would have it, dashed directly into the line of fire. The lawyer saw
it, and with his sixth and last shot dropped the moose stone dead.
[Illustration: BULL MOOSE IN ALLAGASH STREAM.
(St. John Waters.)
Photographed from Life.]
On another occasion, a sportsman, to show his contempt for Maine's
prohibition law, got gloriously full every day before ten o'clock.
The guide left him in the canoe one afternoon while he went ashore to look
for some game signs on a bog near at hand. As he was returning he saw a
nice moose step out of cover within ridiculously easy rifle shot of the
sportsman. The sportsman at once opened fire on the moose, but after many
shots the animal trotted off, untouched.
"'T was this haway," said the bibulous hunter, in explaining his misses,
"when that moose came out there was only one, all right enough, but when I
cut loose with the old gun, blame if the moose didn't double up into two. I
couldn't shoot both at once, and while I was pumping it into one the other
got away. Mus' ha' been I shot at the wrong moose."
[Illustration: BULL AND COW MOOSE.
Photographed from Life.]
"You want to hear how my sports shoot?" said another native guide. "Well,
I'll tell you a little story and then you can judge for yourself. I started
out on the river one afternoon with a man from Boston, to look for moose.
It was a nice, quiet afternoon, and a good one to get game. We dropped down
stream with the current, and the first thing we knew there was a big bull
moose right out in the centre of the stream, sousing his head under
water, and feeding on the lily roots. Mr. A. was paralyzed at the sight,
for he never attempted to shoot. I held the canoe by putting my paddle down
to the bottom, to give him a chance to recover his nerve, and after a while
he realized what was expected of him, raised his rifle and fired. The shot
did not go any where near the moose, and the animal just raised his head
and stood there, looking back over its shoulder. I whispered to Mr. A.:
'You missed. Shoot again.' As it happened, my paddle slipped off into deep
water, and we were floating down on the moose and getting a good deal
closer than necessary. Mr. A. raised his gun and shot again, and then, as
the moose started to walk towards the bank, he got the action limbered up
and fired four more shots as quick as he could work the lever. None of them
touched the moose, and it moved off into the bushes, without seeming to
mind the racket very much. The moose wasn't nearly as rattled as Mr. A.
That man was completely prostrated with excitement. Nothing would do but we
must go straight back to camp. He said his nerves were too badly broken up
to stand anything more of the kind that day.
"Well, sir, we hadn't gone more than three hundred yards on our return
trip, when I saw another bull on the bog adjacent to the stream. I paddled
Mr. A. within good, easy range, and he tried his luck again, but the bullet
struck the water twenty feet to the right. With that he began to swear, and
he threw his rifle down on the bottom of the canoe, cussing it and
everything else in sight. The moose gave a sudden jump and disappeared in
the alders. I reckon the swearing scared it more than the shooting.
[Illustration: MOOSE CALVES LEAVING WATER.
(Mud Pond Region.)
Photographed from Life.]
"We hadn't more than a mile to go to reach camp, when Providence, just to
tantalize that man, gave him another opportunity. As we came around the
last bend, there stood a bull and a cow on the bank, not a great way off.
Mr. A. shot twice at the bull, as he stood there, and never touched a hair.
''T ain't no use trying,' he said, 'I can shoot at a paper target all
right, but when it comes to game it's a different matter.' If all the
hunters who go into Maine could shoot as well in the woods as they can at
a mark there wouldn't be a decent head left in the State.
"Now, there is a sample of your city sportsmen. That man fired nine shots
at those moose and he never drew blood, and I could have hit the larger
majority of them with a brick. Yes, sir; if I'd had a good brick I could
have swatted any one of those animals in the short ribs."
[Illustration: COW MOOSE SWIMMING MOOSEHEAD LAKE
Photographed from Life.]
One of the most amusing incidents to others than the participants, and a
most painful one to them, was the experience of two young moose hunters
from far off Oregon, who tried their luck in the lower Dead River region of
Maine with a jack. The night selected was one of exceptional darkness, the
scene, a large bog about five miles from camp, and all conditions pointed
to a most successful first attempt at this most unsportsmanlike branch of
hunting. Supper over, with both eager for the fray, an early start was in
order, and soon the silent craft with its over-anxious freight left the
bank and started down stream. The intense stillness of an early summer
night was not broken save by an occasional muskrat hurrying to its home in
the bank or the ripples playing round the bow of their canoe. Mile after
mile was reeled off, when suddenly a loud splashing was heard dead ahead in
the stream. It was a simple matter for the man with the jack to light it,
but his experience with the instrument in question was limited, and he had
not discovered the slide arrangement by which the light is quickly covered
without extinguishing it. The splashing continued, and both were undecided
whether to back out of their present position or light up and see what the
real cause of the disturbance was. The man in the stern suggested that the
lamp had better remain in the bottom of the canoe, while his friend in the
bow considered it far better to have a little light on the subject and
therefore be able to get their bearings. By scratching a match and
connecting it with the wick, the jack threw a strong light far ahead on the
silent waters. It required but a second to see a large dark object ten rods
ahead, waist deep in the water, and standing head on. Moose fever had
attacked both of the men, and they sat motionless as the large black
object cautiously moved nearer, wondering at each step who was challenging
him in his woodland retreat. By a superhuman effort the stern man, in a
voice scarcely above a whisper, told his friend to extinguish the light, as
the animal would be upon them in a short space of time. The animal, which
proved to be a large bull moose, decided that a closer inspection of these
trespassers was in order. He was now scarce a rod away, and the light from
the jack being exceedingly bright made him somewhat bewildered, with the
result that he charged the canoe. The water, being shallow at this point,
favored the men and prevented a possible catastrophe. His lordship jumped
in and the men jumped out of the canoe. They crawled to the bank and
secreted themselves as best they could under a neighboring tree, while the
animal made short work of the frail craft he had suddenly taken possession
of. A reasonable time having expired, the guides at the camp became
somewhat anxious as to the safety of their charges, and started in search.
At the approach of another craft the moose trotted off into the woods,
leaving the thoroughly frightened sportsmen in their undesirable position,
where they were found and taken back to camp, two sadder, and I might add,
wiser Oregonians.
[Illustration: TWO MAGNIFICENT TROPHIES OF THE CHASE.
The one on the left formerly held the Maine Record.]
[Illustration: YOUNG BULL MOOSE CAUGHT IN DEEP SNOW.
(Northern Aroostook.)
Photographed from Life.]
A NOBLE ANIMAL--BUT 'TWAS JUNE.
The waters of Black Pond, which but a scarce hour before had been lashed
into foam by a southwardly breeze, were silent. In the west the myriad
tints of a golden sunset were disappearing and the tiny stars were
beginning to peep through their blanket of blue. Against this majestic
picture, in the foreground, stood tall pines, rising like sentinels from
the bog in which for years they had found their growth. Far out on the lake
could be heard the solitary cry of a loon calling to his mate. What can be
more sublime, more entertaining, to the true sportsman than to be left
alone with nature in this paradise? A suggestion from the guide that we
skirt the shore and see if there be any game in the pond brought hearty
approval from his employer, and seating myself in the bow, we were soon
under way. Such music the tiny ripples make as they frolic and dance at the
bow, as the craft glides noiselessly along, the whirr of many wings, and a
large flock of wild ducks are up and away at our approach. The moon is on
the rise, and lights this woodland paradise with its shining rays. Suddenly
a loud splashing was heard down the shore not many rods distant, and the
guide sheers off so as to approach the forest denizen from the side. Again
the splashing, and twenty rods distant can be seen a large moose, throwing
the water from off his sides, unconscious of any human intruders. Such a
picture as he made, standing side on, fearless and brave. The guide had
stopped paddling, and the momentum gained was carrying us nearer every
second. Suddenly, coming into his line of vision, he turned his head in our
direction and showed us a most magnificent pair of velvet-covered antlers.
In his eye was the look of defiance, and, with his great head lifted high
in the air, the water still dripping from his brown coat, he seemed to say,
"Well, it's June, what are you going to do about it?" And so it was. We
left him, and slowly paddled back to camp, wishing that the seasons for a
scarce minute had changed,--that October had been June, that June had been
October,--and most of all that we could have used a rifle.
[Illustration: COW MOOSE ON SHORE OF ALLAGASH LAKE.
Photographed from Life.]
THE ABLEST ROMANCE IN MOOSE HISTORY IS THUS DESCRIBED:
The man who tells it says he was hunting in the mountains of Nova Scotia,
when he saw a huge bull moose grazing on a patch of moss, a hundred yards
away. He up and fired but when the smoke had cleared away, there stood the
moose grazing as before.
Again he fired, and again he was chagrined to see that the moose didn't
seem to mind it. A third shot, and the moose disappeared. Much excited, the
hunter ran to the moss patch, and there, on the further slope, lay three
dead moose. Pretty risky story to tell in Maine.
THE END.
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