[Illustration]
Midnight in the wilderness. The belated moon wheels slowly above the
eastern ridge, where for a few minutes past a mighty pine and hundreds
of pointed spruce tops have been standing out in inky blackness
against the gray and brightening background. The silver light steals
swiftly down the evergreen tops, sending long black shadows creeping
before it, and falls glistening and shimmering across the sleeping
waters of a forest lake. No ripple breaks its polished surface; no
plash of musquash or leaping trout sends its vibrations up into the
still, frosty air; no sound of beast or bird awakens the echoes of the
silent forest. Nature seems dying, her life frozen out of her by the
chill of the October night; and no voice tells of her suffering.
A moment ago the little lake lay all black and uniform, like a great
well among the hills, with only glimmering star-points to reveal its
surface. Now, down in a bay below a grassy point, where the dark
shadows of the eastern shore reach almost across, a dark object is
lying silent and motionless on the lake. Its side seems gray and
uncertain above the water; at either end is a dark mass, that in the
increasing light takes the form of human head and shoulders. A bark
canoe with two occupants is before us; but so still, so lifeless
apparently, that till now we thought it part of the shore beyond.
There is a movement in the stern; the profound stillness is suddenly
broken by a frightful roar: _M-wah-úh! M-waah-úh! M-w-wã-a-ã-ã-a!_ The
echoes rouse themselves swiftly, and rush away confused and broken, to
and fro across the lake. As they die away among the hills there is a
sound from the canoe as if an animal were walking in shallow water,
_splash, splash, splash, klop!_ then silence again, that is not dead,
but listening.
A half-hour passes; but not for an instant does the listening tension
of the lake relax. Then the loud bellow rings out again, startling us
and the echoes, though we were listening for it. This time the tension
increases an hundredfold; every nerve is strained; every muscle ready.
Hardly have the echoes been lost when from far up the ridges comes a
deep, sudden, ugly roar that penetrates the woods like a rifle-shot.
Again it comes, and nearer! Down in the canoe a paddle blade touches
the water noiselessly from the stern; and over the bow there is the
glint of moonlight on a rifle barrel. The roar is now continuous on
the summit of the last low ridge. Twigs crackle, and branches snap.
There is the thrashing of mighty antlers among the underbrush, the
pounding of heavy hoofs upon the earth; and straight down the great
bull rushes like a tempest, nearer, nearer, till he bursts with
tremendous crash through the last fringe of alders out onto the grassy
point.--And then the heavy boom of a rifle rolling across the startled
lake.
Such is moose calling, in one of its phases--the most exciting, the
most disappointing, the most trying way of hunting this noble game.
The call of the cow moose, which the hunter always uses at first, is a
low, sudden bellow, quite impossible to describe accurately. Before
ever hearing it, I had frequently asked Indians and hunters what it
was like. The answers were rather unsatisfactory. "Like a tree
falling," said one. "Like the sudden swell of a cataract or the rapids
at night," said another. "Like a rifle-shot, or a man shouting
hoarsely," said a third; and so on till like a menagerie at feeding
time was my idea of it.
One night as I sat with my friend at the door of our bark tent, eating
our belated supper in tired silence, while the rush of the salmon
pool near and the sigh of the night wind in the spruces were lulling
us to sleep as we ate, a sound suddenly filled the forest, and was
gone. Strangely enough, we pronounced the word _moose_ together,
though neither of us had ever heard the sound before. 'Like a gun in a
fog' would describe the sound to me better than anything else, though
after hearing it many times the simile is not at all accurate. This
first indefinite sound is heard early in the season. Later it is
prolonged and more definite, and often repeated as I have given it.
The answer of the bull varies but little. It is a short, hoarse,
grunting roar, frightfully ugly when close at hand, and leaving no
doubt as to the mood he is in. Sometimes when a bull is shy, and the
hunter thinks he is near and listening, though no sound gives any idea
of his whereabouts, he follows the bellow of the cow by the short roar
of the bull, at the same time snapping the sticks under his feet, and
thrashing the bushes with a club. Then, if the bull answers, look out.
Jealous, and fighting mad, he hurls himself out of his concealment and
rushes straight in to meet his rival. Once aroused in this way he
heeds no danger, and the eye must be clear and the muscles steady to
stop him surely ere he reaches the thicket where the hunter is
concealed. Moonlight is poor stuff to shoot by at best, and an
enraged bull moose is a very big and a very ugly customer. It is a
poor thicket, therefore, that does not have at least one good tree
with conveniently low branches. As a rule, however, you may trust your
Indian, who is an arrant coward, to look out for this very carefully.
The trumpet with which the calling is done is simply a piece of birch
bark, rolled up cone-shaped with the smooth side within. It is fifteen
or sixteen inches long, about four inches in diameter at the larger,
and one inch at the smaller end. The right hand is folded round the
smaller end for a mouthpiece; into this the caller grunts and roars
and bellows, at the same time swinging the trumpet's mouth in sweeping
curves to imitate the peculiar quaver of the cow's call. If the bull
is near and suspicious, the sound is deadened by holding the mouth of
the trumpet close to the ground. This, to me, imitates the real sound
more accurately than any other attempt.
So many conditions must be met at once for successful calling, and so
warily does a bull approach, that the chances are always strongly
against the hunter's seeing his game. The old bulls are shy from much
hunting; the younger ones fear the wrath of an older rival. It is only
once in a lifetime, and far back from civilization, where the moose
have not been hunted, that one's call is swiftly answered by a savage
old bull that knows no fear. Here one is never sure what response his
call will bring; and the spice of excitement, and perhaps danger, is
added to the sport.
In illustration of the uncertainty of calling, the writer recalls with
considerable pride his first attempt, which was somewhat startling in
its success. It was on a lake, far back from the settlements, in
northern New Brunswick. One evening, late in August, while returning
from fishing, I heard the bellow of a cow moose on a hardwood ridge
above me. Along the base of the ridge stretched a bay with grassy
shores, very narrow where it entered the lake, but broadening out to
fifty yards across, and reaching back half a mile to meet a stream
that came down from a smaller lake among the hills. All this I noted
carefully while gliding past; for it struck me as an ideal place for
moose calling, if one were hunting.
The next evening, while fishing alone in the cold stream referred to,
I heard the moose again on the same ridge; and in a sudden spirit of
curiosity determined to try the effect of a roar or two on her, in
imitation of an old bull. I had never heard of a cow answering the
call; and I had no suspicion then that the bull was anywhere near. I
was not an expert caller. Under tuition of my Indian (who was
himself a rather poor hand at it) I had practised two or three times
till he told me, with charming frankness, that possibly a _man_ might
mistake me for a moose, if he hadn't heard one very often. So here was
a chance for more practice and a bit of variety. If it frightened her
it would do no harm, as we were not hunting.
[Illustration]
Running the canoe quietly ashore below where the moose had called, I
peeled the bark from a young birch, rolled it into a trumpet, and,
standing on the grassy bank, uttered the deep grunt of a bull two or
three times in quick succession. The effect was tremendous. From the
summit of the ridge, not two hundred yards above where I stood, the
angry challenge of a bull was hurled down upon me out of the woods.
Then it seemed as if a steam engine were crashing full speed through
the underbrush. In fewer seconds than it takes to write it the canoe
was well out into deep water, lying motionless with the bow inshore. A
moment later a huge bull plunged through the fringe of alders onto the
open bank, gritting his teeth, grunting, stamping the earth savagely,
and thrashing the bushes with his great antlers--as ugly a picture as
one would care to meet in the woods.
He seemed bewildered at not seeing his rival, ran swiftly along the
bank, turned and came swinging back again, all the while uttering his
hoarse challenge. Then the canoe swung in the slight current; in
getting control of it again the movement attracted his attention, and
he saw me for the first time. In a moment he was down the bank into
shallow water, striking with his hoofs and tossing his huge head up
and down like an angry bull. Fortunately the water was deep, and he
did not try to swim out; for there was not a weapon of any kind in the
canoe.
When I started down towards the lake, after baiting the bull's fury
awhile by shaking the paddle and splashing water at him, he followed
me along the bank, keeping up his threatening demonstrations. Down
near the lake he plunged suddenly ahead before I realized the danger,
splashed out into the narrow opening in front of the canoe--and there
I was, trapped.
It was dark when I at last got out of it. To get by the ugly beast in
that narrow opening was out of the question, as I found out after a
half-hour's trying. Just at dusk I turned the canoe and paddled slowly
back; and the moose, leaving his post, followed as before along the
bank. At the upper side of a little bay I paddled close up to shore,
and waited till he ran round, almost up to me, before backing out into
deep water. Splashing seemed to madden the brute, so I splashed him,
till in his fury he waded out deeper and deeper, to strike the
exasperating canoe with his antlers. When he would follow no further,
I swung the canoe suddenly, and headed for the opening at a racing
stroke. I had a fair start before he understood the trick; but I never
turned to see how he made the bank and circled the little bay. The
splash and plunge of hoofs was fearfully close behind me as the canoe
shot through the opening; and as the little bark swung round on the
open waters of the lake, for a final splash and flourish of the
paddle, and a yell or two of derision, there stood the bull in the
inlet, still thrashing his antlers and gritting his teeth; and there I
left him.
The season of calling is a short one, beginning early in September and
lasting till the middle of October. Occasionally a bull will answer as
late as November, but this is unusual. In this season a perfectly
still night is perhaps the first requisite. The bull, when he hears
the call, will often approach to within a hundred yards without making
a sound. It is simply wonderful how still the great brute can be as he
moves slowly through the woods. Then he makes a wide circuit till he
has gone completely round the spot where he heard the call; and if
there is the slightest breeze blowing he scents the danger, and is off
on the instant. On a still night his big trumpet-shaped ears are
marvelously acute. Only absolute silence on the hunter's part can
insure success.
Another condition quite as essential is moonlight. The moose sometimes
calls just before dusk and just before sunrise; but the bull is more
wary at such times, and very loth to show himself in the open. Night
diminishes his extreme caution, and unless he has been hunted he
responds more readily. Only a bright moonlight can give any accuracy
to a rifle-shot. To attempt it by starlight would result simply in
frightening the game, or possibly running into danger.
By far the best place for calling, if one is in a moose country, is
from a canoe on some quiet lake or river. A spot is selected midway
between two open shores, near together if possible. On whichever side
the bull answers, the canoe is backed silently away into the shadow
against the opposite bank; and there the hunters crouch motionless
till their game shows himself clearly in the moonlight on the open
shore.
If there is no water in the immediate vicinity of the hunting ground,
then a thicket in the midst of an open spot is the place to call. Such
spots are found only about the barrens, which are treeless plains
scattered here and there throughout the great northern wilderness.
The scattered thickets on such plains are, without doubt, the islands
of the ancient lakes that once covered them. Here the hunter collects
a thick nest of dry moss and fir tips at sundown, and spreads the
thick blanket that he has brought on his back all the weary way from
camp; for without it the cold of the autumn night would be unendurable
to one who can neither light a fire nor move about to get warm. When a
bull answers a call from such a spot he will generally circle the
barren, just within the edge of the surrounding forest, and unless
enraged by jealousy will seldom venture far out into the open. This
fearfulness of the open characterizes the moose in all places and
seasons. He is a creature of the forest, never at ease unless within
quick reach of its protection.
An exciting incident happened to Mitchell, my Indian guide, one
autumn, while hunting on one of these barrens with a sportsman whom he
was guiding. He was moose calling one night from a thicket near the
middle of a narrow barren. No answer came to his repeated calling,
though for an hour or more he had felt quite sure that a bull was
within hearing, somewhere within the dark fringe of forest. He was
about to try the roar of the bull, when it suddenly burst out of the
woods behind them, in exactly the opposite quarter from that in which
they believed their game was concealed. Mitchell started to creep
across the thicket, but scarcely had the echoes answered when, in
front of them, a second challenge sounded sharp and fierce; and they
saw, directly across the open, the underbrush at the forest's edge
sway violently, as the bull they had long suspected broke out in a
towering rage. He was slow in advancing, however, and Mitchell glided
rapidly across the thicket, where a moment later his excited hiss
called his companion. From the opposite fringe of forest the second
bull had hurled himself out, and was plunging with savage grunts
straight towards them.
Crouching low among the firs they awaited his headlong rush; not
without many a startled glance backward, and a very uncomfortable
sense of being trapped and frightened, as Mitchell confessed to me
afterward. He had left his gun in camp; his employer had insisted upon
it, in his eagerness to kill the moose himself.
The bull came rapidly within rifle-shot. In a minute more he would be
within their hiding place; and the rifle sight was trying to cover a
vital spot, when right behind them--at the thicket's edge, it
seemed--a frightful roar and a furious pounding of hoofs brought them
to their feet with a bound. A second later the rifle was lying among
the bushes, and a panic-stricken hunter was scratching and smashing
in a desperate hurry up among the branches of a low spruce, as if only
the tiptop were half high enough. Mitchell was nowhere to be seen;
unless one had the eyes of an owl to find him down among the roots of
a fallen pine.
But the first moose smashed straight through the thicket without
looking up or down; and out on the open barren a tremendous struggle
began. There was a minute's confused uproar, of savage grunts and
clashing antlers and pounding hoofs and hoarse, labored breathing;
then the excitement of the fight was too strong to be resisted, and a
dark form wriggled out from among the roots, only to stretch itself
flat under a bush and peer cautiously at the struggling brutes not
thirty feet away. Twice Mitchell hissed for his employer to come down;
but that worthy was safe astride the highest branch that would bear
his weight, with no desire evidently for a better view of the fight.
Then Mitchell found the rifle among the bushes and, waiting till the
bulls backed away for one of their furious charges, killed the larger
one in his tracks. The second stood startled an instant, with raised
head and muscles quivering, then dashed away across the barren and
into the forest.
Such encounters are often numbered among the tragedies of the great
wilderness. In tramping through the forest one sometimes comes upon
two sets of huge antlers locked firmly together, and white bones,
picked clean by hungry prowlers. It needs no written record to tell
their story.
Once I saw a duel that resulted differently. I heard a terrific
uproar, and crept through the woods, thinking to have a savage
wilderness spectacle all to myself. Two young bulls were fighting
desperately in an open glade, just because they were strong and proud
of their first big horns.
But I was not alone, as I expected. A great flock of crossbills
swooped down into the spruces, and stopped whistling in their
astonishment. A dozen red squirrels snickered and barked their
approval, as the bulls butted each other. Meeko is always glad when
mischief is afoot. High overhead floated a rare woods' raven, his head
bent sharply downward to see. Moose-birds flitted in restless
excitement from tree to bush. Kagax the weasel postponed his
bloodthirsty errand to the young rabbits. And just beside me, under
the fir tips, Tookhees the wood-mouse forgot his fear of the owl and
the fox and his hundred enemies, and sat by his den in broad daylight,
rubbing his whiskers nervously.
So we watched, till the bull that was getting the worst of it backed
near me, and got my wind, and the fight was over.