Creakylimb
FNG
- Joined
- Nov 28, 2016
- Messages
- 55
Everyone dreams of giant bulls in the Brooks range, the Mackenzies of the Yukon/NWT, or northern BC. While I hope to one day hunt these far off lands, for now I'm fortunate enough to be able to hunt moose annually in my home province of Saskatchewan.
This year I drew a tag for WMZ62 in the Northeastern part of the province Northwest of Tobin Lake in the provincial forest. Lately, the amount of moose in the Southern prairie regions is increasing every year, and some monster bulls are being taken, but truthfully these hunts aren't really my style. Spotting moose from the pickup and shooting from beside the road is often the go to method on these hunts where the moose are highly visible. And so with a tag for 62 in my pocket, I knew the effort required would be significant, and the odds for success low, but I was excited nonetheless to hunt moose in the rut.
The end of September came quickly, passing with it another unsuccessful elk season. With a dwindling supply of meat in the freezer, I decided to leave my bow at home and pack my Browning X-Bolt in .338 Win Mag for this trip. With a few extra days off from work, I spent the last two days before the season opener on October 1st hiking the many ATV trails in the area looking for sign. I crossed paths with a few other people, mostly weekend users of the trail system, and one fellow hunting elk. None claimed to have seen any moose sign. However, one small stretch of lower lying ground south of a spot where the Torch River makes an oxbow, there in the mud were several fresh moose tracks. It appeared to be a bull and a couple of cows, and certainly showed some promise.
Returning to this spot opening morning, I called for a couple hours. Although I saw several grouse that tempted me, they were the only action that morning. I spent midday scouring the area for more sign, turning up one small track. Following for nearly 2 miles the moose never slowed or veered off its course, I suspected a young bull cruising for cows.
Morning two brought high winds and sideways rain, cold and miserable. I hiked into a new area I had hunted in the past, and found a few years of wet weather had left it more suitable for a fan boat than hiking boots. A long drive into some new country later that day found an old moose kill from native hunters weeks prior, and to prove how wet it was, I stumbled onto a crayfish on the trail.
That night I discussed strategy with my Grandpa, who I was staying with for this hunt. He had been the one to show me this country when I could barely match his stride with 3 of my own. He hunted and trapped in this country for years, his opinion was and is very valuable to me. We agreed I should return to the spot from opening morning, as my calling that day may have drawn a bull into the area. If there's one bit of information I've gleaned from many seasoned moose hunters, it's that the moose have far more patience than we hunters do.
Leaving the truck at daybreak, slightly behind schedule in my mind, I wondered what the morning would hold. I had seen 3 cow elk on the way in, and the weather seemed perfect for game movement. The wind from the day before had blown a lot of the leaf cover down, and what had been a beautiful golden fall was now showing sign of winter. Soft and wet from the rain, the trail was quiet under foot. Approaching the southern edge of the bog I had found moose sign in previously, I paused, deciding whether to press onward or call from where I was at. Better to start on the downwind side of everything, I thought, and raised my hands to my face and let out a couple of low toned bull grunts. Immediately I thought I heard a response, but it could have been an echo, and the breeze was still strong enough to mask a lot of the sound. Regardless, I called again, just in case. Same result. I was still wearing my pack, rifle slung over my shoulder, glancing slowly in each direction but watching more with my ears than my eyes. Turning my head back to my left, I saw the nose and antlers of a bull breaking out of the spruce trees onto the trail 90 yards away. I quickly dropped to a knee, shouldered my rifle, and pushed the safety ahead in one smooth motion. The first shot passed clean through the heart, staggering the bull, a second through the same hole had the same effect. Not wanting the bull to get far off the trail, I attempted to anchor the bull with a head shot. No dice. He turned toward me and leaned into the thick trees alongside the trail. I dumped my pack off my back, tearing through the contents, and found my ammo. Tossing a round in the chamber I placed the crosshairs on bone, above the now broadside bulls front leg, and sent one final round. He plowed through a spruce on his way down, and lay still.
I took a few moments to collect myself, and make sure I was actually there and present, then approached the downed bull. The air smelled of wet, decaying leaves, spruce needles, and gunpowder. Snapping a few pictures, I quickly got to work on the bull. Let me tell you, one of these critters on the ground when you're alone gives you a whole lot of respect for them. Quartered, deboned, and bagged up. I placed the meat in the shade, knowing the -2 Celsius temperatures would cool it quickly. Clearing a few downed trees and snags in the narrow spots, I was able to get my truck very close to the bull after the 3 km hike back. Luxury. I had pulled the trigger at 7:30 AM, and by noon I was on the road to the the butcher shop. What a hunt.
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This year I drew a tag for WMZ62 in the Northeastern part of the province Northwest of Tobin Lake in the provincial forest. Lately, the amount of moose in the Southern prairie regions is increasing every year, and some monster bulls are being taken, but truthfully these hunts aren't really my style. Spotting moose from the pickup and shooting from beside the road is often the go to method on these hunts where the moose are highly visible. And so with a tag for 62 in my pocket, I knew the effort required would be significant, and the odds for success low, but I was excited nonetheless to hunt moose in the rut.
The end of September came quickly, passing with it another unsuccessful elk season. With a dwindling supply of meat in the freezer, I decided to leave my bow at home and pack my Browning X-Bolt in .338 Win Mag for this trip. With a few extra days off from work, I spent the last two days before the season opener on October 1st hiking the many ATV trails in the area looking for sign. I crossed paths with a few other people, mostly weekend users of the trail system, and one fellow hunting elk. None claimed to have seen any moose sign. However, one small stretch of lower lying ground south of a spot where the Torch River makes an oxbow, there in the mud were several fresh moose tracks. It appeared to be a bull and a couple of cows, and certainly showed some promise.
Returning to this spot opening morning, I called for a couple hours. Although I saw several grouse that tempted me, they were the only action that morning. I spent midday scouring the area for more sign, turning up one small track. Following for nearly 2 miles the moose never slowed or veered off its course, I suspected a young bull cruising for cows.
Morning two brought high winds and sideways rain, cold and miserable. I hiked into a new area I had hunted in the past, and found a few years of wet weather had left it more suitable for a fan boat than hiking boots. A long drive into some new country later that day found an old moose kill from native hunters weeks prior, and to prove how wet it was, I stumbled onto a crayfish on the trail.
That night I discussed strategy with my Grandpa, who I was staying with for this hunt. He had been the one to show me this country when I could barely match his stride with 3 of my own. He hunted and trapped in this country for years, his opinion was and is very valuable to me. We agreed I should return to the spot from opening morning, as my calling that day may have drawn a bull into the area. If there's one bit of information I've gleaned from many seasoned moose hunters, it's that the moose have far more patience than we hunters do.
Leaving the truck at daybreak, slightly behind schedule in my mind, I wondered what the morning would hold. I had seen 3 cow elk on the way in, and the weather seemed perfect for game movement. The wind from the day before had blown a lot of the leaf cover down, and what had been a beautiful golden fall was now showing sign of winter. Soft and wet from the rain, the trail was quiet under foot. Approaching the southern edge of the bog I had found moose sign in previously, I paused, deciding whether to press onward or call from where I was at. Better to start on the downwind side of everything, I thought, and raised my hands to my face and let out a couple of low toned bull grunts. Immediately I thought I heard a response, but it could have been an echo, and the breeze was still strong enough to mask a lot of the sound. Regardless, I called again, just in case. Same result. I was still wearing my pack, rifle slung over my shoulder, glancing slowly in each direction but watching more with my ears than my eyes. Turning my head back to my left, I saw the nose and antlers of a bull breaking out of the spruce trees onto the trail 90 yards away. I quickly dropped to a knee, shouldered my rifle, and pushed the safety ahead in one smooth motion. The first shot passed clean through the heart, staggering the bull, a second through the same hole had the same effect. Not wanting the bull to get far off the trail, I attempted to anchor the bull with a head shot. No dice. He turned toward me and leaned into the thick trees alongside the trail. I dumped my pack off my back, tearing through the contents, and found my ammo. Tossing a round in the chamber I placed the crosshairs on bone, above the now broadside bulls front leg, and sent one final round. He plowed through a spruce on his way down, and lay still.
I took a few moments to collect myself, and make sure I was actually there and present, then approached the downed bull. The air smelled of wet, decaying leaves, spruce needles, and gunpowder. Snapping a few pictures, I quickly got to work on the bull. Let me tell you, one of these critters on the ground when you're alone gives you a whole lot of respect for them. Quartered, deboned, and bagged up. I placed the meat in the shade, knowing the -2 Celsius temperatures would cool it quickly. Clearing a few downed trees and snags in the narrow spots, I was able to get my truck very close to the bull after the 3 km hike back. Luxury. I had pulled the trigger at 7:30 AM, and by noon I was on the road to the the butcher shop. What a hunt.
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