Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 1

Prelude: In 1972 I went moose hunting with three teacher friends. I wrote the story about it nearly forty years ago, shortly after the hunt, and then filed it away, not to look at it again till recently. I had forgotten much of the story, and can only attest that I wrote it with little embellishment. It seemed like a good story at the time.

Indian River lies about 60 miles north of Glennallen on the Tok Cut-off (250 miles north of Anchorage) . The Geological survey map shows an old trail or mining road at mile 74, about a mile south of the Nabesna Road turnoff. I think we followed that trail up the Ahtell Creek, past “The Dome” and then east to Long Lake - about twelve miles total. The story begins on the third day of the hunt.

Day Three of the Hunt

The moose rolled onto its back with legs folded against its body. It seemed it would stop, but gravity forced the roll and began the next. By the third, it was in full flight down the mountain; its head wheeling rhythmically back and forth, its legs shooting straight up, and then tucking neatly under. Sometimes it nearly stopped, but then would pick up speed and bounce high in the air. It was like watching a silent movie that alternated between running too fast and then too slow.

I stood off to the side watching its limp body descend until it rolled past and disappeared into a ravine. Looking up the mountain, I saw Dan Wilson standing at the pinnacle where the moose began its descent. His casual stance, with arms hanging loosely at his side, belied the emotions he must have been feeling.

After a while he picked up his rifle, shouldered it, and started down. I began traversing the slope, setting a course to intercept.We were well above timber, and though there were thin patches of alpine scattered about, most of the decaying peak was loose rock. The detritus shifted underfoot, rolling and settling with each step. It was steep, and after watching the moose’s fate, I had an appreciation of the hazards awaiting those who tread the earth too casually.

We had stalked the moose for three hours, following it to the top of the mountain, but now, as we worked our way toward one another, it seemed all had been in vain. This was the third day of a hunt which appeared to be more of a fiasco with each passing day.

Our camp, an abandon trapper’s cabin in the Mentasta Mountains, sat on the shore of beautiful Long Lake. It represented the high point of our outing. The cabin was twelve miles off the main road. The first three, passable with 4-wheel drive, deteriorated into a tortuous trail snaking up streams beds, and bumping over rock slides, and washouts.

It took two days to get the equipment to the cabin, and the first night had been the worse. Nothing had gone right, and now, as Dan and I groped our way toward one another, it appeared that nothing had changed.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 2